Lesley Kagen - Tomorrow River

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 pulling away. My sister may look light as a kite, but she’s strong, and with one last tug, exactly what I was trying to keep from happening does. She gets loose. Flying across the stepping stones, not even using her arms for balance.

“Heads up,” I yell across the creek to E. J. “She’s escapin’!” If he doesn’t grab her the second she hops onto his side of the creek, he knows good as me that we’ll spend our precious time not the way we set out to, but combing the countryside looking for wayward Woody.

E. J. squats into a catching position and shouts back, “Don’t worry. I got her! I got her!”

“Trap her like I showed ya. From behind!” Woody has jumped out of the creek and landed on the bank not more than a few feet from him, but she’s not making a break for it. She’s standing contrite. Like she’s seen the error of her ways. But she’s my twin. She can’t fool me. “Don’t fall for that, E. J. Don’t take your eyes off her. She’s faking.” Sure enough, my sister jukes to the left, to the right, spins sideways, but our sidekick is fast, too. Once I’m sure he’s got a good grip on her, I mince my way towards them, slipping into the water up to my knees twice, that’s how ticked I am. “Hell, Woody. Ya ever hear of the word cooperation ?” I wrench her out of E. J.’s arms, rip the sneakers from around her neck, and push her down to the ground. “Have you gone deaf as well as mute? I told you that we only got a little bit of time this mornin’. We’ve gotta find Mama.” I jam her feet into her shoes and tie her laces too tight. “If I didn’t know better… you’re actin’ like you don’t care if she comes home.”

Staring down at her on the ground, I’m remembering who my sister used to be. The days of her singing show tunes with Mama. Night frogging here at the creek, but letting them go right off because Woody couldn’t stand hurting any living creature. Lying in the tall grass on our bellies, making daisy necklaces, hers always so much better than mine on account of her artistic abilities. Of course, we had our sisterly fights. Woody would always apologize first. She’d call me “Shenbone,” which was supposed to be funny, like shinbone, and she’d bring me a drawing of the stars or play this little piggy with my toes even if what we were arguing about was entirely my fault. Sometimes I just can’t bear up under the missing of my good old twin. Sometimes I really hate this new Woody. “Get up!” I scream at her.

“Why ya got to be like that?” E. J. says, shoving me to the side. “Ya know she don’t understand.” He gets down on his knees and draws a twig out of her mussy hair. Thumbs a smudge off her cheek. What I wouldn’t give for her to look up at me and say in that silky voice of hers-“I’m sorry I was thinking of runnin’ off. Don’t know what got into me, pea. May I have a cuddle?”

Oh, this temper of mine!

You know I can’t help it. I inherited the tendency to go off like that. But unlike some others in my family who shall remain nameless (my grandfather), at least I know that I need to apologize. I get busy loosening Woody’s laces, saying, “Rabadee,” over and over again. That means “I’m sorry” in our twin talk. I’m going to have to ask for E. J.’s forgiveness, too. Not the way I did with my sister because that’s unbecoming to a Carmody. I’ll make amends the same way I always do with him, by way of this joke I got in a piece of Bazooka gum. I think it’s close to idiotic, but he seems to get a kick out of it no matter how many times I tell it.

“Hey,” I say, poking him in his narrow back.

“Yeah?” he says, still fussing over my sister. He’s tucking her shirt back into her shorts.

“It’s a good day for the race, wouldn’tcha say?”

He turns to me, struggles to stay straight-faced. “And what race might that be, Shenny?”

“Why, that would be the human one, E. J.”

Laughing uproariously, quick-to-forgive E. J. helps Woody up off the ground, brushes the dirt off her legs, runs his hand down her hair.

I am feeling sinfully envious of him. My sense of humor seemed to disappear right around the same time Mama did. “I almost forgot,” I say, popping the top of my lunch box. I hand E. J. the leftover bacon and flapjacks I swiped off my breakfast plate when Louise was too busy admiring her reflection on a pot bottom to notice.

E. J. stuffs the food into his mouth and says between chews, “Got somethin’ for you, too.” Of course, he does. His mama and papa may be forced to take seconds for the sake of their children, but everybody knows the Tittle boy would rather be hung by his thumbs than take a crumb of charity. I watch as he trots over to a felled tree and comes back with a pile of luscious-looking blackberries cupped in an oak leaf. “They’re from that patch near the falls,” he says, passing them to me. “Picked at dawn. Her favorite.”

I slide the squishy sweetness into Woody’s already-open mouth. “See how she’s twitching around the corners.” I point at her full lips that we inherited from our mother. “That means-thank you,” I tell E. J.

“I know that already.” With love oozing out of his muddy eyes, he wipes a bit of berry juice off her chin and says to Woody, “My pleasure, puddin’,” and then he punches me good-naturedly in the arm. “A good day for the race. That’s such a knee-slapper, Shen.”