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mysterious disappearance of his mother, it occurred to me that he was able to speak about the whole episode
now like he was talking about somebody else. In the beginning, when Woodrow’s hurt was still fresh, he had been as pained as Joseph had been in describing his mother’s death.
    “And that’s why we are here,” Woodrow finished. “We thought it shouldn’t be so hard to find her in a small place like this, but we haven’t had any luck.”
    Then he brought out the photograph of his mama and handed it to Miz Lincoln. She pulled a pair of glasses from her apron pocket, placed them on her nose, and studied Aunt Belle’s face. All was quiet for a moment as we watched her heavy brows go into a frown.
    “She looks familiar,” she said at last, and it was like a mild explosion in the quiet room.
    “No kidding?” Woodrow said breathlessly.
    Miz Lincoln propped the picture up beside her water glass and scrutinized it carefully.
    “You said the story was big news at the time?” Miz Lincoln asked.
    “Yeah, it was in all the papers,” Woodrow said.
    “Then it’s possible that I saw her picture in the paper,” Miz Lincoln said thoughtfully. “But I don’t always read the newspaper, and I’ll declare, I can’t recall reading about this. I am sure I would remember such a story.”
    Woodrow moved quietly from his chair and went to stand behind Miz Lincoln to look over her shoulder, but
he didn’t breathe for fear of disturbing her concentration.
    “It’s also possible that I saw her somewhere,” the woman mumbled at last, then turned to Woodrow and said, “Could you leave the photo with me?”
    Woodrow glanced toward the window again, and said, “I guess so. It seems like the rain is never gonna let up, so I won’t need it anymore today. And I got plenty more at home.”
    I breathed a sigh of relief.
    Miz Lincoln produced a pencil from the drawer of a nearby sideboard and asked Woodrow to write down the number where he could be reached. Woodrow scribbled Grandpa’s phone number on the back of the snapshot.
    “If you remember anything,” he said to Miz Lincoln, “call and let me know. Be sure and call collect. Grandpa will be happy to pay.”
    Shortly after four o’clock Woodrow, Cassie, and I pulled on our coats, preparing to walk to the bus station. Miz Lincoln, however, insisted on calling a taxi for us and paying the fare herself. She said children shouldn’t be running around in freezing rain, in near darkness, in a strange place, and I sure was glad she felt that way.
    When the taxi arrived, Joseph thanked us for helping him, and we were all kinda awkward and tongue-tied saying goodbye to him and Miz Lincoln.
    “I want to come searching again next Saturday,” Woodrow told them as we were going out the door. “Maybe I’ll see you then.”
    “What do you mean, ‘maybe’?” Miz Lincoln said. “If you come to Bluefield, you better come by and see us, or we’ll be mad, won’t we, Joseph?”
    “That’s right!” Joseph called after us. “We’ll be mad!”
    Then we waved at the two of them standing in the doorway together, as Cassie climbed into the taxi, with me following her, and Woodrow behind me.
    We were quiet on the way to the bus station. Woodrow turned his eyes toward the soggy town with its big oaks and cozy houses all in neat rows. Darkness was creeping over everything, and you could see lights burning behind the windows, and you knew it was warm and dry inside. You could probably smell supper in there, and you could hear children laughing or bickering, singing or whining.
    Woodrow was whispering, more to himself than to us. “Maybe she is here somewhere, behind one of these doors.”

11
    Several of the same people we had traveled with in the morning were on the bus going home. There was the big old woman with the pipe and June Honaker with her baby. When the Luckys got on the bus, I could see that their mama had been crying, and the kids didn’t look too happy, either. The