Tomorrow River

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 grandmother 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 Sardino, 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.”

Over at the defendants’ table, a hurried conversation is going on. Mr. Bobby Rudd is whispering something into Uncle Blackie’s ear.

That doesn’t stop Mr. Stockton from asking Curry, “And how did the Carmody children and Miss Epps figure in your investigation?”

“After becoming friendly with the children, I learned more about the relationship between their parents.” He’s talking about our trestle-sitting conversations. “Miss Shenandoah Carmody was also kind enough to answer my questions about a few other people who I suspected might have something to do with Mrs. Carmody’s disappearance.”

“You also mentioned meeting Miss Dagmar Epps up at the camp.” The lawyer comes in closer. “What does she have to do with Miz Carmody’s disappearance?”

Curry looks to the back of the room and says, “Something Miss Epps told me led me to believe that there was a chance Mrs. Carmody was still alive.”

I crane my neck back and see E. J. standing next to Dagmar near the courtroom doors. He is holding her hand. Curry asked our mountain man to accompany her this morning.

“And what did Miss Epps tell you that led you to believe Mrs. Carmody might still be alive?” Mr. Stockton asks, not able to hide his excitement.

“Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay,” Attorney Rudd calls out.

Judge Whitmore says, “This is a hearing, Bobby. I’ll allow it. Go on, Detective Sardino.”

“Miss Epps made me aware of the fact that Judge Carmody had the propensity to commit what she described as ‘problem people’ to the hospital,” Curry says. “When I asked her what she meant, she told me that ten years ago she had conceived a child with Blackie Carmody and that he’d had his brother, Walter T. Carmody, arrange for her to be sent to The Virginia State Colony for Epileptics and Feebleminded. The child was aborted and a court-ordered hysterectomy was performed on Miss Epps.”

The whole gallery breaks into outraged whispers and Bobby Rudd is up out of his chair so fast he knocks it over. “Objection, Your Honor! Objection!”

Judge Whitmore says, “Sit down, Bobby. You’ve seen the hospital records. You’re makin’ an ass out of yourself.”

The prosecuting attorney tries to squeeze back a smile and is not successful when he asks Curry, “After hearing Miss Epps’s story, is that when you realized that the Colony might be a perfect place for the Carmody family to hide Mrs. Evelyn Carmody, so she’d be unable to testify against Mrs. Ruth Love Carmody for attempted murder?”

“Yes,” Curry simply says.

“It’s my understanding, Detective Sardino,” Judge Whitmore says, interrupting the questioning, “that you had the sheriff suggest to me that you might benefit from spending time at the hospital.” By the scarlet color the judge is turning, and the pointed way he’s looking at Andy Nash, it seems like the sheriff didn’t exactly tell him that Curry was really an undercover cop who was looking for my mother. “I believe I signed the papers that sent you there for observation.”

Curry says, somewhat contritely, “That’s right, Your Honor. I apologize to the court. It was the only way we could think of to place someone there in order to investigate our suspicions.”

Judge Whitmore is still looking at the sheriff, who is nervously mopping his brow with his kerchief. “Proceed,” His Honor finally says in a way that makes me think there will be quite the kick up between him and the sheriff in his chambers later on.

“Once you were admitted to the hospital, how did you go about attempting to prove your theory that Mrs. Carmody might have been committed?” Mr. Stockton asks.

“Mr. Moody had given me a picture of Mrs. Carmody. I showed that around, but none of the patients seemed to recognize her.”

Mama squeezes my hand very tightly at that point. I heard her tell Mrs. Tittle at the picnic when I was eavesdropping that she was rarely allowed out of her room.

“I also asked if they’d ever come across a patient who might be claiming that she was somebody other than who the hospital said she was,” Curry says. “Except for mentioning a woman who was known as Marie Antoinette, no one volunteered any information. I had no luck until late on the second day when I overheard the nurses talking about a woman named Laurie who insisted that her real name was Evelyn. They were discussing which of them should call Doctor Keller to up her medication. I was pretty sure then that I’d found Mrs. Carmody.”

I look back at E. J. and Dagmar again and think of the poor souls up at the Colony. I wonder how many of the patients there are truly bad off in the brain and how many are there for reasons that have nothing to do with them getting some help.

Mr. Stockton asks, “Once you were sure it was Mrs. Carmody, what did you do next, Detective?”

“I waited until the nurses went about their duties and used their phone to call Sheriff Nash and apprised him of the situation. Since the hospital is out of his jurisdiction, he had no power to have Mrs. Carmody released. We decided the quickest way to get Mrs. Carmody out of there would be to come back with Doctor Chester Keller, who was responsible for committing her in the first place.”

Judge Whitmore pounds his gavel and says, “Order.” Just about everybody in the room is saying something. Doc Keller has treated them and their children for many years. It’s hard for them to believe he’d do anything so hypocritical.

The lawyer asks a few more technical questions and then tells Curry to step down. He tips his hat as he walks past Woody, Mama, and me and right out the courtroom door. He’s leaving to go back up north to his Indian wife and his papooses, who I am sure have been missing him so badly. I told him last night after supper grazie again. Woody gave him a drawing she had done of him playing his harmonica over at the hobo camp. And when E. J. coughed up one of his arrowheads as a going-away present, Curry got as emotional as one of Mama’s Italian opera albums.

When Sheriff Andy Nash gets up to the stand, his testimony is to the point. Even though he is sweating so bad that his uniform shirt has turned from brown to black, he is coolly concise when he relates his part in rescuing Mama. The folks in the gallery let out a cheer for our hometown hero when he steps down from the box.

And, of course, my uncle Sam. He gets up and corroborates what Curry had to say, only in his much slower way. There’s a cheer for him, too. But mostly from the colored people.

Others are waiting to tell their side of the story as well.

I’m sure Dagmar Epps will be asked by the prosecution to testify to what she told Curry up in the hobo camp about being taken away to the Colony to have that operation by order of Papa, who would only do something that awful because Grampa made him.

Doc Keller, who committed Mama to the hospital even though there wasn’t a thing wrong with her except a desire to be her own untrampled person, also has a lot to answer for.

And Remmy Hawkins. He told the sheriff he found Mama’s bloody blouse over at the Triple S under a rock, which was a big fat pimply lie told to incriminate Sam-I hope he gets sent to Sing Sing, but he’ll probably only have to report to the detention center over in Bedford County.

My mother still has to say what happened to her, too. But she met with the judge earlier today and asked that Woody and me be disallowed from hearing any testimony that might “scar my children more than they’ve already been scarred.”

So at high noon Judge Whitmore pounds his gavel and says, “We will break for lunch and resume in one hour without the children present.”

On our way out of the courtroom, I look over at Papa, Grampa, and Uncle Blackie. They barely made it out of the burning house alive and I bet some days they wished they hadn’t. I’ve spent enough time in my father’s courtroom to know that the three of them will be bound over for trial. They will be found guilty and sent away for a very long time for what they’ve done. If I never see Grampa or Blackie again, it won’t be too soon, but to Papa I stop and say, “I’ll write to you,” and then I run out of that courtroom before he can say, “Don’t bother. I don’t ever want to hear from you again, you little traitor.”

We stop for an ice cream on the ride over to Granny Beezy’s. (She has given Woody and me permission to call her that, which we took to right off.) Mama wants Woody and me to stay at her house on Monroe Street for the rest of the afternoon until she is finished up in the courtroom.

Mama and my twin and I are sitting on the banks of the Maury River, cooling our heels, eating our cones, and watching the water float by. I am certain that Mama is about to say something about tomorrow being a river ready to carry us to our fondest dreams because it seems like something she would say at a time like this, but after being still for the longest while, she tells us in a voice that sounds like it’s about to break into many pieces, “Emily Dickinson wrote, ‘The past is not a package one can lay away,’ but… we’re going to do our best to do just that, aren’t we, peas?”

Woody nods in agreement, but I don’t. I think to myself-that Emily Dickinson. She is always right on the money.