Tomorrow River by Lesley Kagen Read Free Book Online

home. I found her looking out the kitchen window. “Look what I brought you,” I said, bursting in on her.
    She startled, and said sort of sad, “Thank you, Shen.”
    When she reached up to the cupboard to get the crystal vase, her long-sleeved blouse fell back. I pointed at her arms and asked, “How’d you get those marks?”
    Mama rushed to cover them up and said, “I . . . I got my arm caught in the linen chest.”
    “You should be more careful,” I said, not surprised. My mother is a very accident-prone person. Always has got a black-and-blue mark either fading or blooming.
    Once she got those flowers just the way she wanted them, she turned to me and told me thank you again, but her eyes didn’t look so grateful.
    I asked with hurt feelings, “Don’t you like them?”
    Mama hesitated for a moment, then cupped my warm face in her hands that were cool from the sink water and whispered, “‘I will be the gladdest thing under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers and not pick one.’”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
    Kissing the confusion off my face, she replied, “What Edna St. Vincent Millay means in this poem is . . . if you keep something all for yourself . . . while I love that you’re thinking of me, it’s important to let flowers grow. People, too. Do you understand?”
    I told her, “I do,” but I really didn’t.
    Beezy hears E. J. making his snorting noise and says, “Sure ’nuff, there’s fritters in the warmer, but my ankles tell me there’s also grass that needs shortenin’.” That’s the deal they’ve made. Apple fritters for mowing. “I expect you’ll wanna do something about that sooner rather than later.”
    E. J. knows better than just about anybody that it’s not smart to bite the hand that feeds him, so he says, “Yes, ma’am. I’ll get over here first thing tomorra to give it a trim,” and makes a beeline into the house.
    After I sit down next to her, Beezy says, “Good thing you showed up today. I was preparin’ to pay you a visit this evenin’.”
    “We tried to get away yesterday, but Louise is working us to the bone. Gramma will be here soon for Founders Weekend. You know how she can get if everything isn’t white glove clean.”
    Beezy runs a lace hankie across her neck scar and says, “Indeed I do.”
    “That still doesn’t give Lou the right to be such a pain in the patootie. I swear, that girl could start an argument in an empty house,” I say, already knowing that Beezy won’t agree with me. She feels violin-playing sorry for Louise. Whenever I complain about how our housekeeper bosses us about and what an all-around drip she is, Beezy tells me to, “Go easy on her, Shenny. She reminds me of myself at that age.”
    “Will Ruth Love be comin’ to the festivities?” Beezy asks. “I know she wasn’t feeling up to it last year.”
    Woody, who has been coloring like a demon, jerks her head up at the sound of our grandmother’s name. “I think so,” I say, hoping my sister can’t hear me.
    Beezy asks, “Ruth Love been stayin’ on track?”
    “Mostly.” I wish she wouldn’t go down this road. I know she and Gramma used to be on friendly terms so she always asks after her, but Woody’s been having a bumpy time of it with our gramma, who if there ever was a race for the best Southern belle in this county would win by a mile. She does beautiful needlework. Can make a pot roast that just falls off the bone and mashed potatoes without one lump. And her pies? They win every prize at the county fair. She’ll also play card games with Woody and me, not poker though, since she is also real holy and gambling is against the Bible. All in all, we couldn’t ask for a more lovely grandmother.
    Most of the time.
    Occasionally, Gramma has what we’re supposed to call “episodes,” but I always tell Woody to stay clear if I think Gramma’s winding up to “pitch a conniption fit.” Some conniptions are a lot worse than others. She