Wish You Well (32 page)

He said, “George Davis almost always comes to services, but he never stays for the meal. And he never brings his family because that’s just the way he is. I would hope he comes and prays because he feels he has much to atone for. But I think he’s just hedging his bets. A calculating man, he is.”

Lou looked at Davis there praying like God was in his heart and home, while his family remained behind in rags and fear and would have starved except for the kindness of Louisa Cardinal. She could only shake her head. Then she said to Cotton, “Whatever you do, don’t stand next to that man.”

Cotton looked at her, puzzled. “Why not?”

“Lightning bolts,” she answered.

For too many hours they listened to the circuit minister, their rumps worn sore by hard oak benches, their noses tickled by the scents of lye soap, lilac water, and grittier smells from those who had not bothered to wash before coming. Oz nodded off twice, and Lou had to kick him each time to rouse him. Cotton offered up a special prayer for Amanda, which Lou and Oz very much appreciated. However, it seemed they were all doomed to hell according to this fleshy Baptist minister. Jesus had given his life for them, and a sorry lot they were, he said, himself included. Not good for much other than sinning and similar lax ways. Then the holy man really got going and reduced every human being in the place to near tears, or to at least the shakes, at their extreme uselessness and at the guilt dwelling in their awful sinned-out souls. And then he passed the collection plate and asked very politely for the cold hard cash of all the fine folks there today, their awful sin and extreme uselessness notwithstanding.

After services they all headed outside. “My father’s a pastor in Massachusetts,” said Cotton, as they walked down the church steps. “And he’s also right partial to the fire and brimstone method of religion. One of his heroes was Cotton Mather, which is where I got my rather curious name. And I know that my father was greatly upset when I did not follow him on to the pulpit, but such is life. I had no great calling from the Lord, and didn’t want to do the ministry any disservice just to please my father. Now, I’m no expert on the subject, yet a body does get weary of being dragged through the holy briar patch only to have his pocket regularly picked by a pious hand.” Cotton smiled as he surveyed the folks gathering around the food. “But I guess it’s a fair price to pay to sample some of these good vittles.”

The food indeed was some of the best Lou and Oz had ever had: baked chicken, sugar-cured Virginia ham, collard greens and bacon, fluffy grits heaped with churned butter, fried crackling bread, vegetable casseroles, many-kind beans, and warm fruit pies—all no doubt created with the most sacred and closely guarded of family recipes. The children ate until they could eat no more, and then lay under a tree to rest.

Cotton was sitting on the church steps, working on a chicken leg and a cup of hot cider, and enjoying the peace of a good church supper, when the men approached. They were all farmers, with strong arms and blocky shoulders, a forward lean to all of them, their fingers curled tight, as though they were still working the hoe or scythe, toting buckets of water or pulling udder teats.

“Evening, Buford,” said Cotton, inclining his head at one of the men who stepped forward from the pack, felt hat in hand. Cotton knew Buford Rose to be a toiler in dirt and seed of long standing here, and a good, decent man. His farm was small, but he ran it efficiently. He was not so old as Louisa, but he had said so long to middle age years ago. He made no move to talk, his gaze fixed on his crumbling brogans. Cotton looked at the other men, most of whom he knew from helping them with some legal problem, usually to do with their deeds, wills, or land taxes. “Something on your minds?” he prompted.

Buford said, “Coal folk come by to see us all, Cotton. Talk ’bout the land. Selling it, that is.”

“Hear they’re offering good money,” said Cotton.

Buford glanced nervously at his companions, his fingers digging into his hat brim. “Well, they ain’t got that fer yet. See, thing is, they ain’t a’wanting to buy our land ’less Louisa sell. Say it got to do with how the gas lie and all. I ain’t unnerstand it none, but that what they say.”

“Good crops this year,” said Cotton. “Land generous to all. Maybe you don’t need to sell.”

“What ’bout next year?” said a man who was younger than Cotton but looked a good ten years older. He was a third-generation farmer up here, Cotton knew, and he didn’t look all that happy about it right now. “One good year ain’t make up fer three bad.”

“Why ain’t Louisa want’a sell, Cotton?” asked Buford. “She way older’n me even, and I done all worked out, and my boy he ain’t want to do this no more. And she got them chillin, and the sick woman care for. Ain’t make no sense to me she ain’t partial to sell.”

“This is her home, Buford. Just like it is yours. And it doesn’t have to make sense to us. It’s her wishes. We have to respect that.”

“But can’t you talk to her?”

“She’s made up her mind. I’m sorry.”

The men stared at him in silence, clearly not a single one of them pleased with this answer. Then they turned and walked away, leaving a very troubled Cotton Longfellow behind.

Oz had brought his ball and gloves to the church supper, and he threw with Lou and then with some of the other boys. The men gawked at his prowess and said Oz had an arm like they had never seen before. Then Lou happened upon a group of children talking about the death of Diamond Skinner.

“Stupid as a mule, getting hisself blowed up like that,” said one fat-cheeked boy Lou didn’t know.

“Going in a mine with dynamite lit,” said another. “Good Lord, what a fool.”

“Course, he never went to school,” said a girl with dark hair rolled in sausage curls who wore an expensive wide-brimmed hat with a ribbon around it and a frilly dress of similar cost. Lou knew her as Charlotte Ramsey, whose family didn’t farm but owned one of the smaller coal mines, and did well with it. “So poor thing probably didn’t know any better.”

After listening to this, Lou pushed her way into the group. She had grown taller in the time she had been living on the mountain, and she towered over all of them, though they were all close in age to her.

“He went in that mine to save his dog,” said Lou.

The fat-cheeked boy laughed. “Risk his life to save a hound. Boy
was
dumb.”

Lou’s fist shot out, and the boy was on the ground holding one of those fat cheeks that had just grown a little plumper. Lou stalked away and kept right on walking.

Oz saw what had happened and he collected his ball and gloves and caught up with her. He said nothing but walked silently beside her, letting her anger cool, surely nothing new for him. The wind was picking up and the clouds were rolling in as a storm front cleared the mountain tops.

“Are we walking all the way home, Lou?”

“You can go back and ride with Cotton and Eugene if you want.”

“You know, Lou, as smart as you are, you don’t have to keep hitting people. You can beat ’em with words.”

She glanced at him and couldn’t help but smile at his comment. “Since when did you get so mature?”

Oz thought about this for a few moments. “Since I turned eight.”

They walked on.

Oz had strung his gloves around his neck with a piece of twine, and he idly tossed the ball in the air and caught it behind his back. He tossed it again but did not catch it, and the ball dropped to the ground, forgotten.

George Davis had stepped from the woods quiet as a fog. For Lou, his nice clothes and clean face did nothing to soften the evil in the man. Oz was instantly cowed by him, but Lou said fiercely, “What do you want?”

“I know ’bout them gas people. Louisa gonna sell?”

“That’s her business.”

“My bizness! I bet I got me gas on my land too.”

“Then why don’t you sell your property?”

“Road to my place goes cross her land. They can’t git to me ’less she sell.”

“Well, that’s your problem,” said Lou, hiding her smile, for she was thinking that perhaps God had finally turned his attention to the man.

“You tell Louisa if she knowed what’s good for her she better sell. You tell her, she better damn well sell.”

“And you better get away from us.”

Davis raised his hand. “Smart-mouthed cuss!”

Quick as a snake, a hand grabbed Davis’s arm and stopped it in midair. Cotton stood there, holding on to that powerful arm and staring at the man.

Davis jerked his arm free and balled his fists. “You gonna get hurt now, lawyer.”

Davis threw a punch. And Cotton stopped the fist with his hand, and held on. And this time Davis couldn’t break the man’s grip, though he tried awfully hard.

When Cotton spoke, it was in a tone that was quiet and sent a delicious chill down Lou’s back. “I majored in American literature in college. But I was also captain of the boxing team. If you ever raise your hand to these children again, I’ll beat you within an inch of your life.”

Cotton let go of the fist and Davis stepped back, obviously intimidated by both the calm manner and strong hands of his opponent.

“Cotton, he wants Louisa to sell her property so he can too. He’s kind of insisting on it,” said Lou.

“She doesn’t want to sell,” said Cotton firmly. “So that’s the end of it.”

“Lot of things happen, make somebody want’a sell.”

“If that’s a threat, we can take it up with the sheriff. Unless you’d like to address it with me right now.”

With a snarl, George Davis stalked off.

As Oz picked up his baseball, Lou said, “Thank you, Cotton.”

Lou was on the porch trying her hand at darning socks, but not enjoying it much. She liked working outside better than anything else and looked forward to feeling the sun and wind upon her. There was an orderliness about farming that much appealed to her. In Louisa’s words, she was quickly coming to understand and respect the land. The weather was getting colder every day now, and she wore a heavy woolen sweater Louisa had knitted for her. Looking up, she saw Cotton’s car coming down the road, and she waved. Cotton saw her, waved back, and, leaving his car, joined her on the porch. They both looked out over the countryside. “Sure is beautiful here this time of year,” he remarked. “No other place like it, really.”

“So why do you think my dad never came back?”

Cotton took off his hat and rubbed his head. “Well, I’ve heard of writers who have lived somewhere while young and then wrote about it the rest of their lives without ever once going back to the place that inspired them. I don’t know, Lou, it may be they were afraid if they ever returned and saw the place in a new light, it would rob them of the power to tell their stories.”

“Like tainting their memories?”

“Maybe. What do you think about that? Never coming back to your roots so you can be a great writer?”

Lou did not have to ponder this long. “I think it’s too big a price to pay for greatness.”

Before going to bed each night, Lou tried to read at least one of the letters her mother had written Louisa. One night a week later, as she pulled out the desk drawer she’d put them in, it slid crooked and jammed. She put her hand on the inside of the drawer to gain leverage to right it, and her fingers brushed against something stuck to the underside of the desk top. She knelt down and peered in, probing farther with her hand as she did so. A few seconds later she pulled out an envelope that had been taped there. She sat on her bed and gazed down at the packet. There was no writing on the outside, but Lou could feel the pieces of paper inside. She drew them out slowly. They were old and yellowed, as was the envelope. Lou sat on her bed and read through the precise handwriting on the pages, the tears creeping down her cheeks long before she had finished. Her father had been fifteen years old when he wrote this, for the date was written at the top of the page.