Tomorrow River (4 page)

We
could’ve
cut through Lilyfield’s front woods, taken the well-worn path that lets out onto Lee Road, but since we’re working on stolen time, it’s much faster to cross the creek towards town along with being cooling on bare feet and ankles. On our way over here,

I stuck my head into the barn to make sure the stall of Papa’s stallion was empty. His saddle was gone, too. He rides out every morning, I don’t know where, but Pegasus comes back lathered.

Admittedly, I don’t have much to go on when it comes to finding Mama, but I can’t do any worse than Sheriff Andy Nash did. Far as I know, he batted zero when it came to drawing information out of anybody concerning her whereabouts.

“Are you aware of your mother having any enemies?” the sheriff asked me, shortly after Mama disappeared.

Since I do not hold him in high esteem, I replied rather snooty, “Enemies? Mama? That’d be like pickin’ a fight with a warm-from-the-oven sugar cookie.”

That made Papa grin. He was sitting right next to me in the sheriff’s office because he forbade Andy Nash to question either me or Woody unless he was present. My father didn’t want us upset any more than we were, that’s how protective he is.

Pencil poised above his pad, the sheriff leaned across his desk. I could smell his nervous sweat. Papa can have that effect on people because he is so powerful. “What about her friends?” he asked. “Do you think any of them might know where she’s gone off to?”

I crossed my fingers behind my back and told him, “Mama didn’t have any friends, isn’t that right, Your Honor? She spent all her time taking care of her family.”

The reason I lied to the sheriff was because the only friends our mother
did
have were the ones that my father labeled “verboten.” Legally, that means “forbidden fruit,” but in actuality, it means that Papa doesn’t approve of his wife visiting with them. I didn’t want to make my already-sad father even sadder, which he would be if he found out that sometimes his wife prefers other people’s company to his own.

I went ahead and questioned all those forbidden fruits shortly after that session with the sheriff. Even though I came away no better informed, it can’t hurt nothing to try again. I know from experience that when you least expect to recall something, a memory can pop up like an uninvited guest on your doorstep.

So, not having much to go on, I’m counting on just one thing—plain old gossip—to find our mother. Woody and I are looking to Blind Beezy Bell to supply us with that. That’s why we’re headed to her place in Mudtown this morning. I asked her a long time ago to listen especially hard to any chitchat that mentions Mama’s name and I’m hoping that today’s the day Beezy’s finally come up with something.

It’s nine o’clock, Monday morning, June 9, 1969. That means that this upcoming Friday, the beginning of the biggest bash the town has—Founders Weekend—unfortunately falls on the thirteenth. Now, I don’t believe in any of that superstitious foolishness the way Lou Jackson does, but if I see a black cat or a ladder when we’re in town, I
will
absolutely avoid them. I have found time and time again that it is better to be safe than sorry.

E. J. Tittle points down at the raging water from the other side of the creek and hollers, “It’s foamin’ at the mouth this morning. Mind yourselves.”

“Fiddle-faddle,” I yell back.

Woody and I have been hopping these stepping stones from our side to his since . . . I guess, forever. E. J. is well aware of that fact, but being the big brother of three sisters has given him
somewhat
of a protective nature. In other words, E. J., whose Christian name is Ed James, would laugh his butt off if
I
fell into this cold creek water, but not if Woody did. He goes gaga for her.

E. J. lives uphill from where he’s standing in a house that couldn’t be more unlike our grand one if it tried all day long. His place reminds me of a pile of spilt toothpicks. Not because his papa doesn’t care about his family or is shiftless. Mr. Frank Tittle tries to work at an all-day job, but he almost always poops out after the noon whistle. He was a West Virginia miner and that’s how come his breathing gets raggedy and he coughs like he’s in a contest.

Given their circumstances, it should go without saying that the Tittle family is always strapped for cash. And food. E. J.’s so skinny. When he sticks out his tongue, he looks like a zipper. The only way he can keep any meat on his bones is by fishing the creek, spit-cooking trapped rabbits, or gathering wild berries. And if all that wasn’t hideous enough, the Lord has given him another cross to bear. Not to be unkind or nothing, but the doctor probably spanked his mama instead of E. J. the day he was born—that’s how homely he is. Looks like a hummingbird’s nested in his hair. His nose is tiny. And his eyes? They’re duller than mud. The only feature that merits praise on E. J.’s face is his mouth. It’s berry stained—but normal. I wonder sometimes if Woody still finds his lips as inviting as she used to. The two of them used to go on and on about getting married someday. I couldn’t stand telling them that even though they have my blessing, the very idea of them getting hitched is more than preposterous. Grampa Gus curses the day that Papa made a “bad marriage” and he’d
never
allow another Carmody to make that mistake again. The Tittles are the kind of family that Grampa calls “minin’ sludge.”

Yeah, that’s his crab-ass opinion, not mine. I’d rather eat squirrel guts than tell E. J. how I really feel, but I think he’s a hard-working citizen who makes up for what he lacks in looks and money with his brave and caring personality. And he proves me right each and every time I hint to him what kind of trouble we’ll be in if the three of us get caught sneaking around. He shoves back his coonskin cap, thrusts out his chest, and growls, “A mountain man’s gotta do what a mountain man’s gotta do.” (The boy’s more molehill sized, but you have got to admire his pluck.)

I’m practically wearing Woody as we wade into the creek. I scold, “Don’t you dare,” because I can feel her pulling away. My sister may look light as a kite, but she’s strong, and with one last tug, exactly what I was trying to keep from happening does. She gets loose. Flying across the stepping stones, not even using her arms for balance.

“Heads up,” I yell across the creek to E. J. “She’s escapin’!” If he doesn’t grab her the second she hops onto his side of the creek, he knows good as me that we’ll spend our precious time not the way we set out to, but combing the countryside looking for wayward Woody.

E. J. squats into a catching position and shouts back, “Don’t worry. I got her! I got her!”

“Trap her like I showed ya. From behind!” Woody has jumped out of the creek and landed on the bank not more than a few feet from him, but she’s not making a break for it. She’s standing contrite. Like she’s seen the error of her ways. But she’s my twin. She can’t fool me. “Don’t fall for that, E. J. Don’t take your eyes off her. She’s faking.” Sure enough, my sister jukes to the left, to the right, spins sideways, but our sidekick is fast, too. Once I’m sure he’s got a good grip on her, I mince my way towards them, slipping into the water up to my knees twice, that’s how ticked I am. “Hell, Woody. Ya ever hear of the word
cooperation
?” I wrench her out of E. J.’s arms, rip the sneakers from around her neck, and push her down to the ground. “Have you gone deaf as well as mute? I told you that we only got a little bit of time this mornin’. We’ve gotta find Mama.” I jam her feet into her shoes and tie her laces too tight. “If I didn’t know better . . . you’re actin’ like you don’t care if she comes home.”

Staring down at her on the ground, I’m remembering who my sister used to be. The days of her singing show tunes with Mama. Night frogging here at the creek, but letting them go right off because Woody couldn’t stand hurting any living creature. Lying in the tall grass on our bellies, making daisy necklaces, hers always so much better than mine on account of her artistic abilities. Of course, we had our sisterly fights. Woody would always apologize first. She’d call me “Shenbone,” which was supposed to be funny, like shinbone, and she’d bring me a drawing of the stars or play this little piggy with my toes even if what we were arguing about was entirely my fault. Sometimes I just can’t bear up under the missing of my good old twin. Sometimes I really hate this new Woody. “Get up!” I scream at her.

“Why ya got to be like that?” E. J. says, shoving me to the side. “Ya know she don’t understand.” He gets down on his knees and draws a twig out of her mussy hair. Thumbs a smudge off her cheek. What I wouldn’t give for her to look up at me and say in that silky voice of hers—“I’m sorry I was thinking of runnin’ off. Don’t know what got into me, pea. May I have a cuddle?”

Oh, this temper of mine!

You know I can’t help it. I inherited the tendency to go off like that. But unlike some others in my family who shall remain nameless (my grandfather), at least I know that I need to apologize. I get busy loosening Woody’s laces, saying,
“Rabadee,”
over and over again. That means “I’m sorry” in our twin talk. I’m going to have to ask for E. J.’s forgiveness, too. Not the way I did with my sister because that’s unbecoming to a Carmody. I’ll make amends the same way I always do with him, by way of this joke I got in a piece of Bazooka gum. I think it’s close to idiotic, but he seems to get a kick out of it no matter how many times I tell it.

“Hey,” I say, poking him in his narrow back.

“Yeah?” he says, still fussing over my sister. He’s tucking her shirt back into her shorts.

“It’s a good day for the race, wouldn’tcha say?”

He turns to me, struggles to stay straight-faced. “And what race might that be, Shenny?”

“Why, that would be the human one, E. J.”

Laughing uproariously, quick-to-forgive E. J. helps Woody up off the ground, brushes the dirt off her legs, runs his hand down her hair.

I am feeling sinfully envious of him. My sense of humor seemed to disappear right around the same time Mama did. “I almost forgot,” I say, popping the top of my lunch box. I hand E. J. the leftover bacon and flapjacks I swiped off my breakfast plate when Louise was too busy admiring her reflection on a pot bottom to notice.

E. J. stuffs the food into his mouth and says between chews, “Got somethin’ for you, too.” Of course, he does. His mama and papa may be forced to take seconds for the sake of their children, but everybody knows the Tittle boy would rather be hung by his thumbs than take a crumb of charity. I watch as he trots over to a felled tree and comes back with a pile of luscious-looking blackberries cupped in an oak leaf. “They’re from that patch near the falls,” he says, passing them to me. “Picked at dawn. Her favorite.”

I slide the squishy sweetness into Woody’s already-open mouth. “See how she’s twitching around the corners.” I point at her full lips that we inherited from our mother. “That means—thank you,” I tell E. J.

“I know that already.” With love oozing out of his muddy eyes, he wipes a bit of berry juice off her chin and says to Woody, “My pleasure, puddin’,” and then he punches me good-naturedly in the arm. “A good day for the race. That’s such a knee-slapper, Shen.”

I know I shouldn’t encourage him, but really, no matter how bad he can work up my dander, all in all, he is a good and faithful sidekick. I can’t help myself. I whinny out, “And . . . they’re off!”

Do I have to tell you that giggling boy ran into the woods at a full-out gallop?

 

 

T
he three of us are atop Honeysuckle Hill looking down at almost all there is of our town. It was named in honor of the famous Battle of Lexington-Concord. It’s not big, say like Charlottesville, nor is it important like Richmond, our state capital. What Lexington does have going for it is a goodly amount of historical charm. The Confederacy left behind 144 soldiers in the memorial cemetery to remind us of their valiant effort. People come from far and wide to do rubbings on their graves and pay homage to their sacrifice. You can also tour Stonewall Jackson’s house if you’ve got a mind to.

In the evening, gaslights shine perfect polka dots onto pebbled sidewalks. And during the day, there are shops that sell party dresses and jewelry and furniture on Main Street. But if your refrigerator quits on you, you should get a new one at the Sears Roebuck that got built off the highway east of town because it really is very modern.

As far as restaurants go, the fanciest of them is The Southern Inn, which has high-backed booths and serves the best chicken fried steak under low-hung ceiling fans. Used to anyway. We Carmodys don’t dine out anymore, so you might want to take my opinion with a grain of salt.

And right over there, on the corner of Johnson and Hayfield Streets—that’s Filly’s, another place Woody and I like to sneak off to whenever we get the chance. Wednesdays they have late hours and all sorts of useful things can be learned when you’re crouched beneath the open window of Filomena Morgan’s beauty parlor. Womanly information your mother would be giving you if she was here. That’s where I found out that it’s best to cut your toenails right after you get out of the tub because that’s when they’re the most pliable. And that Oil of Olay is good to use on your dried-out face. Also, there’s not a thing you can do if your husband comes home from work and wants to “get busy right there in the kitchen.” According to Mrs. Mandy Nash, the sheriff’s wife, it’s a sworn duty to grin and bear it. I heard her proclaim just last week, “Ladies, I don’t know about you, but I just close my eyes and dream about the new pumps I’ll be buyin’ first thing tomorrow morning.”

(Mrs. Nash has the most pairs of patent leathers in town, which leads me to believe that the sheriff must
really
like cooking.)

Over to the west sits the college of Washington & Lee, which is where Papa went to school. It’s redbrick and makes you feel smarter just walking past it. Robert E. Lee is buried in its lovely chapel. Traveller, his loyal horse, is lying eternally close to his master.