Tomorrow River

Whoever it was that said, “Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never hurt me,” must’ve been hard of hearing. Papa shouldn’t have threatened Woody. And he shouldn’t have talked to Mama in the hurtful ways he did neither. Calling her despicable names because she wanted to do things her own independent way instead of his. He uses his silver tongue like a sword. Nicking away at your heart, cutting word by cutting word. Maybe silence really is golden.

Not at all feeling ready, but knowing that I need to rally for my sister’s sake, I say, “Let’s get you dressed.” Passing by the window, I pause. Ivory’s out there. Feeling Woody’s warm lick on my cheek, I know what I have to do.

Grabbing the cleanest clothes I can find out of the pile that’s growing on the closet floor, I strip off the wet ones and shimmy dry drawers and shorts up my sister’s legs. “There. That’s much better,” I say, standing back to survey her the way you’re supposed to do to a work of art. “You look exceptionally gorgeous. Except for your hair. Looks like a cat’s been suckin’ on it. Let me braid you.” I take Mama’s gold hairbrush off the vanity table and try to work it through my sister’s tangles, but she pushes my hand away, reaches behind me, and picks my tin lunch box up off the end of the bed where I’d tossed it. She hugs it to her stomach.

“What? Are you meetone?” I ask. “Do you need something to eat?”

Communicating with Woody since she’s gone mute is very much like playing a game of charades. You got to try and piece together what she’s acting out bit by bit and make some sense of it all. She’s begun marching up and down. “Do you want to go for a walk?” Now she’s beating on her chest. “Heartburn? I’m out of Rolaids. I’ll get some more when we go to Slidell’s tomorrow.” My sister throws the lunch box down to the rug and gets down on her belly in front of it. She’s scratching at the latches, so I think I might have been right in the first place. She’s hungry. Starving, by the looks of how hard she’s clawing.

“There’s nothing left in there. I gave it all to E. J. this morning, remember? Here. Let me.” When I pop the lunch box lid, she doesn’t search for a few crumbles of leftover bacon or a bit of cold flapjack. She snatches out the picture she drew at Beezy’s this morning. Waves it frantically in front of my face. It’s the drawing of Mars bleeding all over the place.

I found the dog the same afternoon I found Mama’s watch.

On the kind of spring afternoon that makes you want to crawl into Mother Nature’s lap and give her a kiss of gratitude, I was snuggled out on Mama’s and my reading bench. It’s where she and I would hide out most afternoons, below the shaking aspens. Sometimes, if she and Papa had gotten along that morning, she’d be feeling lighthearted enough to perform a song for me. She was Laurie from Oklahoma! belting out “People Will Say We’re in Love” or Maria from West Side Story chirping “I Feel Pretty” with a twirl of her skirt, but most of the time we kept our noses in our books. If we came across something that we thought the other would get a kick out of-we’d read aloud. Mama would usually quote the poets. I’d stick to reading her parts of an adventure story, which are my favorites. I go nuts for tales of intrigue set in far-off lands like China or the Dark Continent or California. When I’d come across a particularly exciting passage, I’d say, “Listen to this.” That was the cue for my travel-yearning mother to close her eyes and let the sound of my voice transport her far, far away.

But I wasn’t reading something thrilling like that the afternoon I found the watch. I was flipping through the pages of The Miracle Worker trying to get some pointers on how to help my sister start talking, when the sun caught something shiny over near the well. I set my book down, shooed away the leaves that were huddled around the well base, and picked up what had caught my eye. I lost my balance for a second, so I had to grab onto the stony edge. That’s when I got a glimpse of the carcass. Mama was always begging Papa to have Mr. Cole seal the dried-up well for good, but it never seemed to get done.

Oh, well, I thought, gazing down at the pile of bones that’d got caught up amongst the well’s collapsing walls. Dust to dust and all that. I figured they belonged to a coon or possum, they were about the right size. I was about to head back to the reading bench when I remembered what had caught my eye in the first place. I opened my hand and lo and behold! It was Mama’s watch. The one Sam gave her. Giddy, I wound it tight, slipped its stretchy band onto my wrist, and listened to its still strong tick… tick… tick when I pressed it up to my ear. I ran my fingers over the word Speranza engraved on the back. The Lord has led me to this watch, I thought. It’s a sign. But what is He telling me exactly? That time is on my side? To have hope? Yes!

Feeling ever so grateful for this unexpected gift, I dropped to my knees and prayed, “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed…” That’s when something began niggling at me. I’d only had a quick look into the well, but… what was that down there next to the bones? It glittered. Thinking it could be something more of Mama’s, I said, “Hold on a minute, Lord.” I got my tummy up on the well to get a closer look. But it wasn’t one of my mother’s brooches or necklaces shining amongst the crumbling stones. It was a silver bell. The one Woody had taken off a Christmas ornament and attached to Mars’s collar to warn the squirrels that he was on the hunt. The bell was lying at the base of his skull.

That night in bed, I slipped Mama’s watch from the cool side of my pillow, wiggled it in front of my sister’s eyes, and whispered, “Look what I found.” Instead of being excited the way I was, Woody started to cry. I said, “Shhh… he’ll hear you. Don’t be jealous. You can wear it sometimes, too.”

The reason I still haven’t told my sister about finding Mars the way I should have was because I convinced myself that making her aware of something so tragic might shove her off the edge that she appears to be teetering on. But now I’m realizing that it wasn’t her that I’ve been protecting, it was selfish me. I didn’t want to watch Woody’s face collapsing into itself one more time. The way she wept in her sleep broke my heart most of all. Watching those tears slip out of her lids when she was supposed to be sweet dreaming-that just about killed me.

I think it was Ralph Waldo Emerson that wrote, “Truth is beautiful; but so are lies,” but I don’t feel so beautiful about lying to my sister anymore. Yet how am I supposed to tell her that her beloved Mars is never coming back? And that as much as I want it to be true, I am not at all sure our mama is either. I see now that hope is just another illusion. Not of your eyes, but of your heart. Hope is for the weak. I must be as strong as the fifth largest constellation-Hercules.

I must tell my sister the truth.

I lift the dog drawing out of her hand, run my finger along the waxy red crayon that’s streaming off Mars’s back, and drag it over to the plaid suitcase that he’s holding in his mouth. She’s drawn pictures of Mars before but the suitcase is something new. She must’ve added it on when I was busy cleaning Papa’s bathroom.

“Yes.” I squeeze my eyes shut so I will not have to look at my sister’s face. “That’s right. Mars is… uh… he’s gone on a trip… but one that he’s never coming back from. He’s dead, Woody. I found his bones in the well and please, please don’t start crying, I’m gonna get you another dog, a lot furrier one I promise.”

Every muscle in my body goes rigid to shield me against her onslaught of sad. I can hear her breathing getting mixed up with my breathing, but that’s all that’s coming out of her. Opening my eyes one at a time, I see her eyes gleaming back at mine, but it’s not sorrow that’s making them shine. It’s… it’s pure relief. She’s practically drenched in it.

“Woody? What…?” Was she not as attached to Mars as much I thought? No, she loved that mean dog, I’m sure of it. Maybe she’s just feeling so tired of hoping the same way I’ve been that she’s given up or she might… oh, sweet Mother of Jesus. There’s only one other reason that I can think of that she’s not fallen to the ground writhing in grief. It’s because she’s not surprised at all to learn of the dog’s demise. That’s how she’s acting. But how can that be?

I look back down at the picture. I can almost feel his wiry hair, hear his annoying bark. The night our mother disappeared there was that blood-curdling yelp and then nothing. When the dog didn’t show up the next morning, I figured he’d just run off. And that’s what I thought Woody believed, too. But now I’m thinking that this picture of bloody Mars may not be a creation of her artistic mind, but a true-life depiction. Like a photograph.

I don’t want to know the truth. I have to know the truth.

I ask Woody, “Are you… are ya tryin’ to show me in this drawing that…?”

The plaid suitcase Mars is holding in his mouth. It’s Mama’s.