Tomorrow River

That’s when despair got ahold of me and drug me to the deepest depths. Life resembled those paintings in Mama’s art books, the ones by Mr. Claude Monet, that’s how bad my eyes watered. I even stopped answering the ring of the supper bell. Doing the simplest things became such a struggle with the heavy sadness I was lugging around. Woody, being my twin, understood I was going under for the third time and wouldn’t let go of me. Bless her heart and perching hope is all I got to say. They’re what saved me.

You already know the third reason I’ve put off looking for my mother in a more motivated way. It’s horribly risky to leave Lilyfield. Papa likes to keep his girls within grabbing distance.

And fourthly, quite frankly? The final reason I’ve been putting off the search is that, even though I believe myself to be enormously brave, about the last thing on the planet I want to do is go looking for Mama. Not because we don’t desperately need her back-no, no, no. It’s just that, if you set out to hunt down a critter, the woods is where you start. But how do you track down a lost mother? I could look for her from dawn ’til dusk and still come back empty-handed. That’s why I keep asking myself-Mighten it be for the best to just keep doing what we have been? Biding our time and hoping for her return? That sounds so relieving that I almost get myself convinced. Until I jolt awake in the middle of the night to find my sister kneeling beside me, her face a testimony of tears.

But as much as I’m tempted to kitten out, and believe me, I sorely, sorely am, there are the facts to face. My darling Woody is turned completely inside out and my poor papa has unraveled so much that he’s threatening to send her away. That doesn’t leave anybody else but me. I need to quit my mewling and find my mother before it’s too late. I can do this. I can. I’m Shenandoah Wilson Carmody, beautiful daughter of the stars, for heaven’s sake.

Chapter Three

Last Chance Creek runs alongside Lilyfield like a dog.

Some days it lies in the sun, barely twitching. On others, it moves loose, like it’s got nowhere important to go. But on this important morning, the creek is charging out of the mountains, ready to rip an intruder to shreds. Woody and I are edging along its stony bank with our fastest sneakers tied around our necks. We’re wearing our usual matching jean shorts and T-shirts. One of her sweaty tan hands is in one of mine, and in my other hand, I have my trusty tin lunch box that I got from our neighbor a few years ago. It used to have LOST IN SPACE and a couple of planets printed on it, but they’ve worn off. My hair is braided, but Woody’s isn’t. She wouldn’t let me near that tangled mess this morning. “Keep hold of me. I mean it,” I tell her for the umpteenth time.

We could’ve cut through Lilyfield’s front woods, taken the well-worn path that lets out onto Lee Road, but since we’re working on stolen time, it’s much faster to cross the creek towards town along with being cooling on bare feet and ankles. On our way over here,

I stuck my head into the barn to make sure the stall of Papa’s stallion was empty. His saddle was gone, too. He rides out every morning, I don’t know where, but Pegasus comes back lathered.

Admittedly, I don’t have much to go on when it comes to finding Mama, but I can’t do any worse than Sheriff Andy Nash did. Far as I know, he batted zero when it came to drawing information out of anybody concerning her whereabouts.

“Are you aware of your mother having any enemies?” the sheriff asked me, shortly after Mama disappeared.

Since I do not hold him in high esteem, I replied rather snooty, “Enemies? Mama? That’d be like pickin’ a fight with a warm-from-the-oven sugar cookie.”

That made Papa grin. He was sitting right next to me in the sheriff’s office because he forbade Andy Nash to question either me or Woody unless he was present. My father didn’t want us upset any more than we were, that’s how protective he is.

Pencil poised above his pad, the sheriff leaned across his desk. I could smell his nervous sweat. Papa can have that effect on people because he is so powerful. “What about her friends?” he asked. “Do you think any of them might know where she’s gone off to?”

I crossed my fingers behind my back and told him, “Mama didn’t have any friends, isn’t that right, Your Honor? She spent all her time taking care of her family.”

The reason I lied to the sheriff was because the only friends our mother did have were the ones that my father labeled “verboten.” Legally, that means “forbidden fruit,” but in actuality, it means that Papa doesn’t approve of his wife visiting with them. I didn’t want to make my already-sad father even sadder, which he would be if he found out that sometimes his wife prefers other people’s company to his own.

I went ahead and questioned all those forbidden fruits shortly after that session with the sheriff. Even though I came away no better informed, it can’t hurt nothing to try again. I know from experience that when you least expect to recall something, a memory can pop up like an uninvited guest on your doorstep.

So, not having much to go on, I’m counting on just one thing-plain old gossip-to find our mother. Woody and I are looking to Blind Beezy Bell to supply us with that. That’s why we’re headed to her place in Mudtown this morning. I asked her a long time ago to listen especially hard to any chitchat that mentions Mama’s name and I’m hoping that today’s the day Beezy’s finally come up with something.

It’s nine o’clock, Monday morning, June 9, 1969. That means that this upcoming Friday, the beginning of the biggest bash the town has-Founders Weekend-unfortunately falls on the thirteenth. Now, I don’t believe in any of that superstitious foolishness the way Lou Jackson does, but if I see a black cat or a ladder when we’re in town, I will absolutely avoid them. I have found time and time again that it is better to be safe than sorry.

E. J. Tittle points down at the raging water from the other side of the creek and hollers, “It’s foamin’ at the mouth this morning. Mind yourselves.”

“Fiddle-faddle,” I yell back.

Woody and I have been hopping these stepping stones from our side to his since… I guess, forever. E. J. is well aware of that fact, but being the big brother of three sisters has given him somewhat of a protective nature. In other words, E. J., whose Christian name is Ed James, would laugh his butt off if I fell into this cold creek water, but not if Woody did. He goes gaga for her.

E. J. lives uphill from where he’s standing in a house that couldn’t be more unlike our grand one if it tried all day long. His place reminds me of a pile of spilt toothpicks. Not because his papa doesn’t care about his family or is shiftless. Mr. Frank Tittle tries to work at an all-day job, but he almost always poops out after the noon whistle. He was a West Virginia miner and that’s how come his breathing gets raggedy and he coughs like he’s in a contest.

Given their circumstances, it should go without saying that the Tittle family is always strapped for cash. And food. E. J.’s so skinny. When he sticks out his tongue, he looks like a zipper. The only way he can keep any meat on his bones is by fishing the creek, spit-cooking trapped rabbits, or gathering wild berries. And if all that wasn’t hideous enough, the Lord has given him another cross to bear. Not to be unkind or nothing, but the doctor probably spanked his mama instead of E. J. the day he was born-that’s how homely he is. Looks like a hummingbird’s nested in his hair. His nose is tiny. And his eyes? They’re duller than mud. The only feature that merits praise on E. J.’s face is his mouth. It’s berry stained-but normal. I wonder sometimes if Woody still finds his lips as inviting as she used to. The two of them used to go on and on about getting married someday. I couldn’t stand telling them that even though they have my blessing, the very idea of them getting hitched is more than preposterous. Grampa Gus curses the day that Papa made a “bad marriage” and he’d never allow another Carmody to make that mistake again. The Tittles are the kind of family that Grampa calls “minin’ sludge.”

Yeah, that’s his crab-ass opinion, not mine. I’d rather eat squirrel guts than tell E. J. how I really feel, but I think he’s a hard-working citizen who makes up for what he lacks in looks and money with his brave and caring personality. And he proves me right each and every time I hint to him what kind of trouble we’ll be in if the three of us get caught sneaking around. He shoves back his coonskin cap, thrusts out his chest, and growls, “A mountain man’s gotta do what a mountain man’s gotta do.” (The boy’s more molehill sized, but you have got to admire his pluck.)

I’m practically wearing Woody as we wade into the creek. I scold, “Don’t you dare,” because I can feel her