He’s doing what I call his regal routine.
I’ve seen him do this too many times not to recognize it. After Sunday Mass, he’ll stand on Saint Pat’s steps and slap the men jovially on their backs and spread the compliments so thick. “Why, don’t your wives look younger than springtime and aren’t your children cute as June bugs,” he says, like a medieval ruler passing out morsels of food to starving villagers on the way back to his castle. It’s perplexing and hurtful. How can he be so giving to them and so miserly to his own flesh and blood? I know he doesn’t mean to, but sometimes Papa makes Woody and me feel like we’re a couple of peasants who’ve got the plague.
Andy Nash has to be here for a reason. Papa must’ve come looking and rung him up when he couldn’t find us or maybe Lou opened her fat trap and ratted us out or . . . maybe the sheriff has come with news of Mama and I can call off my search, which quite frankly hasn’t been going too well so far.
If the sheriff is here to deliver a surprising report about our mother, then Woody and I will blow up balloons and I’ll bake a yellow cake and get out the butter brickle! But if he’s gabbing out on the porch with Papa to pass the time until his deputy arrives, I’ve got to come up with an escape route. Because after they find us, Papa’ll laugh and say, “Kids will be kids,” but once the sheriff leaves, he’ll march us to the root cellar. I can take that kind of discipline because my hide is tough, but Woody? She’s made more out of feathers than leather. I don’t think she can endure one more night on her knees, no matter how many stories I tell her.
After the first two times Papa dragged us down there, I got the idea of putting some important things inside a sack and took it to our home-away-from-home.
I pawed against the cool walls last night until I got to the bushel basket that the sack’s hid under. Opening it, I felt around for what I was looking for. Woody gets so scared of the dark that she can’t even cry so I right away lit one of the matches and set the flickering candle down close to her and said in my most loving voice, “Do you think you could draw a little?” I placed a spiral pad and a couple of pencils in the sack, too. “Something that would make you feel like you’re somewheres else.” The candlelight bounced off the cracked root cellar walls. Off my sister’s face. Even in all that decaying ugliness she looked beautiful.
She didn’t reach for her drawing stuff right away, so I nudged her and said, “Ohhh, I get it. You want to eat a little something first. Why don’t we crack open a jar?” That’s a joke. Woody and I cannot stand to even look at those jars of strawberry preserves that sit on that rickety shelf along the back wall, that’s how much we’ve eaten them. We got so hungry we ate the pickled beets, too. “Come on, pea. Drawing will make the time pass faster, you know that,” and then I started singing “Some Enchanted Evening.” Woody goes crazy for that song. When my voice wore out, I whispered her the story about two girls who go to a faraway beach with their mother, she likes that one most of all. “Once upon a time, it’s a perfect day. Not a single cloud in a baby blue sky. The girls’ mama is relaxing under a striped umbrella reading and watching her twins build sand castles.” My story was so believable Woody started drifting off. “Wake up,” I told her when she began listing. I found a mouse nibbling on her hair one night and after that, we don’t fall asleep no matter how whipped we are.
I mean, I understand why Papa puts us down there. All the liquor he’s been drinking has made him stricter, but he has never spared the rod. How else are sinful children to learn? The Good Book is clear on this subject. And Woody and I deserve to be punished. We’re not telling him the whole truth about the night Mama disappeared and somehow, some way, his under-the-influence brains knows that. Whenever he interrogates us, I leave out the part about Sam and our mother’s friendship and how I ran through the woods that night to his place looking for her. And then there’s Woody, who will not speak to him at all, which makes him worse mad to be disregarded like that. His Honor expects you to follow the rules. If you don’t, then you got to take the punishment. It’s his job.
Of course, E. J.’s noticed. He pointed at our scabbed knees and asked, “Why ya always got those?” I told him, “From kneelin’ on the root cellar floor, a course.” He grinned and asked, “And which root cellar floor would that be?” like he was waiting for me to deliver the punch line of another Bazooka joke. I didn’t want to embarrass him over his poor upbringing, so I told him, “It’s something rich people do, you wouldn’t understand.”
I reach into my pocket for a piece of pecan fudge that I keep in all my shorts for moments like these, but there’s nothing in there, not even lint. “Wait here and whatever you do, don’t let go of her,” I say, passing E. J. my binoculars. “I’m going in for a better look.”
Our sidekick doesn’t understand why we’ve got to be so secretive like we always are, but unlike Mama did to Sam—I am not spilling the beans. I expect E. J. to trust me and for the most part, he does. I drop to the ground and unlace my sneaker. Slide off my sock and ball it up. We had to give up using just our hands to clamp my sister’s mouth shut because she bit us too many times. “We got to keep her from howling. Stuff this in her mouth.”
“Aw, Shen,” E. J. says, holding the sock by the toe. “That’s so . . . it’s—”
“Ya think I don’t know it’s disgustin’? You got another idea then have at it. It’s the only way she’ll keep quiet without the fudge and I forgot to bring it, okay? Can’t remember everything, can I?” I say, feeling guilty that I haven’t.
E. J. looks at his love girl, and says, “Sorry, dear,” as he slips the sock into her mouth and gets her hands in his so she can’t dislodge it. I want to suggest that he take the rope off his pants and tie her wrists, but I know he won’t.
I warn Woody, “You can forget gettin’ an almond cream rub tonight if you spit that sock out. Mind E. J.,” and then I take off to make my way up closer to the house to find out what’s going on between the sheriff and Papa.
Over in the east yard, Mr. Cole has abruptly stopped pulling milkweed and started cutting down an apple tree that got diseased. He sees me, I know he does. Our caretaker mostly stays in the background of our lives, but Mr. Cole is real attentive to what plays out at Lilyfield. Especially if it involves Woody and me. He’s promised Beezy that he’ll keep her up-to-date on our well-being and takes that responsibility very, very seriously.
Mr. Cole gives me a wave and picks a baby green apple up off the ground and shines it on his pants. He knows they’re my favorites. He’s getting ready to shout out, “Hey, Miss Shen. Look what I got for ya,” so I shake my head as wild as I can. Mr. Cole stares back, confused, until I point to the porch. He nods, lifts the ax up to his shoulder, and begins chopping . . . chu . . . chu . . . chu . . . harder and faster. For good measure, he breaks into a round of “I’ve Been Workin’ on the Railroad.” He can’t write his letters all that well, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a smart man. He knows that sometimes I got to slink about to get an understanding of what’s going on around here. The disturbance he’s making will cover up any noise I make.
I weasel through the bushes to squat down below the kitchen window, being ever so careful not to step on anything that might make Papa snap to attention. Him and the sheriff are only a few yards away. Above me, I can hear Lou in the kitchen beating a spoon against a bowl near to death. She’s making such a racket that I’ve got to work hard to hear the sheriff say, “. . . don’t really know for sure. Thought at first he’d drowned in the creek, but I got Perry Walker, the medical examiner from Charlottesville, to come take a look. He said there was no water in Clive’s lungs. Perry hasn’t run all the tests, but it looks suspicious. Murder maybe. Did you happen to hear anything out of the ordinary comin’ outta the Minnow place Friday evenin’?”
Murder? Minnow?
“Friday?” Papa replies. “Wish I could help you out, Andy, but as I recall, the girls and I had a light supper, played a game of cribbage, and turned in early that night.”
&nbs
p; That’s not true. We don’t eat or play cribbage or do anything else nice together.
Papa then says to the sheriff in his most persuasive voice, “I’d certainly like to keep this incident quiet. With Founders Weekend coming up, we wouldn’t want to put a damper on the festivities with talk of something as nasty as a possible murder, would we? I don’t think my father would appreciate that.”
The sheriff says, “I take your point.”
Of course, he does. I admit, I’ve got some resentment towards him on account of the way he never found Mama, but I’m not letting that affect my assessment of his personality. Sheriff Andy Nash with his brown hair and brown eyes and brown uniform—if he was standing next to a pile of bull crap you’d never be able to make him out. It’s not like he’s evil or anything, he’s actually sort of nice. Just always seems like he’s more interested in glad handing than crime solving. Sam is usually so picky about who he spends his time with. What he sees in the sheriff is beyond me.
I can’t tell from where I’m crouched down, but I bet the sheriff is dabbing his chin with his red bandana. He does that a lot because he sweats a lot. “This heat is really something. Have you noticed the trees? They’ve been soaking in so much of this wet warmth that they can barely stay upright. Remind me of hoboes on a bender,” he says. “Can’t remember a summer this bad. Maybe in ’61, yeah, that was a scorcher. You could fry—”
“Was there anything else you needed to discuss, Andy?” Papa interrupts. “I’m afraid I’m rather pressed for time.”
“Well, now that you mention it, sir, I’d like to have a few words with the twins. Ya know how children can sometimes hear and see things us grown-ups don’t. I know they got that tree fort that overlooks the Minnow place. Would you mind?”
“I’m afraid that would be inconvenient,” Papa says politely, but he minds very much. I can tell by the sound of his voice that his feathers are ruffled. “I’ll ask the girls this evening if they saw anything and get back to you. By the way, have you heard anything more about the parade rerouting?”
The sheriff says, “I haven’t . . . golly, could I trouble you for another glass of tea? This heat . . . it’s . . . I’m parched.”
Papa calls impatiently, “Louise?”
Instead of going out to the porch the way she’s been taught to ask if they’re needing anything, Lou slams the mixing bowl down on the counter and thrusts her head out the kitchen window that I’m hiding under. Hearing my gasp, she startles, too, and bangs her head on the bottom of the raised window. She narrows her eyes at me and says, “Yes, Your Honor?”
“We need another pitcher of sweet tea. Quickly, please.”
I clasp my hands together in a praying way and beg Louise with my eyes, please, please don’t tell him, “Your spoilt daughters’ve been runnin’ off to town against your expressed wishes. Been talkin’ to folks about your wife’s disappearance, and oh sakes alive, look! Here’s one of ’em balled up beneath my kitchen window listenin’ in on y’all.” Remarkably, she doesn’t utter a word. I’m already thinking a few good thoughts about her until she points at Mama’s watch. She covets it. I give her an over-my-dead-body look. She answers with a suit-yourself shrug.
“Sir?” Lou shouts. Now she’s eyeing me with Rex the alligator eyes, half-lidded like that. “’Fore I fetch you that tea, thought you’d like to know that I found what you was lookin’ for earlier.”
She means me. I can’t do anything else but slip the watch off and drop it into her outstretched claw.
Gloating, the same way she does when she’s beat me out of a big pot in cards, Lou says, “Yessir, those molasses biscuits you was askin’ after, they was in the pantry after all. You and the sheriff care for a few?”
Damnation.
I’ll get Mama’s watch back, I’m not worried about that. I’ve been gone longer than I planned on and am worse concerned about Woody, so I stick my tongue out at Lou and back out of those bushes the same way I got in them.
When I get back to where I left them, I find my sister in E. J.’s arms, but not in a romantic way. She’s wiggling, trying to get free. If I hadn’t cut her nails real close, she’d be scratching his face to smithereens.
“It’s all right. I’m all right. Let her go, E. J.” Woody throws herself at me like she didn’t expect me to come back alive. I hug her tight and sing, “Don’t be bellow-bellow,” over and over. I’m telling her not to be scared in our twin talk, but it’s not working. Woody’s teeth are chattering worse than a set of Grampa’s practical joke ones.
“What’d you do to her?” I ask E. J., like it’s all his fault that Woody’s gotten worked up.
“She was doin’ just fine ’til she heard your father and Louise yellin’,” he says, rubbing his cheek. There’s a pale handprint where Woody must’ve slapped him. “What were they goin’ on about anyways?”
“Nuthin’ you’d understand.” If I tell him how I was spying on Papa and the sheriff up on the porch, or that Louise caught me beneath the window and got Mama’s watch off me, Woody will hear and get even wilder than she already is, which is almost more than I can handle. I get her by the shoulders, square her, and say, “We’re gonna go round through the side yard and slip into the house. Get busy polishing silver like we’ve never been gone. Papa’ll be none the wiser. I promise. You hear me? I said I promise.”
She doesn’t completely stop, but her gyrating slows. I remove Sam’s aviator glasses from her eyes. “I’ll keep these for you. Wouldn’t want them to get lost.” What I’m really thinking is if by some awful turn of circumstances we don’t out-dodge Papa, if we get caught, his first interrogating question will be, “And from whom did you receive these interesting glasses, Jane Woodrow?”
E. J. says, “I think ya should—”
“Do we care what you think?” I set my fist an inch from his nose. “Even if we did, which we don’t, we don’t have time to listen to one of your dumb ideas right now.” I do not want him drawn into this mess any worse than he already is. His mama’s got a brand-new baby and his father’s got black lungs. They need their boy to bring in cash money. If Woody and E. J. and I get caught returning from the Triple S, the Tittle boy is going to find himself in a hell of a fix. Anybody who gets in trouble alongside a Carmody does. Whatever bad thing happens, it’s not our fault. It’s yours. This is what Uncle Blackie calls the family motto: Not meum but youem has got your assum in a sling.
When E. J. stands his ground, I shove his shoulder and hiss, “Am I not makin’ myself clear, Ed James? We don’t need your help. Scram.”
He bends at the waist and lifts Woody’s creamy hand to his berry-stained mouth. Upon straightening, E. J.’s less Musketeer and more mountain man again. “Tomorra,” he says to me like I’m the last person he wants to see then or any other time in his life.
All I can think about as I watch that scrawny boy disappear into the dwindling day is our mother. And how every night after tucking Woody and me into bed, she’d kiss our eyelids closed and whisper, “Today’s worn itself down to a trickle, my sweet peas in a pod. But tomorrow is a river waiting to carry us to our fondest dreams.”
I’m beginning to get the awfulest feeling that my mama might’ve been wrong about that.
Real wrong.
Chapter Fourteen
Grampa will be arriving soon with his bag of tricks.
Back when I was a kid and too stupid to know better, he’d bribe me to play practical jokes on Mama. Had me conceal a thin wire in the dining room doorway so when she was carrying the dirty plates back to the kitchen, she’d trip and go flying. Or told me to set a paint can on top of a closed door and call for Mama like I was hurt. It took two weeks to get that orange color out of her hair. Grampa got me to do stuff like that by promising me a palomino. I held up my end of the bargain and thought he would, too. Until he showed up one afternoon with a broom horse saying, “Look what I brought ya, Shenny. Your very own Trigger.” The harder I bawled, the more his jowls shook with laughter. I bet that’s th
e only part of Mama my grandfather misses. Making fun of her.
Gramma Ruth Love will come, too. I know she misses all of Mama. She has taken the loss of her quite hard. They would have wonderful conversations. Both of them love to garden so mostly they’d chat while weeding or watering. I’d listen to Mama telling our grandmother, “This is a new age, Ruth Love. You need to be your own person. You spend too much of your time worrying about how to get the ring around the collar out of Gus’s shirts or what to serve him for dinner. He’s bullying you into submission.”
Gramma would always answer back with a demure smile beneath her broad-brimmed hat, “I know you mean well, dear, but we do things differently down here.”
Mama would weed faster, saying something like, “Personal freedom is not dictated by the Mason-Dixon line.”
They’d discuss stimulating ideas like that for a while until Gramma would eventually start her holy quoting. “What about wives submit yourselves unto your husbands? Saint Paul said that.” And then Mama would have to give up until their next visit, because that’s true. The Bible is a real hard thing to argue against and my grandmother knows it word for word.
The reason our grandparents stay with us during Founders Weekend is so Grampa doesn’t smash his precious truck up again. Three years ago that rummy ran his Chevy into a ditch on the way back to his place. Gramma got a jaggedy cut when her forehead hit the door handle and it has left an ugly scar, but did Gus Carmody care? No, he did not. That’s why I ran a rusty nail alongside the shiny black paint from taillight to headlight when I found his truck parked in front of Willie’s Public House last month. He’s still raging on about how when he catches whoever defaced his truck is going to be sorry they was ever born. But what about our grandmother’s face? (That’s another something that I inherited from my father. I like to keep the scales of justice in balance and do so whenever I can.)