Tomorrow River (9 page)

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 s
eemed 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.

C
hapter Eight

T
hen again, there
is
what happened to Mildred Fugate to take into consideration.

Madame
Fugate tells everybody that she was born in Paris, but we all know it’s not the one in France, but the one up near Lees-burg. Guess she thinks it gives her a little more
oo . . . la . . . la
. She gives comportment and dancing lessons to the girls in town in a room she’s got off Main Street. (When she comes back home, I am going to surprise Mama and enroll her in one of Madame’s manner classes so she can learn her proper place in the order of things because Gramma Ruth Love is right, this is something my mother really needs to improve on.)

The reason Madame comes to mind in regards to finding Mama is that teacher took a nasty spill on a patch of ice during that bad winter we had a few years ago and ended up with her left leg broke in three places and her head bounced off the sidewalk and landed right into unconsciousness. Dancing in a tutu is a little too froufrou for a girl of my temperament, but I was there, waiting to walk Woody home after her ballerina class. I ran to Doc Keller’s office, stuck my head in, and shouted, “Come quick. Madame has either fainted or died.” When he got to where she was sprawled out, Doc wiggled his smelling salts under her nose. I burst out laughing, because just like in the movies, the second after she opened her eyes, the first words out of her mouth were, “Where am I? Who am I?”

That compound fracture healed up just fine, but Madame’s memory didn’t.

She never could recall a lot of things from before that icy fall. Like her husband. (I think she might’ve been faking that part, though. If I were her, I wouldn’t want to remember “Bait” Fugate neither.)

So maybe something like
that
is what happened to our mother. She might be wandering along the side of some backwater road, not knowing where she rightfully belongs or why she pines for a pair of matching girls. I know it’s hideous of me to wish that, but you know, that would be such a relief. So much better than believing that wherever she is, it’s all my fault that she’s gone.

Wallowing. That’s what I’m doing, when I’m supposed to be cleaning his bathroom.

Papa’s sink is spotless today, but every so often I find it dotted with leftover whiskers. I have a collection that I’ve picked up with pieces of Scotch Tape. I’m planning to take that stubble to Miss Delia Hormel at the boardinghouse. She was born on the right side of Sulphur Mountain and besides throwing hexes, those folks are known for their skill in remedying people. If you bring along two dollars and something that belongs to an ailing loved one, Miss Delia will make you a get-well dolly out of burlap with corn kernels for eyes. She might be the only one who can help Papa feel better because nothing I’ve tried seems to work.

I gave his horse a bath and cleaned his guns and he never seemed to notice. I’ve offered many times to spend the night constellation searching. I remind him how the astronauts are going to the moon next month and how we were going to celebrate that historic event with a party. I slip notes under his study door. In them, I tell him how much I love him and ask if there’s anything else I can do to comfort his heart. Sometimes I remind him about how much fun a certain day we spent together was. Like that October I was nine and we walked the Appalachian Trail and collected fiery leaves for a school project. I sign the notes,
Your beautiful daughter of the stars
. I’m sure I’ll hear back from him any day now.

I’m looking at myself in the mirror above the sink. My hair lacks luster and the shadows under my eyes are pronounced, made even more so by the powder that slipped off my sister’s cheek and smeared onto mine. I swipe it off, wishing I could do the same to my worries. Woody’s getting worse and I know why. She’s having bad memories. Founders Weekend will be here before we know it and it was during the carnival last year that Mama disappeared.

A few folks suggested that it wouldn’t be a waste of the sheriff’s time to go looking for Mama up in Loudoun County, where Colonel Button’s Thrills and Chills settles in after it leaves us. “Perhaps Evelyn ran off with one of those roustabouts. Bless her heart, she never did seem to fit in, did she?” I heard one of those Auxiliary ladies snigger behind her tea party hand. That’s not only ignorant, it doesn’t make sense. Why would my mother leave my yummy-smelling Papa for some drifter that reeks of sawdust and sweat? His Honor says Mama’s not that smart, but she would’ve had to be born without a brain to go off with a toothless man who lives in an aluminum trailer when she had lovely Lilyfield to come home to. Maybe she . . . oh, I don’t know what to believe anymore. Mama
does
adore the Ferris wheel. She loves that above-it-all feeling. And the merry-go-round, she likes that, too.

Loathe as I am to admit it, there’s a possibility those club women could be right. On the night she never returned home, I
did
find Mama standing in front of the freak tent. She had on my most favorite outfit—white slacks and a white blouse with the pockets edged in red yarn. She looked so pretty with the wind ruffling her hair. So breezy. When the barker’s voice came over the loud speaker, “Come one, come all. Moments from now Tiny Jimbo—the smallest man on earth—will be taking our stage,” I came running to her side and asked, “Where have you been? I’ve been lookin’ all over for you. We need two quarters. Quick! The show is about to start.”

But Mama did not rush to open her pocketbook. She shook her head at the garish flags whipping in the wind and said in the loneliest voice I have ever heard, “People can be so cruel to the different.” Then she locked her eyes on to mine and said, “Where’s your sister? I’ve got something important to tell—”

I didn’t even let her finish her sentence. I ran off. Woody and I looked forward to watching that Oddities show all year long. I saw Mama searching for us later in the night, probably to apologize, but I stayed far away as possible, that’s how mad I was that she wouldn’t give us that admission money.