Tomorrow River Read Online Free PDF Page A

disappeared.
    Since I do not hold him in high esteem, I replied rather snooty, “Enemies? Mama? That’d be like pickin’ a fight with a warm-from-the-oven sugar cookie.”
    That made Papa grin. He was sitting right next to me in the sheriff’s office because he forbade Andy Nash to question either me or Woody unless he was present. My father didn’t want us upset any more than we were, that’s how protective he is.
    Pencil poised above his pad, the sheriff leaned across his desk. I could smell his nervous sweat. Papa can have that effect on people because he is so powerful. “What about her friends?” he asked. “Do you think any of them might know where she’s gone off to?”
    I crossed my fingers behind my back and told him, “Mama didn’t have any friends, isn’t that right, Your Honor? She spent all her time taking care of her family.”
    The reason I lied to the sheriff was because the only friends our mother did have were the ones that my father labeled “verboten.” Legally, that means “forbidden fruit,” but in actuality, it means that Papa doesn’t approve of his wife visiting with them. I didn’t want to make my already-sad father even sadder, which he would be if he found out that sometimes his wife prefers other people’s company to his own.
    I went ahead and questioned all those forbidden fruits shortly after that session with the sheriff. Even though I came away no better informed, it can’t hurt nothing to try again. I know from experience that when you least expect to recall something, a memory can pop up like an uninvited guest on your doorstep.
    So, not having much to go on, I’m counting on just one thing—plain old gossip—to find our mother. Woody and I are looking to Blind Beezy Bell to supply us with that. That’s why we’re headed to her place in Mudtown this morning. I asked her a long time ago to listen especially hard to any chitchat that mentions Mama’s name and I’m hoping that today’s the day Beezy’s finally come up with something.
    It’s nine o’clock, Monday morning, June 9, 1969. That means that this upcoming Friday, the beginning of the biggest bash the town has—Founders Weekend—unfortunately falls on the thirteenth. Now, I don’t believe in any of that superstitious foolishness the way Lou Jackson does, but if I see a black cat or a ladder when we’re in town, I will absolutely avoid them. I have found time and time again that it is better to be safe than sorry.
    E. J. Tittle points down at the raging water from the other side of the creek and hollers, “It’s foamin’ at the mouth this morning. Mind yourselves.”
    “Fiddle-faddle,” I yell back.
    Woody and I have been hopping these stepping stones from our side to his since . . . I guess, forever. E. J. is well aware of that fact, but being the big brother of three sisters has given him somewhat of a protective nature. In other words, E. J., whose Christian name is Ed James, would laugh his butt off if I fell into this cold creek water, but not if Woody did. He goes gaga for her.
    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