Tomorrow River

by Lesley Kagen

  “How do, ma’am.” Lou steps up and introduces herself. “I heard a lot about ya. It’s Friday the thirteenth. Be careful.”

  Lou has no way of knowing that it’s the luckiest day of my mother’s life.

  Blind Beezy, who’s standing beside Mr. Cole, is wailing and waving her arms in the air. “Evie? Evie?”

  Mama reaches for her, brings Beezy’s hands to her face so she can feel that it really is her. “It’s . . . so good to see you,” they say to each other.

  Then Beezy must’ve heard Sam talking to one of the firemen who has just come away from the flames to get a cool drink, because she shouts out, “Sam? Sammy, is that you?”

  Her boy comes over fast to pat her little back.

  Beezy blubbers, “Curry came by the house to tell me what ya were tryin’ to do . . . but—”

  Sam says, “It’s done now, Mama.”

  As we are standing together listening to the snap and crackle as the fire destroys our home, E. J. belts his arm around my sister’s waist and pulls her close. He says to me, “I smelled the smoke and Papa told me to run over to the Calhouns’ and tell them to call the fire department. I knew you wasn’t up there ’cause Curry and Sam told me where ya was when they came and got Woody. I ran over the steppin’ stones fast as I could, told Lou, Beezy, and Mr. Cole ’bout your trip to the hospital, then I rushed to the tree with a bucket of water, but . . . it went up so fast. I’m sorry . . . the fort is gone.”

  An ambulance comes careening down our driveway and behind it, two county cars. My uncle Blackie and grampa Gus are in the first car, my father in the following one. That must mean that Gramma Ruth Love got hurt in the fire and is being taken to the hospital.

  When they drive past the crowd, Papa doesn’t notice his wife and girls staring along with the rest of the town. His eyes are closed. As I look at his handsome profile passing me by, still, no matter what he has done to me and Woody or even Mama, no matter how much he has hurt us, I have to grip on to Woody’s hand to keep myself from chasing the car down the road, stop myself from shouting out, “I still love you, Papa. I’m sorry your house is burning down.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  It’s Independence Day.

  There was a parade and potato-sack games and some fiddle music this morning. Mama packed a picnic of pimento cheese sandwiches and yellow Jell-O, so now we’re spread out with everyone else from town. By the creek, where it winds through Buffalo Park. It’s so good to eat our mother’s crummy cooking again, but our blanket’s up against the Tittles’ blanket and I confess to stealing a drumstick out of their basket. Dorry Tittle really knows how to fry. E. J. and Woody are over at the swings acting all lovesick and moony. My mama picks Baby Fay up off the blanket and cradles her in her arms. I am pretending to nap so I can listen in on her and Mrs. Tittle’s hushed women voices. Mama has resisted answering my questions. She doesn’t want Woody and me to be upset. Eavesdropping runs in my blood.

  “I heard some of what happened from the gals at church,” Mrs. Tittle says to her. “Our plan didn’t go quite like we hoped, did it.”

  Mama stops cooing at the baby and says back, “No, it didn’t.”

  I remember how I found her in front of the Oddities tent that night. She was getting ready to run away, that’s why she looked so sad.

  “I shoulda come lookin’ over to your place when ya didn’t show up that night,” Mrs. Tittle says with a lot of regret.

  I don’t know what Miss Dorry means until I remember how Vera told us that night in the drugstore, “Your mama, E. J., she was gonna borrow the Calhouns’ car and give Evie a ride to the bus station.”

  Mama says, “I’m grateful that you didn’t. In the state she was in, I believe . . . I believe Ruth Love was capable of anything.”

  Mrs. Tittle takes that in and says, “After she pushed you down and tried to . . . choke you . . . how did you get up to the Colony?”

  The baby is fussing a little so Mama brings her up to her shoulder and bounces her. “I’m not exactly sure how I got into the boat, but that’s where I woke up. Blackie was rowing.”

  That’s where the rowboat must’ve been all this time. Hidden real good at my uncle’s place. That’s why the sheriff never found it. Despite everything, I think—my father still loves Mama. He could’ve drowned her that night. Thrown her over the side on the way down the creek. Knowing my grandfather, I bet that’s what he urged him to do. I feel proud of Papa for standing up to him.

  “I was fading in and out,” Mama continues, “but I remember that Walter was in the boat. Gus, too. Once we got to Blackie’s place, one of them called Doc Keller. He gave me an injection and stitched the cut on the back of my head. Early the next morning, he drove me to the hospital. I vaguely remember Doc telling the admitting staff that I was a patient of his. He left orders for strong, calming medications. Barbiturates and others. They kept me in a fog.”

  Miss Dorry calls out to E. J.’s little sisters, “Stay outta that creek in your best clothes.” They must’ve done what she said because she then says to Mama, “I never did care much for Chester Keller. He’s got eyes like a black racer.” They’re quiet for a few minutes and then Mrs. Tittle asks, “And Walter agreed with all this?” With the undying love that E. J.’s mama feels towards her coughing husband, it must be so hard for her to imagine. “To keep ya locked up in the Colony like that?”

  Mama says so sadly, “I want to believe Walt tried to persuade Gus to do otherwise . . . but . . .”

  She knows just like I do that Papa couldn’t help himself, but it must be ’til-death-do-us-part heartbreaking for my mother to admit that her husband, the man of her dreams, the father of her children, would do something so cruel. I sneak a peek over at her. Her face is crumbling. And Bootie Young is standing right at the edge of the blanket in his best overalls.

  “Miz Carmody. Miz Tittle. Shen.”

  I sit up and smooth down my hair. “Hey, Bootie.”

  “Wanna get a drink?” He points over to the metal buckets filled with ice and soda pop.

  I look at Mama for permission and she nods.

  That handsome boy and I stay close together for the rest of the afternoon and take in the fireworks that get set off when the sun goes down. But even though it’s a dream come true to hold Bootie’s big, calloused hand in mine, I cannot stop thinking about my papa’s soft, small one. He is out on bail, same as my uncle and grandfather. His Honor is probably watching the show from the high hill at Heritage Farm, the way we always did when we were still a family. If he is, he’s smiling extra hard at the orange and green skyrockets. Those are his favorites. I will see him in court on Monday.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  “Excuse us. Pardon. Thank you,” Sam says as he gently guides Mama, Woody, and me through the group of well-wishers that are milling outside the courthouse.

  There’s not going to be a trial right away, just a hearing to decide the fate of the rest of our family. Except for Gramma. She was badly burned the night of “The Lilyfield Blaze,” as the Lexington News-Gazette dubbed it. Mama didn’t want me to read the articles, but I had to. I will never be kept in the dark again about anything. The reporters wrote in great detail about how Charlie LeClair, one of the firemen at the scene, said, “I found Mrs. Ruth Love Carmody upstairs in one of the bedrooms. When I tried to remove her, she ran down the front stairs and I lost her in the smoke. I’m sure she wouldn’t have survived if Mr. Gus hadn’t chased after her and pulled her to safety.”

  And I’m sure the reporter got that part about Grampa saving her wrong.

  The newspaper also quoted Fire Chief Al Cobb: “We know the blaze started on the second floor of the house, but the source is still not clear. Our investigation will continue.”

  What I think happened is that Gramma was playing with her dolls, performing her Saint Joan of Arc reenactment, and the fire got away from her.

  Or maybe not.

  I guess what exactly occurred that night will remain a mystery until my g
randmother can recover enough to tell us what happened, which more than likely will never come to pass. She has been charged with murder and attempted murder, but is not here today because she was found non compos mentis—not of sound mind and not fit for trial. She’s been taken to a special hospital in Richmond for people with criminal mental disorders. I don’t believe she’ll be returning to normal no matter how many electrical treatments they give her this time.

  When we went to visit our bandaged Gramma last week, I whispered to Woody in the hospital room, “She looks like Gram Mummy,” because I am still furious with her. Mama didn’t think that joke was so funny. She brought a small bouquet that she picked out of her new garden to the woman who tried to murder her. When I asked her why she would do such a nice thing, as I find it truly incomprehensible, Mama told me, “Mr. Mark Twain said, ‘Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.’”

  Well, I love that sentiment, I really do, but that’s all it is to me. I may have inherited my mother’s hair color and her green eyes, her love of words and poetry, but clearly, the ability to forgive went right over my head.

  Except when it comes to my papa.

  The three tall windows on each opposing wall of the courtroom are open as wide as they will go. Outside, the full-leafed trees are still. The ceiling fans are whirring like crazy, trying to pull away the heat that has got to be dripping down everybody’s neck the same way it is mine.

  “They’re calling your name, honey,” Mama says. She and Woody and I are sitting in the second row in the courtroom. My mother is not taking up much space because she is still very thin, despite Beezy making her eat chicken potpie prison-style three times a week.

  On my way up to the stand, I have to pass by the table where the Carmody men are grouped with their lawyer—Bobby Rudd. My family’s attorney has the most winning record in the Commonwealth. He is Grampa’s age and has gotten Uncle Blackie out of scrapes lots of times. I can tell by the way that Mr. Rudd is preening in his nice suit and lavender shirt and striped tie that he is confident he’s not going to have to go to trial this time neither.

  My father does not look powerful like he used to when he was the one up on the bench like Judge Elmer Whitmore is today. Papa catches my eye. I recognize that repentant look. It’s the same one he’d give Woody and me when he took us out of the root cellar some mornings.

  Once I take my place in the witness box, Mr. Lloyd Riverton holds out the Bible and tells me, “You know how it’s done, Miss Shenny.” Mr. Lloyd was the bailiff in Papa’s courtroom, too, so he and I are on friendly terms. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  I hope I mean it when I say, “I do.” I am afraid that I might give in to my love for Papa. Run down from the witness box, climb into his lap, and set my head on his shoulder. I’ve got on his favorite dress today. The blue one with the Peter Pan collar.

  Mr. Will Stockton, who is the prosecuting attorney, explains, “I’m going to ask you some questions now, Shenny. I’ll be as brief as I can. Can you answer truthfully?”

  I know that’s what I have to do. For Mama. “I can.”

  He asks, “After your mother’s disappearance last year, did you attempt to find her?”

  “Not right away.”

  “Why is that?” the attorney asks.

  “Well . . .” I look over at my mother. “At first, I thought she’d come back and then . . . well. There’s lots of reasons I didn’t set off to hunt her down, but mostly, I just didn’t know how to go about finding her. I’m just a kid.”

  The folks in the gallery laugh a little.

  The attorney waits until they settle to ask, “But recently you started a search. Why was that?”

  I say, not trying to look at my father, “Papa was threatening to send Woody away, so more than ever I needed to find Mama.”

  Mr. Stockton asks, “So you set out to find your mother and then what happened?”

  “I gave up almost immediately.”

  “Why?”

  I don’t know if I can go through with this. Papa is looking at me with woeful puppy eyes.

  “Shenny?” the attorney asks. “Why did you stop searching for your mother?”

  I draw in a breath, fix my eyes on my mama and sister, and say, “Because my papa told me that she was dead.”

  Mr. Bobby Rudd shouts “Objection” over the mumbling and grumbling the courtroom observers are making.

  Judge Whitmore says, “Overruled. You may proceed.”

  Mr. Stockton nods and says, “Well, we know now that your father told a lie, don’t we, Shenny? We can see that your mother is alive.”

  All heads swivel her way. Mama doesn’t acknowledge them. She’s only got eyes for me.

  “Did anyone else tell you that your mother was dead?” the attorney asks.

  “Yes, sir. My grandmother.” This is the easy part. I don’t feel bad at all telling him and everybody else, “Gramma told me she killed my mother.”

  There is no reaction in the courtroom. This is old news.

  “And did you believe your grandmother when she told you that?”

  “No, sir. I thought her nerves were breaking down again. But then she showed me a picture of her standing over Mama in the clearing near our woods and my mother looked dead.”

  Mama isn’t smiling anymore. She’s holding a hankie up to her eyes.

  Mr. Stockton asks, “Do you have anything else to add?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then you may step down.”

  When I go back to my seat, past their table, Papa is not scowling nor is that vein bulging in his temple the way it would be if he was mad. He gives me his I’m-sorry smile again and that is the hardest part of all. My head knows that it’s wrong to forgive him, but my heart knows no such thing.

  Woody gets sworn in next and when Mr. Lloyd Riverton asks her, “So help you God?” she nods.

  Judge Whitmore, who is as lean as beef jerky and has the reputation of being just as tough, says to the court reporter, Maddie Gimbel, “Let the record reflect that the witness has nodded her head yes and that all further nods or shakes of the head are to be so noted.” Then to Woody he says, “Please be seated.” The judge knows that my sister still doesn’t speak so good. Everybody does. He has thoughtfully provided Woody with a pencil and a piece of paper to write her answers if she needs to because she is an extenuating circumstance. Mama and I told Mr. Stockton that Woody’s hearing is real sensitive and not to raise his voice to her under any circumstances. And to keep his questions to a bare minimum on doctor’s orders.

  Mr. Stockton approaches the witness box. “Did you see somebody hurt your mama the night of June the eighth, 1968, Jane Woodrow?” he asks nice and quietly. “And if so, who was it? Take your time.”

  My twin looks at me and then at Mama. She doesn’t reach for her pencil and pad of paper. She shocks us by saying her very first regular word in over a year. “Gramma.”

  It is chilling.

  The attorney asks, “Do you mean Mrs. Ruth Love Carmody?”

  Woody nods.

  “Did you see anyone else back there that same night?”

  Woody lifts her finger and points first at my father, who has hunched in his chair. Then she fingers my grandfather, and finally, Uncle Blackie, who are sitting ramrod straight, unbent by what they have done.

  Judge Whitmore says, “Let the record reflect that the witness has pointed to each one of the defendants.”

  “That’s all, Jane Woodrow. Thank you. You may step down now.” Mr. Stockton helps her out of the witness box.

  My sister and I are allowed to stay and hear Curry Weaver, aka Lieutenant Anthony Sardino from the Decatur, Illinois, Police Department, answer the questions that I already know the answers to. I want to hear what he has to say in case I missed something.

  After Curry lifts his hand off the Bible and gives all his credentials, Mr. Stockton asks him, “How is it, Detective Sa
rdino, that you came to our fine city to investigate the disappearance of Mrs. Evelyn Carmody?”

  Curry, who looks extremely intelligent in a tan suit and shirt, answers, “The disappearance of Mrs. Carmody was first brought to my attention by Mr. Sam Moody. He asked for my assistance.”

  “Why did Mr. Moody feel that was necessary?” the lawyer asks. “Did he have misgivings about Sheriff Andy Nash’s abilities to thoroughly investigate the disappearance of Mrs. Evelyn Carmody?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” Curry takes a sip of water that has been provided. “Mr. Moody understood the power the Carmody family wields over the town. He felt that the sheriff was being stonewalled by them.”

  Bobby Rudd calls out, “Objection, Your Honor. Prejudicial.”

  Judge Whitmore says, “I’ll allow it.”

  “After you arrived in town, did you establish a relationship with Sheriff Nash?” the state’s attorney asks.

  “Yes,” Curry answers. “As a professional courtesy, I identified myself to the sheriff and we agreed to try our best to get to the bottom of things together with the help of Mr. Moody.”

  “Miz Carmody was gone for almost a year. What led you and the sheriff to believe that she was still alive?”

  “It wasn’t so much that we believed that she could be alive, but for the sake of her children . . . well, we hoped she was alive,” Curry says. “Her body hadn’t been found, and in these types of cases, it usually is.”

  “Please tell the court how you proceeded in your search for Miz Carmody.”

  “The sheriff and Mr. Moody suggested that I work undercover. They were concerned that my asking questions about Mrs. Carmody’s disappearance. . . . well, I was a stranger in town. They were afraid that might make people reticent to speak to me. And that my nosing around might get back to the Carmody family. Sam Moody suggested that I stay up at the hobo camp.”

  “And were you able to use this subterfuge to your advantage?” Mr. Stockton asks.

  Curry smiles at Woody and me. “Yes, the camp is where I had the opportunity to meet the Carmody children. And Miss Dagmar Epps.”