Tomorrow River

  “Does your stomach feel like you swallowed a pogo stick?” I ask Woody.

  Beneath this starless sky, Sam’s words are especially worrisome. I’m not so sure Papa would be able to stop himself from doing something I can’t even imagine if he found out what Woody is holding back. Other than Mama leaving with a packed suitcase, I don’t know what else she knows, but she knows something—believe me. I can tell. She’s my twin.

  “Pea? Why do you think Papa keeps askin’ us what we saw that night?”

  Seems like he doesn’t even want his loving wife to come back anymore, so going over the details of her disappearance is as pointless as a pocket on the back of your shirt. He put his arm around Abigail Hawkins this afternoon in the kitchen. He might’ve fallen into her web, which should make my grandfather pleased as punch. He’s glad that Mama’s gone. The only reason he’s offering that hefty reward for information on her whereabouts is so those good old boys will comment to each other what a thoughtful man Guster Carmody is over their biscuits and gravy at Ginny’s Diner.

  His cronies have no way of knowing that whenever Grampa would come over to Lilyfield for Sunday lunch, he’d bark at Mama fetch me this, fetch me that. He threw insults and ordered her around. But it wasn’t only her. He talked to Gramma like she was one of his prize retrievers, too. If they tried to enter into a conversation the men were having around the table, Grampa’d cut them off with, “Yap . . . yap . . . yap . . . you girls don’t have one useful brain between ya.”

  After they’d cleaned up the kitchen, they’d go for a walk near the garden. Mama would tell Gramma, “Gus doesn’t own you, Ruth Love. You’re not one of his parcels of land. Possession may be ninth tenths of the law, but it isn’t the same as love. Don’t . . . don’t you see that?” Mama would beg her to get a backbone and Gramma would smile and nod her head, but I think it must be true that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks because I have never heard her tell our grandfather to sit down and shut up. Not once.

  I say to Woody, “I’ve been thinkin’. No matter how put off you’ve been by Gramma lately, Mama’d want you to go out of your way for her when she comes this weekend. Play with her dolls, let her show you the pictures in the album, all right? I’ll put Vick’s VapoRub under your nose so you won’t smell her Ben-Gay.” I nudge my sister pretty hard. “Are you or are you not asleep?” Her slow breathing is leading me to believe she is, but she could be playing possum again. I lift up her arm and it drops heavily onto Ivory’s back, which is balled into her tummy. Carefully pulling myself away from the two of them, I remove Sam’s aviator sunglasses off of the dog and place them over Woody’s eyes. They’ll prevent the lightning that’s coming from waking her up. E. J. nailed a bit of galvanized tin over part of the fort last month when I told him we were spending more time up here than in our room, so the two of them will stay dry when the rain finally comes. E. J. sure does come in handy with a hammer. I was such a piglet to him today. I’ll bring him some extra breakfast tomorrow.

  I tickle my sister’s cheek one last time, wanting to make sure she’s out. I slipped one of the pills I took out of Papa’s medicine cabinet this morning into our last piece of pecan fudge and fed it to her. They’re the same calming pills he put into Mama’s tea. But unlike what he did to her, me doing this really is for my sister’s own good. I got something important to do and I can’t get worried while I’m gone about Woody wandering off to the Triple S or the hobo camp or Lord knows where.

  I tug her thumb out of her mouth and open her fingers. A jagged square of Mama’s shredded chiffon scarf is bunched in her hot palm the way I knew it would be. I kiss every single one of her bit-to-the-quick nails, pat Ivory on the snout, and say, “Watch over her.” The both of them smell like rose soap.

  Sticking my flashlight into my shorts, I get the rope between my fingers and lift the fort hatch, reminding myself to watch my step. Papa came back a little while ago from wherever he went. I heard his Lincoln Continental drive up. And I think Uncle Blackie must be around here somewhere, he usually is. His house is down creek from us but since he’s been messing with Lou in the meadow, much to my and Woody’s dismay, he’s over at Lilyfield a lot more than he used to be, which is another good reason to stay on my toes.

  A dog is good but not as good as a mother at giving comfort and Woody really needs extra sweet loving. ASAP. I’m sure that the anniversary of Mama’s leaving is going to hit her like a tidal wave. I can already see it coming. She’s going to need something to hold on to, something all in one piece. I’m going into town to break into What Goes Around Comes Around to get my sister a backup boomba.

  It’s not stealing to take back something that is rightfully yours.

  Is it?

  Chapter Nineteen

  The C&O runs close enough to Lilyfield that I can hear the train’s clickety clack and the good-bye whistle as it chugs out of Lexington on its way over the mountains to Lynchburg.

  The tracks smell as black as they look with tar and oil, but I’ve always thought the train makes a lulling sound. Unfortunately, that chug . . . chug . . . chug is not enough to dispel my fears this evening. Besides all the other worries that I got on my mind, these woods that I love to stroll through during the day turn into something straight out of a horror movie once the sun sets. Animals eat each other down to the bone and bats come flying at you. I saw a wolf once, at least I think it was a wolf, E. J. told me it wasn’t. Another night, I heard footsteps behind me and when I turned a man stepped out of the shadows. I could see by his appearance that he was a hobo. His barn door was unzipped and he was lost and in tears. After I gave him directions on how to follow the railroad tracks to the water tower so he could be with his own kind, he hugged me, and I let him, because I hadn’t been hugged in so long. When I told Curry Weaver about that encounter, even though he is a “man of the rails” himself, he warned me to be careful. “I know that seeing someone down on their luck is heartbreaking,” he said, fanning his arm around the hobo camp, “but you’ve got to remember that having nothing to lose is a dangerous way to feel.”

  I sure wish I knew Curry’s circumstances and how long he’s intending to stay. Woody is really fond of him and his harmonica. And I like sitting on the trestle with him. Answering his questions makes me feel important. That’s the hardest part about becoming friendly with those travelers. You get to know and like them and off they go.

  How nice it must be to hop a train and leave your troubles behind. I’ve been thinking for some time that Woody and me should get away from Lilyfield. Like Mama did. Maybe our leaving for a bit would jar Papa into remembering how much he loves Woody and me. I didn’t know what I had in Mama until she was gone. But the second somebody saw us hustling towards the depot with our suitcases they’d call up to Lilyfield and tell Papa. (Most everybody in town thinks the sun comes up just to hear him crow.)

  We could go to Beezy’s, but he knows how much we love her, so that’s the first place Papa would come looking for us. And Mr. Cole has nowhere to put us but in his cottage and Lou lives there. We get enough of her as it is. Sam? He’s who I’d really like to go to, but he’d get in the worst trouble of his life if we got found over there. Besides, his cabin smells like used spark plugs.

  That leaves Vera Ledbetter. Even if Papa put pressure on her, she wouldn’t tell where we were. She doesn’t care for him. Vera is one of Mama’s forbidden fruit friends, who’s got a bungalow on Montgomery Street. She lives alone with her parrot so I’m sure she’d be happy to have the company. Vera’s also a professional cook at Slidell’s Drugstore and since all of Woody’s and my clothes are getting as loose as E. J.’s are on him, she could fatten us back up. That could work out just great. I’m going to talk to Woody about that hiding-out idea as soon as I get back from town. (Since Vera has that talking bird, I’m sure my critter-loving sister will be thrilled.)

  When I come out of the woods that end at the meadow that butts up to the creek, I can see the Jacksons’ cottage lights shining through the
rustling leaves. I’d never tell Lou, but I dearly miss those evenings that Woody and me spent over at their place. Her telling us those bayou stories when she was still nice. Those yummy hush puppies Mr. Cole would do up for us. I can’t remember the last time I ate. I’m so tempted to wander over there, but I can’t. I got a sisterly duty to perform. Maybe when I get back from town. If Lou’s in one of her less wicked moods, I can persuade her to tell us a Rex the alligator tale and Mr. Cole will feed us. I could get Mama’s watch back from her, too. Mr. Cole would make her give it.

  Thrilled with that plan, I’m hustling even faster towards the creek stepping stones when I hear, “Where’re ya goin’?” coming from somewhere out in front of me.

  I think that Lou Jackson is talking to me and I’m getting ready to answer her back until I hear my uncle say, “It’s over.”

  I douse my flashlight.

  The Carmody brothers have got the same booming voice, but Uncle Blackie laughs like I imagine Satan does, that’s how I know it’s him and not Papa. He’s informing Lou that the romance has drawn to an end. He’s fixing to toss her into the trash just like I warned her he would. Just like he has so many other gals who fell under his spell, including Dagmar Epps, the bad-moraled lady who lives up at the hobo camp. They were an item for almost a year and look at her now.

  “But, I . . . I . . . ,” Lou whines. “Ya can’t mean it. Don’t ya want . . . I got something real nice for ya. Lookee here.”

  I peek around the tree that I’ve hidden behind. They’re only about fifty feet away, but I can’t see them clearly until the lightning strikes again. Lou is being pressed up against the side of the gardening shed by Blackie, who is handsome just like Papa, but his dark hair is wilder looking. He’s got a tattoo on his muscular arm of a lady whose bosom is barely covered by two horseshoes, and his chest bulges, too.

  Lou’s blouse is all the way unbuttoned and her brassiere up around her neck. Blackie is smiling down at her pointed cookie cone chest. “I told you this right off. When I say the party’s over, it’s over, but I guess there’s nothin’ wrong with one for the road.”

  Lou’s moans come out of the darkness, low and long. When the lightning comes again, I see that Blackie has slid his hand up under her skirt. He’s moving it back and forth like a saw. Lou is moving back and forth, too, until my uncle does something down there that makes her give out a choked scream.

  As furious as she makes me, my heart is going out to her. Until the flame from Blackie’s Zippo lighter illuminates Mama’s watch on her wrist when he lights up a Lucky Strike. The flash of silver catches my uncle’s eye, too. “Where’d you get this?” Ripping it off, he holds the watch out of her reach. When Lou jumps for it, he smacks her away. “I’ve never seen this before. Did you steal it, girl? Answer me.” When she doesn’t, he pinches her real hard on the arm.

  “It’s . . . Shen’s,” Lou wails.

  “What’d ya say?” I know that Blackie heard her because even though the treetops are swishing and thunder is rolling closer, I’m having no trouble at all picking up on his belittling tone.

  Lou cries, “Give it back. It’s Shenny’s.”

  “Where’d that brat get something this fine?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” Louise says, but if I could see her I know she’d be raising her lying right eyebrow. I told her I found Mama’s watch near the old well when we were still getting along.

  Blackie says, “Looks fancy. Not for a kid. You sure this watch doesn’t belong to daaarlin’ Evelyn?” I can hear the leer in his voice. He likes Mama, and not in a relative way. He was always putting his hand on her caboose and giving it a goose and didn’t care that Papa saw.

  Letting go of Lou, my uncle tucks his shirt back into his pants and says, “I’ll just take the watch and return it to Walter.”

  That would be disastrous if my uncle was a man of his word. I know him too good. He’ll keep it and give it to his next Kleenex gal.

  “His Honor didn’t gift it to the girls’ mother so there’s no need to return it to him.” Lou is sobbing so hard that she’s begun hiccupping. “Please . . . hick . . . give it back . . . hick . . . to me.”

  How does she know that somebody else besides Papa gave Mama the watch? I wasn’t the one who told her. Woody can’t.

  “What do you mean Walt didn’t give it to Evie?” Blackie asks, suddenly interested again. “Where’d she get it from? A beau? Was she gettin’ herself a little gravy on the side?”

  “Blackie, please,” Lou says, not mad but like that girl in the patched dress who got off the Greyhound bus.

  “Did Evie have a back-door lover?” My uncle sounds frantic. “Did she?”

  I want to stop all this before something even worse happens, but if I dare to interfere, my uncle will drag me up to the house and shout at Papa, “Look who I found stickin’ her nose where it don’t belong again.”

  Thankfully, Mr. Cole Jackson opens up the door to their cottage and thrusts out his head.

  “Louise, honey? The storm’s startin’ up. Better finish up what you’re doin’.” A crack of lightning finishes his sentence off like an exclamation point. “Lou? Ya out there?”

  I want to shout, “Come quick, Mr. Cole,” but I know that would only make things worse. I think of them as family, but the Jacksons are the help. If they try to go up against the Carmodys, my grandfather will make sure nobody else in town hires them once they get kicked off of Lilyfield.

  After Mr. Cole steps back into the cottage, Uncle Blackie says to Lou so sickening, “Thanks for the hospitality. Take care now, ya hear?” and struts off into the woods.

  I hate that.

  Despise it when somebody strong takes advantage of the weak, but what can I do? Nobody, not even the meanest man I know—Grampa—would want to tangle with my uncle when he gets to acting like the cock of the walk.

  I’m going to drag Lou out of this storm and back into the cottage. Mr. Cole will set out dry clothes and heat a cup of milk with a splash of brandy. When she falls asleep, I’ll snip a bit off her hair and take it up to Miss Hormel at the boardinghouse tomorrow. I’ll pay her to give Lou that hump. That may sound mean, but it really is for the best. Lou’ll get tempted to take up with him again if Blackie comes scratching at her window one of these nights because she is conveniently located. She’ll get her heart broken all over again. Of course, I’m mad at her for letting my uncle take Mama’s watch, but it’ll be easy to get back. Blackie will pass out tonight, probably on the front porch swing. I’ll sneak it out of his pocket then. He won’t even remember when he wakes up tomorrow morning that he took it off Lou, that’s how hanged over he’ll be.

  I switch my flashlight back on and start heading towards the shed, but before I get even a few steps, from behind me, a hand clamps over my mouth and drags me back behind the tree. I have visions of that hugging hobo, or maybe it’s Blackie. He must’ve seen me watching him being so mean to Louise. I hunch up, listening for his snide Gotcha! Gotcha! Gotcha! I am too terrified to put up a struggle and get even more so when I feel his smooth small hand. Smell his English Leather.

  It’s not a wandering hobo or my disgusting uncle that’s got his arms around me.

  It’s Papa.

  He doesn’t shout something vile or twist me around in disgust. He doesn’t push me to the ground and tower over me yelling. He’s not even slurring when he says in his kindest of all voices, the one I still hear in my dreams, “Shenandoah? Is that you?” When I don’t turn to show him my gaping teeth the way I usually do to let him know it’s me, he assumes I’m my sister. “Jane Woodrow. I was just at the fort looking for you.”

  Thank Jesus I gave Woody that sleeping pill.

  I feel ashamed of myself for needing him so much that I don’t tell him that it’s me and not my twin. I can’t help myself. I want him to keep holding me. Maybe he’s come to apologize, to beg forgiveness for the way he’s been treating his precious girls. I can feel myself melting into him.

  Papa says, “All th
is time . . . I . . . I haven’t been sure if it was you or Shenandoah I saw that night watching from up in the fort, but Doc Keller told me earlier this evening that he’s almost certain it was you, and my father . . . your grandfather . . . he agrees. He wants me to send you away.” His Honor sounds like a scared little kid. “I’ve been hoping this would all sort itself out, but it’s only gotten worse. It was you, wasn’t it? You saw what happened that night, didn’t you?” Hearing his desperate fear, I don’t know what else to do but nod. “It’s the Lord’s work. He took your voice away to keep us safe. If you could talk . . . tell what you saw . . . it would be the ruination of everything that we have worked for, do you understand, sweetheart?” Gripping me harder, he says, “You . . . you haven’t told Shenandoah, have you?” When I shake my head, I feel his muscles go stringy again. “I . . . I want you to know that I’m sorry it ended the way it did. Your mother . . . she . . . Mother misunderstood.” He spins me around and snugs my head to his chest, and I can hear the beat of his heart. “Your mama’s life may be over, but ours isn’t. Things are going to be different around here from now on. You’ll see. It’s all going to go back to the way it was before . . . before . . . We’ll stargaze together and I’ll read you the Sunday comics and whenever you and your sister want to, we’ll go to the beach. You particularly liked that when Mother . . .” He breathes in, shuddery. “All you have to do is promise me that you’ll keep doing what you’ve been doing. Not saying a word about what you saw. Can you do that for your papa? For your twin?”

  I want to scream, run off and hide where I will never be found when I realize what he’s telling me, but I nod again the way he wants me to. And when I do, it’s not the cooling rain that has finally come, but his warm tears that I feel falling into my hair when he presses his lips to the top of my head and rewards me with the words I’ve been longing to hear, “I love you, my little Gemini.”