Tomorrow River

because she couldn’t stand hooking the worms.

My sister has begun swaying, ever so slightly.

Papa doesn’t like it when she rocks. His temple vein is beginning to bulge blue. He is opening and closing his fists. That’s not good. If Mama was here, she would say, “May I give you a neck rub?” to detour his anger.

I start to say, “May I give you…?” but he doesn’t hear me. He’s too intent on Woody.

Crouching down in front of her fast enough to make her flinch, Papa says sternly, “You know what befalls animals that outlive their usefulness, don’t you?”

“I know, Papa, I know,” I say, waving my hand in the air like an overeager student. I’m trying to distract him from my sister. “When our animals get aged or injured beyond fixing, you tell Mr. Cole to put a bullet in their head and bury them out back of the barn.” Woody has marked every one of their graves with crosses she made out of twigs and twine. “They’re no good to us anymore if they can’t do their jobs.”

“That’s correct, Shenandoah, and your sister would do well to remember that.” Papa gives Woody a too-firm pat on the head.

“She most certainly will, Your Honor,” I say, peppy. “Thank you for that wonderful advice.”

“Come, Abigail,” he says, turning to leave. “You’ll be late for your meeting.”

“Oh, goodness, you’re right,” she says, checking her watch, which is not half as nice as Mama’s. She bends down low enough that I can see the top half of her freckled bosom escaping from her scooped-neck dress. “So nice visiting with you, girls. I look forward to spending a lot more time together real soon.” When she rushes off to my father’s side, she leaves behind a cloud of that sickening gardenia perfume she wears.

Lou calls, “Sir? Will you be home for supper?”

“No,” he says, not bothering to look back.

Usually I’d be thinking after an encounter with Papa, Yes, he’s right to get strict like that with Woody. She’s got to start talking one of these days. Or maybe I’d come up with another explanation for the way he’s acting. Something like, Papa doesn’t mean to be so cruel. His suffering over his wife’s disappearance is what’s making him think crooked.

But that’s not at all what’s going on in my mind.

You see that, Shen? That right there? Shocking thoughts are screaming at me. See how His Honor is trying to break already-fragile Woody, who is so sad about losing her mama that she cannot sleep or speak or eat anything not sweet? See how he’s telling her that harm will come to a helpless animal if she doesn’t do what he wants her to? Well, do you?

Oh, more than anything, I don’t want to. But Papa’s meanness is feeling as familiar to me as the Bible story about Solomon who was willing to slice a baby in two to settle a score.

I shouldn’t be thinking like this. Even my lungs know that. They’re in and outing faster.

“Shenny?” Lou asks, shrinking away from me. “What’s got into ya?” She’s probably thinking that I’ve been taken over by a devil spirit and I’m scared, too. How I’m feeling is a sin against the commandment that obliges us to love our father, respect and support him in his time of need. I’m sorry, Lord. Forgive me, I can’t help it. I know you want us to turn our other cheek, but every time we do, it just gives Papa another place to slap. Or make us kneel in the root cellar. Interrogate us for hour upon hour about what we saw the night Mama disappeared. I know how much pain he’s in, but shouldn’t a loving father care about his daughters no matter how bad he himself is grieving? Couldn’t he be more understanding about Woody instead of threatening to send her away? He should’ve fetched Ivory off the Minnow porch. Tied a pink bow around his neck. Given that dog to my sister like a get-well-soon present. That’s what he would’ve done back in the days we laid together on the fort floor, searching the skies every night after supper, Mama’s singing drifting out of the kitchen window below. Back when he held his little Gemini so close, telling them, “I love you as much as the stars.”

It’s no use. I can’t go on pretending anymore. Can’t deny any longer that there’s been a crack in our universe. First our sun… and now our moon has come tumbling from the heavens.

Woody has wet herself.

Chapter Fifteen

Optical illusions.

I came across my first at Doc Keller’s office just last week when I was waiting for Woody to be examined. I picked up a Jack and Jill magazine off the pile in the waiting room and started paging through it to pass the time. In the puzzle section, I came across a picture of a fancy goblet sitting under a headline that said-AMAZING. What’s so amazing about that? I thought. But as I was turning the page, that picture caught my eye again and something truly AMAZING had happened. The goblet picture had somehow transformed into something completely different. Just like that, I was staring down at two identical girls-twins-going nose to nose. Feeling tricked, I tried desperately to get that goblet to reappear again. I opened my eyes as wide as I could. Blurred them. Squinted. Did it all over again ten times. Finally gave up.

That’s the closest I can get to describing to you how I’m feeling about our father. No matter how hard I try, I won’t be able to bring him back.

Woody, Lou, and I are still huddled together in the kitchen, like soldiers trying to regroup after a surprise attack. The sound of Miss Abigail’s laughter and the crunch of my father’s car tires drifts through the kitchen window. I’m pretending not to notice the puddle of pee at my sister’s feet.

“Shenny?” Lou says, tiptoeing her fingers up my arm. “Listen. ’Bout jumpin’ out at y’all like that… I… I was only funnin’ around. Blackie told me… I didn’t mean-”

“Shut your stupid bayou mouth, Lou. And if you don’t wipe that pityin’ look off your face, I’ll wipe it off for ya,” I’m barely able to say. “Woody?” With what feels like the last ounce of strength I got in me, I reach out to my twin. We use each other like crutches as we limp through the foyer and up the front staircase.

Leftover love is what I’ve been using as an anchor to keep me from drifting off, I see that now. I’m pressing my burning cheek against the cool blue wall that Mama tried to paint so tranquil. I’m getting swept away by sorrow and there’s not a thing I can do about it. I have been lying to myself this whole time. Not only when it comes to my papa. It’s so true that you don’t know what you’ve got until you don’t have it anymore. If I could only take Mama into my arms and apologize to her for almost always taking Papa’s side in their arguments. For defending him. I’m feeling now how she must have felt. Helpless.

Nobody could be that accident-prone.

My sister is poised on the edge of our bed. The white washrag I got out of the bathroom so she could clean herself up is hanging off her fingertips like she’s surrendering.

I kneel down in front of her and say, “Just so you know, wettin’ yourself, that’s no big deal. Happens to me all the time. I did it twice on Sunday.” Her sneakers are soaked with pee, so I slip them off. “Oh, Woody… I’m so sorry. It won’t always be like this. I’ll find Mama, just you wait and see,” I say the same way I have been, even though I don’t believe it anymore. I’m not even sure that I ever did, but I can’t let my fragile sister know that. “C’mon now, we got to cheer up. I could sing that song from the Camelot album you and Mama like so much.” I wipe the crying snot off with my arm and lower my voice as far as it will go. “‘If ever I would leave you, it… it wouldn’t be in summer. Seein’ you in summer I never would go. Your hair streaked with sunshine, your…’”

I want so badly for her to yank on one of my braids and say the way she once would’ve, “You know what would make me feel a whole lot better? If you’d stop singin’. You can’t carry a tune in a bucket, Shenbone.”

I lift the washrag off of her fingers and run it down her legs, being careful around her still-raw knees. She’s lost the Band-Aid I stuck back on this morning. “Please, please talk to me. You can if you want. Doc Keller says there’s nothing wrong with your voice. If you could just try to say a few words.”

Slowly, she opens her mouth. For one blessed moment I think-this is it. She really is going to speak! She parts her lips, but instead of words, out comes her tongue. She runs it fast across my cheek.

“Geeze, Woody, geeze. That’s so…” I’m shocked, but I don’t wipe that spit off. I go ahead and lick her right back, thinking to myself, Maybe she’s got the right idea.