Дэвид Балдаччи - Wish You Well

Louisa Mae turned and went back in the house. Eugene followed with their bags. Oz was fully concentrating on his bear and his thumb. His wide, blue eyes were blinking rapidly, a sure indication that his nerves were racing at a feverish pitch. Indeed, he looked like he wanted to run all the way back to New York City right that minute. And Oz very well might have, if only he had known in which direction it happened to be.

CHAPTER NINE

The bedroom given to Lou was spartan and also the only room on the second floor, accessed by a rear staircase. It had one large window that looked out over the farmyard. The angled walls and low ceiling were covered with old newspaper and magazine pages pasted there like wallpaper. Most were yellowed, and some hung down where the paste had worn away. There was a simple rope bed of hickory and a pine wardrobe scarred in places. And there was a small desk of rough-hewn wood by the window, where the morning light fell upon it. The desk was unremarkable in design, yet it drew Lou’s attention as though cast from gold and trimmed by diamonds.

Her father’s initials were still so vivid: “JJC.” John Jacob Cardinal. This had to be the desk at which he had first started writing. She imagined her father as a little boy, lips set firm, hands working precisely, as he scored his initials into the wood, and then set out upon his career as a storyteller. As she touched the cut letters, it was as though she had just put her hand on top of her father’s. For some reason Lou sensed that her great-grandmother had deliberately given her this room.

Her father had been reserved about his life here. However, whenever Lou had asked him about her namesake, Jack Cardinal had been effusive in his answer. “A finer woman never walked the earth.” And then he would tell about some of his life on the mountain, but only some. Apparently, he left the intimate details for his books, all but one of which Lou would have to wait until adulthood to read, her father had told her. Thus she was left with many unanswered questions.

She reached in her suitcase and pulled out a small, wood-framed photograph. Her mother’s smile was wide, and though the photograph was black and white, Lou knew the swell of her mother’s amber eyes was near hypnotic. Lou had always loved that color, even sometimes hoping that the blue in hers would disappear one morning and be replaced with this collision of brown and gold. The photo had been taken on her mother’s birthday. Toddler Lou was standing in front of Amanda, and mother had both arms around her child. In the photo their smiles were suspended together for all time. Lou often wished she could remember something of that day.

Oz came into the room and Lou slipped the photograph back into her bag. As usual, her brother looked worried.

“Can I stay in your room?” he asked.

“What’s wrong with yours?”

“It’s next to hers.”

“Who, Louisa?” Oz answered yes very solemnly, as though he was testifying in court. “Well, what’s wrong with that?”

“She scares me,” he said. “She really does, Lou.”

“She let us come live with her.”

“And I’m right glad you did come.”

Louisa came forward from the doorway. “Sorry I was short with you. I was thinking ’bout your mother.” She stared at Lou. “And her needs.”

“That’s okay,” Oz said, as he flitted next to his sister. “I think you spooked my sister a little, but she’s all right now.”

Lou studied the woman’s features, seeing if there was any of her father there. She concluded that there wasn’t.

“We didn’t have anyone else,” Lou said.

“Y’all always have me,” Louisa Mae answered back. She moved in closer, and Lou suddenly saw fragments of her father there. She also now understood why the woman’s mouth drooped. There were only a few teeth there, all of them yellowed or darkened.

“Sorry as I can be I ain’t made the funeral. News comes slowly here when it bothers to come a’tall.” She looked down for a moment, as though gripped by something Lou couldn’t see. “You’re Oz. And you’re Lou.” Louisa pointed to them as she said the names.

Lou said, “The people who arranged our coming, I guess they told you.”

“I knew long afore that. Y’all call me Louisa. They’s chores to be done each day. We make or grow ’bout all we need. Breakfast’s at five. Supper when the sun falls.”

“Five o’clock in the morning!” exclaimed Oz.

“What about school?” asked Lou.

“Called Big Spruce. No more’n couple miles off. Eugene take you in the wagon first day, and then y’all walk after that. Or take the mare. Ain’t spare the mules, for they do the pulling round here. But the nag will do.”

Oz paled. “We don’t know how to ride a horse.”

“Y’all will. Horse and mule bestest way to get by up here, other than two good feet.”

“What about the car?” asked Lou.

Louisa shook her head. “T’ain’t practical. Take money we surely ain’t got. Eugene know how it works and built a little lean-to for it. He start it up every now and agin, ’cause he say he have to so it run when we need it. Wouldn’t have that durn thing, ’cept William and Jane Giles on down the road give it to us when they moved on. Can’t drive it, no plans to ever learn.”

“Is Big Spruce the same school my dad went to?” asked Lou.

“Yes, only the schoolhouse he went to ain’t there no more. ’Bout as old as me, it fall down. But you got the same teacher. Change, like news, comes slowly here. You hungry?”

“We ate on the train,” said Lou, unable to draw her gaze from the woman’s face.

“Fine. Your momma settled in. Y’all g’on see her.”

Lou said, “I’d like to stay here and look around some.”

Louisa held the door open for them. Her voice was gentle but firm. “See your momma first.”

The room was comfortable—good light, window open. Homespun curtains, curled by the damp and bleached by the sun, were lightly flapping in the breeze. As Lou looked around, she knew it had probably taken some effort to make this into what amounted to a sickroom. Some of the furniture looked worked on, the floor freshly scrubbed, the smell of paint still lingering; a chipped rocking chair sat in one corner with a thick blanket across it.

On the walls were ancient ferrotypes of men, women, and children, all dressed in what was probably their finest clothing: stiff white-collared shirts and bowler hats for the men; long skirts and bonnets for the women; lace frills for the young girls; and small suits and string ties for the boys. Lou studied them. Their expressions ran the gamut from dour to pleased, the children being the most animated, the grown women appearing the most suspicious, as though they believed their lives were to be taken, instead of simply their photographs.

Amanda, in a bed of yellow poplar, was propped up on fat feather pillows, and her eyes were shut. The mattress was feather-filled too, lumpy but soft, housed in a striped ticking. A patchwork quilt covered her. A faded drugget lay next to the bed so bare feet wouldn’t have to touch a cold wood floor first thing in the morning. Lou knew her mother would not be needing that. On the walls were pegs with items of clothing hung from them. An old dresser was in one corner, a painted china pitcher and bowl resting on it. Lou wandered around the room idly, looking and touching. She noted that the window frame was slightly crooked, the panes of glass filmy, as though a fog had infiltrated the material somehow.

Oz sat next to his mother, leaned over, and kissed her.

“Hi, Mom.”

“She can’t hear you,” Lou muttered to herself as she stopped her wandering and looked out the window, smelling air purer than any she had before; in the draft were a medley of trees and flowers, wood smoke, long bluegrass, and animals large and small.