Lesley Kagen: Tomorrow River

I know I shouldn’t encourage him, but really, no matter how bad he can work up my dander, all in all, he is a good and faithful sidekick. I can’t help myself. I whinny out, “And… they’re off!”

Do I have to tell you that giggling boy ran into the woods at a full-out gallop?

The three of us are atop Honeysuckle Hill looking down at almost all there is of our town. It was named in honor of the famous Battle of Lexington-Concord. It’s not big, say like Charlottesville, nor is it important like Richmond, our state capital. What Lexington does have going for it is a goodly amount of historical charm. The Confederacy left behind 144 soldiers in the memorial cemetery to remind us of their valiant effort. People come from far and wide to do rubbings on their graves and pay homage to their sacrifice. You can also tour Stonewall Jackson’s house if you’ve got a mind to.

In the evening, gaslights shine perfect polka dots onto pebbled sidewalks. And during the day, there are shops that sell party dresses and jewelry and furniture on Main Street. But if your refrigerator quits on you, you should get a new one at the Sears Roebuck that got built off the highway east of town because it really is very modern.

As far as restaurants go, the fanciest of them is The Southern Inn, which has high-backed booths and serves the best chicken fried steak under low-hung ceiling fans. Used to anyway. We Carmodys don’t dine out anymore, so you might want to take my opinion with a grain of salt.

And right over there, on the corner of Johnson and Hayfield Streets-that’s Filly’s, another place Woody and I like to sneak off to whenever we get the chance. Wednesdays they have late hours and all sorts of useful things can be learned when you’re crouched beneath the open window of Filomena Morgan’s beauty parlor. Womanly information your mother would be giving you if she was here. That’s where I found out that it’s best to cut your toenails right after you get out of the tub because that’s when they’re the most pliable. And that Oil of Olay is good to use on your dried-out face. Also, there’s not a thing you can do if your husband comes home from work and wants to “get busy right there in the kitchen.” According to Mrs. Mandy Nash, the sheriff’s wife, it’s a sworn duty to grin and bear it. I heard her proclaim just last week, “Ladies, I don’t know about you, but I just close my eyes and dream about the new pumps I’ll be buyin’ first thing tomorrow morning.”

(Mrs. Nash has the most pairs of patent leathers in town, which leads me to believe that the sheriff must really like cooking.)

Over to the west sits the college of Washington & Lee, which is where Papa went to school. It’s redbrick and makes you feel smarter just walking past it. Robert E. Lee is buried in its lovely chapel. Traveller, his loyal horse, is lying eternally close to his master.

The next-door neighbor of the college is the Virginia Military Institute. I’ve always thought it odd, considering the school’s job is to train boys to fight in wars, that the grounds do not resemble a battlefield. But the VMI lawns are rolling, the flower beds chock-full, and the trees offer pools of welcoming shade.

If I wanted, I could see part of my land baron grandfather’s thousand-acre spread from up here, too. It’s called Heritage Farm and it starts way out on the edge of town with the longest driveway, which winds up to the house that sits atop a hill, and has pasture and springs behind it that lead straight up to the foothills of the mountains. He’s got a lot of folks around here working for him. That beautiful wheat-growing property is where my father and his brother grew up in a mansion that has always reminded me of Tara from Gone with the Wind , only it’s much older since it has been around since almost the beginning of historical time. Grampa lives there with his much better half-our ladylike grandmother, Ruth Love. But I won’t look in that direction. I won’t give him that satisfaction. Gus Carmody is a leathery bastard.

I lift my binoculars to my eyes and jigger the wheel until Blind Beezy becomes crisp and clear. Like usual, she’s got on the most outlandish outfit because a mirror isn’t much use to a sightless someone. Beezy’s grinning this morning, she almost always is. With her teeth being scarce like they are and the orange shift and green felt hat she’s got on, she could easily get mistaken for a jack-o’lantern. One of those darling kinds that you can hold in the palm of your hand, not the fat squat ones. She’s an early riser, so I knew she’d already be on the porch of her place that stands out from the rest of Mudtown like a sunflower in a junkyard. Two years ago the ladies from Old Presbyterian painted her house ridiculous yellow like that. Those Presbyterians are a sneaky bunch. They’re always doing good deeds for Beezy. Trying to lure her away from Beacon Baptist, I guess.

I check Mama’s watch and take off down the hill, shouting back at E. J. and Woody, “Hurry up. We only got forty-one minutes left.”

Her house on Monroe Street is not large nor is it small. Just perfect, is how I’d describe it. It’s made of wood and it’s only one story high, which is good because we wouldn’t want Blind Beezy falling down a flight of stairs. She’s got a nice porch and lots of trees. Handmade birdhouses, courtesy of Mr. Cole, are hanging from almost every branch. Beezy adores birds because, “They can go anywhere and do anything no matter what color they is.” Of course, she can’t see her feathered friends, but she knows their songs and the one she especially likes is the call of the purple martin, which sounds like a gurgling brook. I also think Beezy likes birds so much because it is their God-given right to poop on people’s heads no matter what color their skin is and nobody can punish them for doing so. If I had been born a Negro instead of a white, I’d hold resentment towards some folks around here who treat the colored like they are-as my grandfather likes to say-“the shit end of the stick.” I used to, but I don’t believe in them being inferior to us anymore because it doesn’t make sense. I know some first-class Negroes. I also know some second-rate white people. (Two of the latter being members of my family.)

Beezy gets reports on how we’re doing from our caretaker, Mr. Cole. They’re sweet on each other. Sometimes he brings Woody and me over here after he’s put Lilyfield to bed. After we’re sure Papa’s fallen asleep, the three of us skulk off in the cover of darkness. Beezy makes us chicken pot pie prison-style. It’s got a lot of crust, which is our favorite part. After we thank her for her hospitality by doing the dishes, we stretch out on this porch and by the light of the moon listen to the soulful sounds of Billie Holiday or the toe-tapping Duke Ellington on her Victrola with her and Mr. Cole. Knowing how Papa doesn’t spend much celestial time with me anymore, Mr. Cole has been kind enough to talk with me on some of those nights about how the astronauts are planning to land on the moon next month. He looks up to the sky and says, “I expect they’ll do just fine, don’t you, Shenny?” I always say back, “I do,” but I don’t mean it. Mr. Cole doesn’t understand what a long shot it is to fly safely around meteors and asteroids and Lord only knows what else. Even if they manage to steer clear of all those dangers, what’re their chances of landing safe? No, I do not hold out much hope for those moon men.

Woody and I also come to Beezy’s because that’s what Mama told us to do a bunch of times. “If anything should happen to me, peas, you can count on Beezy or your grandmother to watch over you until things get sorted out.” Woody and I told her, “Sure,” but what I was thinking at the time was, how foolish can a person be? With the way Papa keeps tabs on her every minute of every day, what could possibly happen to her? (Nowadays I think my mother might have been blessed with the gift of second sight.)