Free Tomorrow River by Lesley Kagen Page A

evening over at the Jacksons’ cottage back when Lou was still acting like an older sister. She told us all about her life before she came to Lilyfield and how it was her dream to work someday down at Filly’s beauty salon. Since that will never come true because she is the wrong color, Woody and I felt sorry for her and let her do our hair into pickaninny braids while she told us stories in a drawl so thick and fluid it would suck us right in. You’d think she’d swallowed some of that Louisiana swamp the way she wove those spine-tingling tales of zombies and haunted graveyards and potions made of cat bones that can make a person invisible or bring back a lost lover. Or how red pepper powder is the best thing to use if you want to drive your worst enemy away.
    Our best and favorite tale, though, has got to be the legend of the grandest of all gators named Rex. Lou would lean in close and say spooky, “Yes, indeedy. That scaly boy would come sneakin’ out of the swamp, turn the knob to your shanty, and then you know what he’d do?” That’d be my cue to ask, “What? What would that gator do, Lou?” She’d say even spookier, lean even closer, “Why, he’d make hisself at home like he was payin’ the rent, and then those long nails of his would go click click click straight into your bedroom and then he’d . . .” We’d almost be out of our minds scared by now, waiting for her to say, “And then . . . and then . . . he’d eat you whole while ya was asleep, thas what he’d do!” Woody would throw her arms around me and I’d let loose with a scream, the both of us picturing that willful beast climbing not out of the bayou, but out of Last Chance Creek. That’s when Mr. Cole would come rushing to our rescue with a plate of hush puppies and cold ginger ale. He’d laugh and tell Lou to quit. I would always tell Woody after one of those hair-raising evenings, “I know for a fact that we don’t got gators around here, but I think we should sleep in the fort tonight no matter what, don’t you? Our luck hasn’t been so hot lately.”
    Lou only started playing pranks on Woody and me the past few months. That’s the same way my uncle treats us and she is trying to impress Papa’s older brother, who fancies himself quite the wit. He was baptized Dwight Alfred Carmody, but nobody calls him that. They call him Blackie, because of his job. My uncle is a lady-killer, but also a blacksmith, and he’s very good at fooling you into thinking he’s somebody he’s not by laying on the charm, which I regrettably admit can be considerable when he wants something from you. Lou, like many of the other young women around town, has fallen head over heels for him even though I’ve tried to tell her time and time again, “Are you crazy? You better get ahold of yourself and be quick about it. He’s gonna break your heart so bad. I know you think he cares for you, but you are sadly mistaken. You’re just another in a long line of what Blackie calls his ‘Kleenex gals.’ When he’s done usin’ you, he’ll toss you into the trash like all the rest of them,” but she won’t listen. I feel sorry for her. Until she pulls something like this.
    “The apology?” I say, wondering where Papa is right this moment. “We don’t have all day.” Is he coming up the front walk?
    To my surprise, Lou has enough remaining good sense to turn to my sister and say, “I’s so, so sorry for playing a trick on ya, Jane Woodrow. Here. Let me make it up to ya.” She widens out her skinny arms, like she’s intending to give my twin a honey bear hug.
    “Don’t be such a sucker.” I yank Woody back by her shirt collar. “Can’t you see it’s a trap?”
    “No, it ain’t.” Lou is acting wounded with a pouty, dimpled look. In a hurt-little-girl voice, she says, “Why ya always gotta be so mean to me, Shenny?”
    I laugh in her face and hope my breath smells bad. “That’s a real good impression, Lou. You should enter yourself