Tomorrow River by Lesley Kagen

to his master’s bentwood rocker, his back legs stretched out like a frog’s, his head between his paws. Mr. Clive asked me one morning, “Know why I named this mutt the opposite of what he looks like, little girl?” He nodded down at the chocolate pup. “The dog’s the only one tolerates me besides you Carmody gals, so I guess that makes him only ninety-nine point forty-four percent smart. Get it? Ivory? Like the soap?”
    I think that remark shows some humility, so I guess that’ll be my eulogy for my hypochondriac friend. I don’t imagine there will be much of a turnout at the cemetery service. Clive wasn’t all that appealing. His hair cascaded in greasy rivulets that pooled at his shoulders. A stench rose off his body in almost visible waves. And his teeth . . . I think that might’ve been moss growing off them. Thank goodness he was a hermit. Even if he had wanted company, who’d want to spend an afternoon with somebody who looked and smelled the way he did? To the best of my knowledge, nobody besides me and Mama and Gramma. Woody never was too interested. Every time I asked her to join me for a neighborly visit, she’d say, “You go on without me. Clive reminds me of standing water.”
    Gramma Ruth Love, she liked Clive. She brought him pies. That’s one of the things that Auxiliary ladies do, go around and deliver tasty things to shut-ins. That wasn’t totally unselfish of her, though. I know by the smile it put on her face that it made her feel good to watch Clive, who really did appreciate home-cooking, gobble that pie down in one sitting. And Mama, she was a friend to Clive as well. She would run errands for him when Papa wasn’t home and sometimes straighten up his house. Since he hardly never threw anything anyway, it could get pretty crowded in there. His Honor didn’t care for Clive. Sometimes, from the fort, I could hear them going after each other, but just the sound of their furious voices, not what they were saying specifically.
    I let the lace fall back over the bedroom window and wonder what’s to become of that little Lab that’s got gray running through his muzzle and stiffness in the hips now that his owner’s dead? Maybe Papa could find it in his heart to let us keep him. Woody could sure use another dog.
    Mars is never coming back.
    My sister is sitting at the vanity table poofing powder on her cheeks, her chin, arms, and hands. “Hey, knock that off. You’re starting to look . . . why don’t you work on a picture instead? Something pretty for a change,” I say, back flopping onto our bed.
    Drawing is Woody’s real gift from God. Our mother explained that even though her twins shared the same room when we were growing inside of her, there were two chutes that fed into us. I got Mama’s love of words delivered to me and Woody got her fondness for music. But it was our mother’s love of art that got specially delivered to my sister’s soul. When she was still here, Mama would admire Woody’s work, saying somewhat tearful (that’s how moved she’d be), “That’s perfect. Just the right amount of shading. And the colors . . . gorgeous. You’ll be a respected artist someday, honey. Maybe in New York City. You’ll live in a walk-up with your sister, who’ll be a wonderful writer . . . sniff . . . sniff. The Carmody twins will be the toast of the town.”
    Now, why would she say things like that when she knew Woody and me would be doing nothing of the sort? Our father has made it clear time and time again, “Carmody women have never and will never hire themselves out.”
    I scooch across the chenille bedspread to make room for Woody. “If you don’t want to draw, then come be with me, would ya?” Watching as she floats over, anticipating the feel of her matching head resting beside mine, I cannot help but wonder for the millionth time, how can two girls look so much alike on the outside and have such different filling? I am firmly planted in this world despite my