Дэвид Балдаччи - Wish You Well

“Thought I’d let you and Oz sleep in,” Louisa said softly as she came and sat next to Lou.

Lou stifled a yawn and looked out the window at the blackness. “What time is it?”

“Nearly five.”

“Five!” Lou dropped back against her pillow and pulled the covers over her head.

Louisa smiled. “Eugene’s milking the cows. Be good you learn how.”

“I can’t do it later?” Lou asked from under the blanket.

“Cows don’t care to wait round for us people,” Louisa said. “They moan till the bag’s dry.” She added, “Oz is already dressed.”

Lou jolted upright. “Mom couldn’t get him out of bed before eight, and even that was a fight.”

“He’s right now having a bowl of molasses over cornbread and fresh milk. Be good if you’d join us.”

Lou threw off the covers and touched the cold floor, which sent a shiver directly to her brain. Now she was convinced she could see her breath. “Give me five minutes,” she said bravely.

Louisa noted the girl’s obvious physical distress. “Had us a frost last night,” Louisa said. “Stays cold up here longer. Works into your bones like a little knife. Be warm afore long, and then when winter comes, we move you and Oz down to the front room, right by the fire. Fill it with coal, keep you warm all night. We’ll make it right good for you here.” She paused and looked around the room. “Can’t give you what you had in the city, but we do our best.” She rose and went to the door. “I put hot water in the washbowl earlier so’s you can clean up.”

“Louisa?”

She turned back, the arc of lantern light throwing and then magnifying her shadow against the wall. “Yes, honey?”

“This was my dad’s room, wasn’t it?”

Louisa looked around slowly before coming back to the girl, and the question. “From time he was four till he gone away. Ain’t nobody use this room since.”

Lou pointed to the covered walls. “Did my dad do that?”

Louisa nodded. “He’d walk ten miles to get ahold of a paper or a book. Read ’em all a dozen times and then stuck them newspapers up there and kept right on reading. Never saw a boy that curious in all my life.” She looked at Lou. “Bet you just like him.”

“I want to thank you for taking Oz and me in.”

Louisa looked toward the door. “This place be good for your mother too. We all pitch in, she be fine.”

Lou looked away, started to fumble with her nightdress. “I’ll be down in a minute,” she said abruptly.

Louisa accepted this change in the girl’s manner without comment and softly closed the door behind her.

Downstairs, Oz was just finishing the last of his breakfast when Lou appeared, dressed, as he was, in faded overalls, long john shirt, and lace-up boots Louisa had laid out for them. A lantern hanging on a wall hook, and the coal fire, gave the room its only light. Lou looked at the grandmother clock on the fireplace mantel, itself a six-by-six timber of planed oak. It was indeed a little past five. Who would have thought cows would be up so early? she thought.

“Hey, Lou,” Oz said. “You’ve got to taste this milk. It’s great.”

Louisa looked at Lou and smiled. “Those clothes fit real good. Said a prayer they would. If’n the boots too big, we fill ’em with rags.”

“They’re fine,” said Lou, though they were actually too small, pinching her feet some.

Louisa brought over a bucket and a glass. She put the glass on the table, draped a cloth over it, and poured the milk from the bucket into it, foam bubbling up on the cloth. “Want molasses on your cornbread?” she asked. “Real good that way. Line your belly.”

“It’s great,” gushed Oz as he swallowed the last bite of his meal and washed it down with the rest of his milk.

Lou looked at her glass. “What’s the cloth for?”

“Take things out the milk you don’t need in you,” answered Louisa.

“You mean the milk’s not pasteurized?” Lou said this in such a distressed tone that Oz gaped at his empty glass, looking as though he might drop dead that very instant.

“What’s pastures?” he asked anxiously. “Can it get me?”

“The milk’s fine,” Louisa said in a calm tone. “I’ve had it this way all my life. And your daddy too.”

At her words, a relieved Oz sat back and commenced breathing again. Lou sniffed at her milk, tasted it gingerly a couple of times, and then took a longer swallow.

“I told you it was good,” Oz said. “Putting it out to pasture probably makes it taste bad, I bet.”

Lou said, “Pasteurization is named after Louis Pasteur, the scientist who discovered a process that kills bacteria and makes milk safe to drink.”

“I’m sure he were a smart man,” said Louisa, as she set down a bowl of cornbread and molasses in front of Lou. “But we boil the cloth in between, and we get by just fine.” The way she said this made Lou not want to wrestle the issue anymore.

Lou took a forkful of the cornbread and molasses. Her eyes widened at the taste. “Where do you buy this?” she asked Louisa.

“Buy what?”

“This food. It’s really good.”

“Told you,” said Oz again smugly.

Louisa said, “Don’t buy it, honey. Make it.”

“How do you do that?”

“Show, remember? A lot better’n telling. And best way of all is doing. Now, hurry up and you get yourself together with a cow by the name of Bran. Old Bran’s got trouble you two can help Eugene fix.”

With this enticement, Lou quickly finished her breakfast, and she and Oz hurried to the door.

“Wait, children,” Louisa said. “Plates in the tub here, and you gonna need this.” She picked up another lantern and lit it. The smell of working kerosene filled the room.

“This house really doesn’t have electricity?” Lou asked.

“Know some folks down Tremont got the dang thing. It go off sometimes and they got no idea what to do with theirselves. Like they forgot how to light kerosene. Just give me a good lantern in hand and I be fine.”

Oz and Lou carried their plates to the sink.

“After you done in the barn, I show you the springhouse. Where we get our water. Haul it up twice a day. Be one of your chores.”

Lou looked confused. “But you have the pump.”

“That just for dishes and such. Need water for lots of things. Animals, washing, tool grinder, bathing. Pump ain’t got no pressure. Take you a day to fill up a good-sized lard bucket.” She smiled. “Sometimes seems we spend most our breath hauling wood and water. First ten years’a my life, I thought my name was ‘git.’ ”

They were about to go out the door again, Lou carrying the lantern, when she stopped. “Uh, which one’s the cow barn?”

“How’s ’bout I show you?”

The air was bone-hurting cold and Lou was grateful for the thick shirt, but still wedged her bare hands under her armpits. With Louisa and her lantern leading the way, they went past the chicken coop and corrals and over to the barn, a big A-frame building with a wide set of double doors. These doors stood open and a solitary light was on inside. From the barn Lou heard the snorts and calls of animals, the shuffling of restless hoofs on dirt, and from the coop came the flapping of skittish wings. The sky was curiously darker in some places than in others, and then Lou realized these ebony patches were the Appalachians.

She had never encountered night such as this. No streetlights, no lights from buildings, no cars, no illumination of any kind granted by battery or electricity. The only lights were the few stars overhead, the kerosene lamp Louisa was carrying, and the one Eugene presumably had on in the barn. The darkness didn’t frighten Lou at all, though. In fact she felt oddly safe here as she followed the tall figure of her great-grandmother. Oz trailed close, and Lou could sense he was not nearly so comfortable right now. She well knew that, given time to think about it, her brother could imagine unspeakable terror in just about anything.