Tomorrow River

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.

Chapter Eight

Then 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