Page 106 of Good Dirt

Henry

H enry gets a kick out of seeing his photographs in the paper. He loves the contrast between his images and the ones taken by Carrie, the art school graduate that Ebby’s grandmother lined up. To the left is Henry’s portrait of Old Mo sitting on a tree stump like a little patriarch, surrounded by three generations of the Freeman family. To the right is Carrie’s brilliant version of the same group as they break out of formation, going every which way, except for Ebby. The sight of Ebby standing there, looking at the jar, head tipped slightly as if she’s listening to it, makes Henry’s stomach pull into itself.

At the end of the article on the planned exhibit is a photo Henry took of the jar by itself under the oak tree, its leaves lit up by the afternoon sun and casting their undulate shadows against the jar’s surface. The tree, like the jar, is older than anyone alive. The tree, like the jar, has touched the lives of many people, including Henry. After everything that’s happened, it’s strange to think that Henry’s strongest feeling toward Old Mo, right now, is pride. He takes greater satisfaction in having worked on this project than when he received his MBA.

After the photos were taken and chosen, Ebby made it clear she didn’t really want to deal with Henry when they weren’t working on the project. She didn’t think it was a good idea. But at least they’ve managed to do this together. Ebby came to Henry for support because she knew this was something she could trust him to do, and Henry felt he owed Ebby a huge favor after the way he let her down. Instead, it feels like Ebby is the one who has done Henry the favor. Look at his portfolio. It’s finally showing some promise. And Henry feels a little less like a shit than he did before.

Henry turns the page and is struck by another news item in the arts section. A big auction house listed a salt-glazed stoneware jug from down south that turned out to have been stolen years ago, along with other antiques, from a home in Maryland. The widow of a broker and former insurance man had tried to sell the items through a representative. It’s not clear whether she realized the pieces had been stolen, as she’d taken them from her late husband’s collection. Her husband had been one of the victims of the Twin Towers collapse in New York. His was one of the many bodies that had never been found.

Henry’s mind begins to make a series of connections, now. The article is talking about another stoneware piece from the same geographic region and time period as Old Mo. The guy who died was a Connecticut broker who lived in the same town as the Freemans. Is it possible the auction-house jar was stolen by the same people who invaded the Freeman home twenty years ago?

Henry’s immediate impulse is to call Ebby, but to say what, exactly? No, he’ll have to wait. He can’t bring this up, after all the years the Freemans have had to live with unanswered questions about their son’s death. He doesn’t want to make the same mistake he did last time but he needs to know more before he says something. There are other people Henry can go to first. The police, for one, or an art-recovery organization. Or maybe Henry just needs to bide his time for a minute. This auction-house case is already being investigated. One thing may very well lead to another. Or maybe not.

Henry picks up the phone and calls his father’s friend Harris.