Tomorrow River

  I pick up a rock and toss it hard as I can towards the creek. “Ya coulda told me that you were thinkin’ that way.”

  E. J. picks up a rock, too, but doesn’t throw it. Just runs it through his fingers. “I thought . . . ya seemed so sure that she was still alive and . . . you’re so much smarter than me.” He’s embarrassed that he had to drop out of school last year to work hard for his family. “How did you find out about her . . . um . . .”

  I look over to Lilyfield. Even though Papa told me that things were going to be different from now on, out of habit my skin crawls when I think about Woody all by her lonesome up in the fort. “His Honor told me.”

  “Has she been passed for a long time or did they just . . . did your father tell ya how your mama—?”

  “She . . .” The pain of going over this is gumming up my mouth, but I got to tell him. E. J.’s stood by us through thick and thin. “She’s been gone for almost a year. She died on carnival night last year.”

  “How?” he asks, stunned.

  I’m not sure if I should tell him this part, but I do. “His Honor didn’t tell me how, but Woody saw what happened. She’s known the whole time that Mama’s dead.”

  He hops off the log. “Did she say something to you?”

  “Don’t be stupid. I’d tell you if she did,” I say, before he goes completely bonkers. He misses her talking as bad as I do. Their long chats about their future together. They want to get married at Lee Chapel and have enough kids to make up a baseball team.

  From the house, we can hear Mrs. Tittle humming a lullaby to the baby. I speak up about why I’ve come. “You know how Woody’s all the time makin’ those scary drawings?”

  “I don’t think they’re scary.”

  “They’re scary as hell and you know it.”

  “I don’t—” He stops when I give him a you’ve-got-to-be-kiddin’-me look. “Fine,” he says. “What about ’em?”

  “There’s this one . . . have you seen it? It’s of Mama and there’s somebody else, too. She got real agitated today when she showed it to me. I think it has something to do with what she saw that night, but I can’t figure out what.”

  E. J. looks off into the woods. “Sometimes when ya hunt, no matter how hard ya chase after something you can’t get a bead on it. That’s when you got to be patient and wait ’til it circles back to ya.”

  “You know better than that,” I say.

  Of course, he doesn’t disagree. Patience is not my long suit. “Will you help me find out what happened to our mother? You know, how she died and where she’s buried?”

  E. J. screws up his face. He must be thinking along the same lines that I am. It’s one thing to go looking for a long-lost mother but an entirely different ball of wax trying to figure out how she died. That’s a much, much sadder chore.

  Seeing how he’s waffling, I tell him, “Woody can’t tell us what she saw, so we got to find out on our own so we can share the burden with her.” I can see that E. J.’s mostly going along with that. I have inherited His Honor’s persuading personality. “Once she has somebody to share that secret with, she’ll feel so much better.” I smile before I present my closing argument. “I bet she’ll even start talkin’ love and marriage again.”

  E. J. squares his cap, which I have always believed is the font of his bravery, and says, “What’s the new plan?” He throws caution to the wind and doesn’t care where it lands when that coon sits on his head.

  “New plan?” I haven’t thought this through. I don’t have any idea what to do next, other than talk to Gramma or persuade Woody to tell me what she saw that night back in the clearing.

  “Well, I could . . . maybe we should . . . oh, E. J. . . . Mama . . . she’s . . . never comin’ home.”

  He saves me from collapsing onto the ground by taking me into his arms. Lets me cry on his shoulder beneath the twilight sky.

  “Shen?” E. J. says, once I get my sniveling under control. “I know you’ve been wantin’ to talk to Vera. We could head over to the drugstore.”

  I scrub the sad off my face with the bottom of my T-shirt and say, “Ya only want to go to Slidell’s ’cause you know Vera’s gonna give you a free brown cow. Do you have no shame?” This is my way of thanking him for coming up with a good idea. Vera Ledbetter was a good friend to Mama. I have already thoroughly questioned her about our mother’s vanishing. She didn’t have much to offer then, so she probably won’t have nothing more to add to my understanding of how Mama died. But she does make a mean brown cow and gives me free Rolaids whenever we stop by. And I promised Woody chow. One of Vera’s scrumptious egg salad sandwiches would do my sister a world of good. When we were hugging during our mourning days, I could’ve played her ribs the way Beezy’s favorite musician, Mr. Lionel Hampton, plays his vibraphone.

  “We’ve got to be quick about it. I don’t want to leave Woody alone too long,” I say, looking down at my wrist to check the time out of habit. It’s two freckles past a hair. That’s something else I need to take care of. Getting Mama’s watch back from my uncle tonight. “We also need to make a stop at What Goes Around Comes Around.”

  E. J. asks, “What for?”

  “I’m gonna get Woody one of Mama’s scarves. Papa rip—I mean, I accidentally lost the one she had.” Getting her that scarf is not a completely unselfish act. I figure she might tell me what she saw the night Mama died if she’s got some of that chiffon wrapped around her neck. Later tonight, when she’s got a full stomach and is surrounded by all that soft, she’ll be prime for the picking. If that doesn’t work, I’m going to have to get strict with her. Absolutely no almond cream rubs until she coughs up that information.

  I stand up and dust off my bottom. “Ready?”

  E. J. looks around for my lunch box. “Did ya bring the disguises?” We always wear them if we have to sneak into the busy part of town. I have a black-haired wig from the year Mama got this idea that she and Woody and I would go trick-or-treating on Halloween as the three witches from Macbeth. E. J. wore the leftover beard I have from when I played one of the wise men in the church Christmas pageant.

  “We don’t need the disguises anymore. Papa says it’s all right for Woody and me to go into town again.”

  E. J. gives me a squinty look. I’m sure he must be curious why all of a sudden we’re being allowed to roam free, but just like everybody else around here, he knows better than to go prying into Carmody family business.

  I extend my hand, he grasps it, and we turn towards the fastest way to get to town.

  We’re about a quarter up this side of Honeysuckle Hill when he says, “It’s a good night for the race, wouldn’t ya say?”

  Bless his homely heart. He’s trying to cheer me up by telling me the Bazooka joke the same way I always do when he’s down in the dumps. “And which race might that be, E. J.?” I say, playing dumb the same way he always does.

  He can barely contain himself. “Why, that would be the human one, Shenny.”

  I am so surprised by what escapes out of my mouth. I don’t know if it’s relief from not having to search for my mama anymore or the comfort of having a steadfast mountain man by my side who’s going to help me find out how she died. It’s the first time I’ve laughed in a coon’s age.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Once we’re atop Honeysuckle Hill, E. J. and I can hear boogiewoogie music coming over the loud speakers. Lights that look like full moons are illuminating most of Buffalo Park. Flatbed trucks that’re loaded with rides and game booths and men are struggling with a tent, shouting, “Get ’er up.”

  Colonel Button’s Thrills and Chills has come to town.

  The half-raised red tent is for the Oddities of Nature show and a couple of them are already here. The fattest lady in the whole world—Baby Doll Susan? Her trailer has a picture of her painted on the side. Her dimples are the size of truck tires. The towel-headed man is relaxing on a folding chair under a shade tree reading a magazine, which strikes me so funny. I never imagin
ed he did anything else with his life but lie down on a bed of nails in a diaper twice a day. The other oddities like Milly and Tilly the Siamese Twins and Tiny Jimbo, and that baby in the bottle that Bootie told me was coming this year, can’t be far behind.

  I ask E. J., “What day is it anyway?”

  He stopped to watch a couple of the hobos struggling to set up a game booth. “Damnit to hell and back!” E. J. says, throwing his cap onto the grass.

  “Ed James!” I’m shocked. He rarely curses.

  “Sorry. It’s just that . . . I shoulda got over here earlier.” He runs his hands through his bird’s nest hair. “My papa’s been feelin’ . . . we could use some extra cash.”

  Watching the hobos shuffling to and fro from the trucks, I say, “Don’t worry. Most of them won’t come back in the morning. You know how they are.” They can get work when the carnival comes to town because mostly everybody else in the show is as dirty and scruffy as they are. But they’re not hardy nor reliable. They’ll buy Thunderbird wine with the cash they make working tonight and sleep it off tomorrow.

  I recognize a few of the local boys working up a sweat, too. John-John Ellis is here and so is Bootie Young. When Bootie notices me, he stops unloading admission boxes and waves, and I wave back and think once again how dreamy that boy is. I mean, really. He is super something. And he likes me, too. A girl can tell.

  Unfortunately, they open the show to everyone no matter how repulsive they are, so Remmy Hawkins is here, too. He’s sprawled on the hood of his fancy car, wearing the same pair of greasy bibs that he’s always got on without a shirt. Judging by the stack of empty beer cans piled alongside the whitewalls, he’s been here most of the day.

  Another group of burly men are unloading the merry-go-round piece by piece.

  Mama.

  That’s the last time I saw her alive. Riding on the merry-go-round that night with Sam Moody in her white blouse with red yarn trim on the pockets. Seeing that smiling swan . . . it makes my stomach hip-hop so I move my binoculars to the trees that run alongside that part of the park.

  “Is that . . . Curry Weaver?” I ask E. J., not at all sure that it is. He’s standing by himself at the edge of the trees that line the north side of the park.

  “Curry?” E. J. is spinning around. “Is he back from the Colony already?”

  “He got sent to the Colony?” I ask. Usually the hoboes that get put up there are the habitual offenders. Curry’s only been in town for a few weeks. How much trouble could he get in? “How’d you know that?”

  E. J. says sheepishly, “While Woody and you were up in the fort for those days . . . I got sorta lonely. I went up to the camp to see what Curry was doing. Maybe get some lessons.” E. J. is learning some hand-to-hand combat from the hobo who might not be a teacher or a writer like I first thought, but a soldier who has gone AWOL from the army. Since that war started over in Vietnam, deserters have been showing up at the camp, trying to blend in. I used to think that they were cowards, but when Ricky Oppermann came home from the war without half his skull, that changed my mind. I really liked Ricky even if he was planning on being a dentist like his father. Now he spends every day on his front porch drooling into a bib, so if that’s what Curry is—a deserter—I don’t like him any less for it. “But he wasn’t there. I got worried that he’d hopped a train so I asked around. Dagmar Epps told me that he got hauled off to the Colony by the sheriff.”

  “Well, if Dagmar told you . . . ,” I say, like could you be any dumber to take the word of the town idiot.

  “She’s not retarded like you think she is,” E. J. says, real defensive. “Dagmar’s just had a bad string of luck. And she makes a great rabbit stew. Where do you see Curry?”

  “There.” I point out to where the carnival lights barely reach, wishing that my sister was by my side. She’ll be sad that she missed seeing Curry. She’d be juiced by how good he cleans up. Instead of his usual hobo outfit, he’s got on a pressed blue shirt and khaki pants. He looks sharp. Probably thought getting fancy would help him get a job with the carnival. (He’s not been living at the camp long enough to know that all Colonel Button requires of his hires is that they got arms and at least one leg.)

  “Well, look at that. It’s Sam.” He’s come out from behind one of the trucks and is standing a few yards away from Curry. “Let’s go over there,” I say to E. J. “I want to tell Curry how dapper he looks and I need to talk to Sam in the worst way.” First, to give him hell for not being forthright about Mama’s death, and second, to throw my arms around him. He has to know about Mama’s passing. He’s a detective. How he must have been suffering all this time.

  I’m still watching when Sam turns and spots Curry. Extends his hand. They shake and start gabbing like they’re long-lost friends. I didn’t even know they knew each other. And is that Sheriff Andy coming to join in the conversation? Well, I’ll be. I know that Sam and the sheriff are on friendly terms . . . but Curry? I didn’t know that he knew either one of them. I guess, if what E. J. told me is true about that hobo getting taken up to the Colony, that’s when he made the sheriff’s acquaintance. So why is Curry being so buddy-buddy with him? I went up to the hospital to visit my gramma after she had her nerves break down. It’s not a place that you’d thank somebody for sending you. What could they be talking about? Sam is wagging his head in disbelief at whatever Curry is telling him, and the sheriff is, too. Sam is also shaking his sinewy arms. Is he warming-up for the baseball toss game the roustabouts are setting up next to the Guess Your Weight scale. No, he seems too agitated. Has Sam fallen off the wagon?

  “C’mon.” I let my binoculars drop to my chest and we start heading towards Sam, the sheriff, and Curry when Remmy Hawkins stumbles in front of us and blocks our path.

  “Oooeee, look what the cat drug out from under the porch,” he says. He means E. J. Remmy likes me. In a very disgusting way. “If it ain’t E. J. Shittle and my little honey bun. That is you, ain’t it, Shen?”

  It makes me sick that he can tell me and Woody apart. “Don’t call me your honey bun, you . . .” I want to tell Remmy that he’s an imbecile, but you know, this boy is drunk enough to be a keg with legs. And he loves to fight. He wouldn’t hurt me, but E. J.? Remmy loves picking on him. It’s practically his hobby to make fun of how poor and small he is.

  Hawkins leers down at E. J.’s too-big shoes and says, “You come to get another pair offa Jinx the Clown?” He spits and that gob lands on the tip of E. J.’s royal blue sneakers, which are his only ones no matter how flappy they are on him. Elbowing him out of the way, Remmy sidles up next to me. “Ya might want to think about gettin’ off that high horse you’re on. You’re gonna have to start bein’ a lot more hospitable to me real soon.”

  “Why would I do that? You givin’ away free tickets to the freak show or something?” The storm that swept through earlier might’ve cooled things down for a day or so, but I’m still feeling hot about Remmy showing up at the Triple S, taunting Sam and laughing diabolically when he called out from his fancy car, “Heard from your mama lately, twins?” As much as I know that I shouldn’t go after him, I simply cannot rein myself in. “Just in case I have not made myself clear durin’ our previous encounters, you make me sicker than a case of ptomaine poisoning, Remington Aloysius Hawkins, and . . . you . . . you got hair just like Clarabelle’s.” I’ve been dying to say that to him for years.

  Remmy grabs one of my braids and reels me in. “You’ll be whistlin’ another tune once His Honor proposes to my auntie Abigail,” he whispers wetly into my ear.

  I twist out of his grip, kick him in the shin, and jump out of his reach. “And what exactly is my father going to propose to your horsey aunt?” I wink at E. J. Being humorous like he is, he’ll appreciate this. “That she enters herself into the Four-H show?”

  Remmy’s rubbing his leg not anywhere near where I kicked him, that’s how drunk he is. He mutters, “Marriage.”

  “What did you say?” The smile I gave E. J. is still on my
lips.

  “You heard me,” Remmy says. “Your daddy’s gonna propose marriage to my auntie this Saturday night.”

  I throw my head back and laugh like the lady that dares you to enter the carnival’s Ye Olde Haunted House does. “Did you hear that, E. J.? Remmy here is telling us that Papa’s thinkin’ of marrying Abigail Hawkins,” I say haughty, until I recall how I thought Papa might be falling into her web that afternoon she brought those pies over to the house. Then there’s what good friends my grandfather and Mayor Jeb Hawkins are. His Honor told me the other night in the woods, “Things are going to change around here. You’ll see.” Is this what he meant? Was he telling me that he was intending to marry Abigail?

  That thought must be plastered across my face because Remmy rocks back on his heels and says, “That’s right. Now ya got it. You’re always playin’ hard to get, but you can’t fool me, Shenny Carmody. You’re excited as me that we’re gonna be kissin’ cousins.”

  The thought of this boy being related to me—it is too much. I ball my fists and take a step closer. I don’t care how big he is. I’ll pound him into a bloody pulp.

  Seeing how crazy fired up I am, E. J. jumps in front of me and says, the same way Sam would if he was standing here next to me instead of furiously conversing with Curry Weaver and the sheriff over near the woods, “Count to ten.”

  “But he . . . did you hear what he just said?” I say, outraged.

  “Allow me,” E. J. says in a very distinguished way.

  I guess just like anything else in life, you can’t predict what’s going to happen next, but I’ll tell you one thing for sure. I didn’t think it would be little E. J. smashing that buffoon Remmy Hawkins in his nose so hard that he knocked him out cold. That fight training he’s been getting from Curry has really paid off.