Tomorrow River

Chapter Seven

Our white canopy bed has always reminded me of a sailboat anchored in the middle of a deep sea.

When she was painting the walls this pretty blue, Mama told Woody and me she hoped they’d make us feel less like we were “weathering a tempest,” and more like we were “drifting through a sea of tranquility,” and sometimes they do. But mostly we’re sleeping in our fort lately. It’s safer up there.

I’m gazing out our bedroom window at the Minnow place, recollecting what Bootie Young told me over at the cemetery this morning. It’s hard to believe Clive has shipped off to the Great Beyond. Just over the treetops, I can see the porch we used to visit on. His dog, Ivory, is lying next to his master’s bentwood rocker, his back legs stretched out like a frog’s, his head between his paws. Mr. Clive asked me one morning, “Know why I named this mutt the opposite of what he looks like, little girl?” He nodded down at the chocolate pup. “The dog’s the only one tolerates me besides you Carmody gals, so I guess that makes him only ninety-nine point forty-four percent smart. Get it? Ivory? Like the soap?”

I think that remark shows some humility, so I guess that’ll be my eulogy for my hypochondriac friend. I don’t imagine there will be much of a turnout at the cemetery service. Clive wasn’t all that appealing. His hair cascaded in greasy rivulets that pooled at his shoulders. A stench rose off his body in almost visible waves. And his teeth… I think that might’ve been moss growing off them. Thank goodness he was a hermit. Even if he had wanted company, who’d want to spend an afternoon with somebody who looked and smelled the way he did? To the best of my knowledge, nobody besides me and Mama and Gramma. Woody never was too interested. Every time I asked her to join me for a neighborly visit, she’d say, “You go on without me. Clive reminds me of standing water.”

Gramma Ruth Love, she liked Clive. She brought him pies. That’s one of the things that Auxiliary ladies do, go around and deliver tasty things to shut-ins. That wasn’t totally unselfish of her, though. I know by the smile it put on her face that it made her feel good to watch Clive, who really did appreciate home-cooking, gobble that pie down in one sitting. And Mama, she was a friend to Clive as well. She would run errands for him when Papa wasn’t home and sometimes straighten up his house. Since he hardly never threw anything anyway, it could get pretty crowded in there. His Honor didn’t care for Clive. Sometimes, from the fort, I could hear them going after each other, but just the sound of their furious voices, not what they were saying specifically.

I let the lace fall back over the bedroom window and wonder what’s to become of that little Lab that’s got gray running through his muzzle and stiffness in the hips now that his owner’s dead? Maybe Papa could find it in his heart to let us keep him. Woody could sure use another dog.

Mars is never coming back.

My sister is sitting at the vanity table poofing powder on her cheeks, her chin, arms, and hands. “Hey, knock that off. You’re starting to look… why don’t you work on a picture instead? Something pretty for a change,” I say, back flopping onto our bed.

Drawing is Woody’s real gift from God. Our mother explained that even though her twins shared the same room when we were growing inside of her, there were two chutes that fed into us. I got Mama’s love of words delivered to me and Woody got her fondness for music. But it was our mother’s love of art that got specially delivered to my sister’s soul. When she was still here, Mama would admire Woody’s work, saying somewhat tearful (that’s how moved she’d be), “That’s perfect. Just the right amount of shading. And the colors… gorgeous. You’ll be a respected artist someday, honey. Maybe in New York City. You’ll live in a walk-up with your sister, who’ll be a wonderful writer … sniff… sniff. The Carmody twins will be the toast of the town.”

Now, why would she say things like that when she knew Woody and me would be doing nothing of the sort? Our father has made it clear time and time again, “Carmody women have never and will never hire themselves out.”

I scooch across the chenille bedspread to make room for Woody. “If you don’t want to draw, then come be with me, would ya?” Watching as she floats over, anticipating the feel of her matching head resting beside mine, I cannot help but wonder for the millionth time, how can two girls look so much alike on the outside and have such different filling? I am firmly planted in this world despite my interest in the stars, but my twin? It’s hard to believe she slid out of Mama only two minutes and ten seconds before me. She’s more so now, but Woody has always seemed unearthly. Like only moments ago, she arrived from a far-off place where harp music fills the air, and for breakfast, lunch, and dinner they serve angel food cake and drink nectar out of ruby-encrusted chalices.

She lies down so gently beside me, I have to check to make sure that she actually has. “Don’t do that. You’re givin’ me the creeps,” I say, trying to pry her arms apart. She’s firmly X’d them across her chest and lowered her lids. With Mama’s dusting powder covering her from top to toe, she looks exactly like one of the corpses over at Last Tidings funeral parlor that’s waiting for somebody to tip the casket closed so they can be on their way. “Look, Woody,” I say, getting strict with her. “I know you’re hurtin’ so bad that you wish you were, but you’re in fact-not dead. Remember how I felt the same way when I got so melancholy? You got to shake this off. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps.” I’m trying to hold my breath so I don’t smell Mama’s Chantilly powder. “I didn’t make much progress today, but I’ll find her, just you wait and see. It’d help a lot if you’d quit runnin’ off.”

I know it seems like I don’t miss my mother as much as she does, but I do. It’s just that Woody is counting on me to rescue our damsel in distress, so I cannot wear my feelings on my sleeve the way she does. I got to stay strong, armored up, but I want you to know, there is no way to describe how much I pine for our mother. The way she presses her cool full lips down to soak the fever off my forehead. Her cheeks as smooth as the underbelly of leaves and how her honey hair… aw, shoot.

I guess this is as good a time as any to come clean with you.

It was Easter Sunday.

The last we had together.

Shortly after we got home from Mass, the entire Carmody family sat down at the dining room table to a lunch of burnt ham, soggy green bean casserole, and partially cooked biscuits.

Grampa dug right in, but after chewing for a bit, he spit it all back out onto his plate.

“This the kind of swill Yankees eat? No wonder you’re skinny as a pot handle, Wally.”

Uncle Blackie set the plastic vomit he keeps in his pocket up on the table and made some retching sounds.

Gramma mumbled a prayer in Latin, but it was too late even for the Almighty to intercede. Grampa Gus had already ripped the napkin off from around his neck, threw it down on his plate, and said, “I’m headin’ to The Southern Inn to see if they got anything left. Hell, even their garbage would be better than this slop. Y’all comin’?”

Grampa and Uncle Blackie stormed out the front door, but on her way out, Gramma Ruth Love took the time to say politely to her daughter-in-law, who she really loves despite her failings, “The cranberries were nicely done, Evelyn.”

Papa went fuchsia in the face about his wife not being a good cook after they slammed the door behind them. I completely understood that. I mean, it’s a woman’s job to keep house and cook meals, and Mama would be the first to admit that she really wasn’t A-1 at neither.

Papa broke the ponderous silence when he said, “You may clear the table now, Mother.” That’s what he called her: Mother. No matter how many times she corrected him by saying, “Please don’t call me that. My name is Eve.”

Woody carried the dishes into the kitchen and Mama and her got busy washing up. Papa and I stayed at the table and talked planetary business, but I could hear my sister in the kitchen saying over the running water and scraping, “I thought it was a real good dinner. The ham, especially. I like it crunchy like that,” and other nice compliments about the gummy biscuits.

When the last dish was dry, my mother came back out red-eyed and told Papa, “I’m sorry, Walt. I tried.” He tried, too. To keep the disappointment off his face. But it’s so important to him what his father and brother think and his wife just made that so bad for him. Grampa Gus and Uncle Blackie will be making dumb jokes for the rest of the year about that Easter dinner, that’s what I thought to myself, which is probably the same thing my father was thinking. Then Mama asked, “May I go out to the garden and do some planting now?” The garden is her haven the way the fort is Woody’s and mine.

Papa graciously replied, “Yes, you may.” Then he pushed his chair back from the dining table and I remember so clearly that grating sound it made. Could feel it in my chest. “I’m leaving now to join the rest of my family at the restaurant. Jane Woodrow, you come with me. Shenandoah, stay here with your mother.” Papa nodded at me across the table. He was telling me to follow Mama out to the garden because he adores her so much that he couldn’t stand not knowing what his true love was doing every minute, every second of the day.

I swung on the gate and Mama dropped down onto her knees and began tending to all the new life rising up once we got out there. It was a lovely afternoon. The lilies were perfuming the air something fierce. Roses were budding in all their pink glory. I could hardly breathe for the scent.

Her head down close to the earth, Mama asked, “Would… would you and your sister like to go away with me?”

“What?” I about split a gut. “Papa’s right. You really are getting more addled by the minute! What are you thinking? You know he can’t leave on a trip right now. He’s in the middle of the Merriweather trial.”

That’s when my mother’s whole body went droopy, like she desperately needed to be watered.

So maybe that’s what she did. No longer able to ignore her yearning for travel, she snuck off. Maybe to Italy. She had been learning to speak the language with that Berlitz record.

But if that is the case, if she is in Italy, why hasn’t she sent us a “Wish You Were Here” postcard?

Because she doesn’t. Not me anyway.

Even though she went back to her planting that Easter afternoon, like the whole traveling idea had never come up, I saw her tears showering down on those seedlings.

That’s why her goneness is probably all my fault. If only I’d knelt down next to her in the garden that day and said, “Go away with you? Well, gosh, we can’t right now, but I’m sure we could real soon. Right after Papa’s trial is over. Let’s plan on that.”

If only.

You got to admit, standing alone those words are pretty awful, but married together like that, they must be two of the saddest in the English language.