Tomorrow River

Mama says, “I’m grateful that you didn’t. In the state she was in, I believe… I believe Ruth Love was capable of anything.”

Mrs. Tittle takes that in and says, “After she pushed you down and tried to… choke you… how did you get up to the Colony?”

The baby is fussing a little so Mama brings her up to her shoulder and bounces her. “I’m not exactly sure how I got into the boat, but that’s where I woke up. Blackie was rowing.”

That’s where the rowboat must’ve been all this time. Hidden real good at my uncle’s place. That’s why the sheriff never found it. Despite everything, I think-my father still loves Mama. He could’ve drowned her that night. Thrown her over the side on the way down the creek. Knowing my grandfather, I bet that’s what he urged him to do. I feel proud of Papa for standing up to him.

“I was fading in and out,” Mama continues, “but I remember that Walter was in the boat. Gus, too. Once we got to Blackie’s place, one of them called Doc Keller. He gave me an injection and stitched the cut on the back of my head. Early the next morning, he drove me to the hospital. I vaguely remember Doc telling the admitting staff that I was a patient of his. He left orders for strong, calming medications. Barbiturates and others. They kept me in a fog.”

Miss Dorry calls out to E. J.’s little sisters, “Stay outta that creek in your best clothes.” They must’ve done what she said because she then says to Mama, “I never did care much for Chester Keller. He’s got eyes like a black racer.” They’re quiet for a few minutes and then Mrs. Tittle asks, “And Walter agreed with all this?” With the undying love that E. J.’s mama feels towards her coughing husband, it must be so hard for her to imagine. “To keep ya locked up in the Colony like that?”

Mama says so sadly, “I want to believe Walt tried to persuade Gus to do otherwise… but…”

She knows just like I do that Papa couldn’t help himself, but it must be ’til-death-do-us-part heartbreaking for my mother to admit that her husband, the man of her dreams, the father of her children, would do something so cruel. I sneak a peek over at her. Her face is crumbling. And Bootie Young is standing right at the edge of the blanket in his best overalls.

“Miz Carmody. Miz Tittle. Shen.”

I sit up and smooth down my hair. “Hey, Bootie.”

“Wanna get a drink?” He points over to the metal buckets filled with ice and soda pop.

I look at Mama for permission and she nods.

That handsome boy and I stay close together for the rest of the afternoon and take in the fireworks that get set off when the sun goes down. But even though it’s a dream come true to hold Bootie’s big, calloused hand in mine, I cannot stop thinking about my papa’s soft, small one. He is out on bail, same as my uncle and grandfather. His Honor is probably watching the show from the high hill at Heritage Farm, the way we always did when we were still a family. If he is, he’s smiling extra hard at the orange and green skyrockets. Those are his favorites. I will see him in court on Monday.

Chapter Thirty-six

“Excuse us. Pardon. Thank you,” Sam says as he gently guides Mama, Woody, and me through the group of well-wishers that are milling outside the courthouse.

There’s not going to be a trial right away, just a hearing to decide the fate of the rest of our family. Except for Gramma. She was badly burned the night of “The Lilyfield Blaze,” as the Lexington News- Gazette dubbed it. Mama didn’t want me to read the articles, but I had to. I will never be kept in the dark again about anything. The reporters wrote in great detail about how Charlie LeClair, one of the firemen at the scene, said, “I found Mrs. Ruth Love Carmody upstairs in one of the bedrooms. When I tried to remove her, she ran down the front stairs and I lost her in the smoke. I’m sure she wouldn’t have survived if Mr. Gus hadn’t chased after her and pulled her to safety.”

And I’m sure the reporter got that part about Grampa saving her wrong.

The newspaper also quoted Fire Chief Al Cobb: “We know the blaze started on the second floor of the house, but the source is still not clear. Our investigation will continue.”

What I think happened is that Gramma was playing with her dolls, performing her Saint Joan of Arc reenactment, and the fire got away from her.

Or maybe not.

I guess what exactly occurred that night will remain a mystery until my grandmother can recover enough to tell us what happened, which more than likely will never come to pass. She has been charged with murder and attempted murder, but is not here today because she was found non compos mentis-not of sound mind and not fit for trial. She’s been taken to a special hospital in Richmond for people with criminal mental disorders. I don’t believe she’ll be returning to normal no matter how many electrical treatments they give her this time.

When we went to visit our bandaged Gramma last week, I whispered to Woody in the hospital room, “She looks like Gram Mummy,” because I am still furious with her. Mama didn’t think that joke was so funny. She brought a small bouquet that she picked out of her new garden to the woman who tried to murder her. When I asked her why she would do such a nice thing, as I find it truly incomprehensible, Mama told me, “Mr. Mark Twain said, ‘Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.’”

Well, I love that sentiment, I really do, but that’s all it is to me. I may have inherited my mother’s hair color and her green eyes, her love of words and poetry, but clearly, the ability to forgive went right over my head.

Except when it comes to my papa.

The three tall windows on each opposing wall of the courtroom are open as wide as they will go. Outside, the full-leafed trees are still. The ceiling fans are whirring like crazy, trying to pull away the heat that has got to be dripping down everybody’s neck the same way it is mine.

“They’re calling your name, honey,” Mama says. She and Woody and I are sitting in the second row in the courtroom. My mother is not taking up much space because she is still very thin, despite Beezy making her eat chicken potpie prison-style three times a week.

On my way up to the stand, I have to pass by the table where the Carmody men are grouped with their lawyer-Bobby Rudd. My family’s attorney has the most winning record in the Commonwealth. He is Grampa’s age and has gotten Uncle Blackie out of scrapes lots of times. I can tell by the way that Mr. Rudd is preening in his nice suit and lavender shirt and striped tie that he is confident he’s not going to have to go to trial this time neither.

My father does not look powerful like he used to when he was the one up on the bench like Judge Elmer Whitmore is today. Papa catches my eye. I recognize that repentant look. It’s the same one he’d give Woody and me when he took us out of the root cellar some mornings.

Once I take my place in the witness box, Mr. Lloyd Riverton holds out the Bible and tells me, “You know how it’s done, Miss Shenny.” Mr. Lloyd was the bailiff in Papa’s courtroom, too, so he and I are on friendly terms. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

I hope I mean it when I say, “I do.” I am afraid that I might give in to my love for Papa. Run down from the witness box, climb into his lap, and set my head on his shoulder. I’ve got on his favorite dress today. The blue one with the Peter Pan collar.

Mr. Will Stockton, who is the prosecuting attorney, explains, “I’m going to ask you some questions now, Shenny. I’ll be as brief as I can. Can you answer truthfully?”

I know that’s what I have to do. For Mama. “I can.”

He asks, “After your mother’s disappearance last year, did you attempt to find her?”

“Not right away.”

“Why is that?” the attorney asks.

“Well…” I look over at my mother. “At first, I thought she’d come back and then… well. There’s lots of reasons I didn’t set off to hunt her down, but mostly, I just didn’t know how to go about finding her. I’m just a kid.”

The folks in the gallery laugh a little.

The attorney waits until they settle to ask, “But recently you started a search. Why was that?”