Free Tomorrow River by Lesley Kagen Page B

into the Founders Weekend talent show. You’d win first prize, that’s how good that is.” I say to Woody, “Let’s get outta here before she breaks into ‘The Good Ship Lollipop.’” I take a couple of steps in the right direction, expecting my sister to follow, but she doesn’t. “What are you doin’?” My head whips back and forth between her and Lou. “Oh, for the love of Pete,” I say, figuring out why my music loving sister is acting like she’s nailed to the floor, “I didn’t mean that she’s actually gonna perform that song, Woody, I meant that she’s—”
    “Oh my, you’re in for it now,” Lou butts in. “Ya hear that?”
    Papa?
    I hold my breath and listen for the sound of his high-heeled boots. The way his silver cleats click against the foyer’s cool marble floors. I check my sister’s face. She’s got on her usual you-can-knock-all-you-want-but-nobody’s-home look. That’s good. If Papa was close by, sensitive Woody would be squinching her eyes closed and throwing back her head, readying herself to make this sound that’s very theatrical. The only other time I’ve heard it was in that movie we took Beezy to see up at Hull’s Drive-In called The Hound of the Baskervilles .
    “You better quit bothering us, Louise,” I say, setting my hands on my hips. “We don’t hear a thing, do we, Woody.”
    “Maybe ya should try harder.” Lou cups a hand to her ear. “I believe . . . why yes, I’m sure that’s the toilets callin’ out your name. Sheeen . . . Shenandoah Carmooody. Ya better get right up here and scrub us ’fore the lovely Miss Louise runs and tells yer pappy what ya been up to.”
    Technically, I’ve got aces over Louise’s kings. Woody and me leaving Lilyfield to search for our mother is bad, but maybe not as bad as Lou taking off her clothes for that joker, Uncle Blackie. But a fat lot of good that does me. I can’t tattle the dirt I got on her. Not right now. Lou knows how much I love my father and that the last thing I want to do is cause him more trouble than he’s already got, what with Mama’s recent birthday and the anniversary of her disappearance and a long visit with Grampa hanging on the horizon. I could rat her out to Mr. Cole, but being so kind and forgiving like he is, probably the worst he’d inflict upon her would be the recitation of a Mary Magdalene passage out of the Bible.
    No. A good card player knows when to fold.
    “Just so you know, Lou, Woody and I wish you were dead,” I spout as I huff out of the dining room, pulling my twin behind me.
    “Cleanin’ bucket’s under His Honor’s sink.” Lou devilishly laughs. “Use the bleach and lift the seat.”
    “That’s fine. Don’t worry,” I say, attempting to console my sister as we head up the front staircase. “This is just one hand in the game. The second I get a chance, you know what I think I’ll do?” Woody pauses and listens intently. She looks so cute that I cannot resist hugging her. When I do, a little sssss escapes out of her. I’m sure that’s her way of showing me that even though she can’t talk, we’re still on the same wavelength. “That’s exactly right, pea. I’m going to ask E. J. to do a little copperhead hunting for us. We’ll add it to the pot.”

C hapter Seven
    O ur white canopy bed has always reminded me of a sailboat anchored in the middle of a deep sea.
    When she was painting the walls this pretty blue, Mama told Woody and me she hoped they’d make us feel less like we were “weathering a tempest,” and more like we were “drifting through a sea of tranquility,” and sometimes they do. But mostly we’re sleeping in our fort lately. It’s safer up there.
    I’m gazing out our bedroom window at the Minnow place, recollecting what Bootie Young told me over at the cemetery this morning. It’s hard to believe Clive has shipped off to the Great Beyond. Just over the treetops, I can see the porch we used to visit on. His dog, Ivory, is lying next