Дэвид Балдаччи - Wish You Well

“My name is Lou.”

Estelle McCoy’s smile went down a bit in wattage. “Yes, um, their father was a very famous writer named Jack Cardinal.”

Here, Billy Davis piped in loudly, “Didn’t he die? Somebody say that man’s dead.”

Lou glared at Billy, who made a face right back at her.

Their teacher now looked completely flustered. “Billy, please. Uh, as I was saying, he was famous, and I helped teach him. And in my own humble way, I hope that I had some influence over his development as a writer. And they do say the early years are the most important. Anyway, did you know that Mr. Jack Cardinal even signed one of his books in Washington, for the president of these United States?”

As Lou looked around the room, she could tell this meant absolutely nothing to the children of the mountain. In fact, mentioning the capital of the Yankee nation was probably not a smart thing to do. It didn’t make her angry that they were not properly in awe of her father’s accomplishments; instead it made Lou pity their ignorance.

Estelle McCoy was ill-prepared for the prolonged silence. “Uh, well, we welcome you, Louisa Mae, and you too, Oscar. I’m sure you’ll do your father proud here, at his . . . alma mater.”

Now Lou stood, even as Oz hastily dropped back into his seat, his face down, his eyes scrunched closed. One could tell he was afraid of whatever it was his sister was about to do. Lou never did anything in a small way, Oz well knew. It was either both barrels of the shotgun in your face, or you got to live another day. There was rarely any middle ground with the girl.

And yet all she said was “My name is Lou.” And then she took her seat.

Billy leaned over and said, “Welcome to the mountain, Miss Louisa Mae.”

The school day ended at three, and the children didn’t rush to go home, since it was certain only more chores awaited them there. Instead, they milled about in small packs in the schoolyard, the boys swapping pocket knives, hand-whittled yo-yos, and homemade burley chew. The girls exchanged local gossip and cooking and sewing secrets, and talked about boys. Billy Davis did pull-ups on a sapling that had been laid across the low branches of the walnut tree, to the admiring look of one wide-hipped girl with crooked teeth, but also rosy cheeks and pretty blue eyes.

As Lou and Oz came outside, Billy stopped his workout and strolled over to them.

“Why, it’s Miss Louisa Mae. You been up see the president, Miss Louisa Mae?” he said in a loud, mocking voice.

“Keep walking, Lou, please,” said Oz.

Billy spoke even louder. “Did he get you to sign one of your daddy’s books, him being dead and all?”

Lou stopped. Oz, sensing that further pleading was futile, stepped back. Lou turned to look at her tormentor.

“What’s the matter, you still sore because us Yankees kicked your tail, you dumb hillbilly?”

The other children, sensing blood, quietly formed a circle to shield from the eyes of Mrs. McCoy a potentially good fight.

Billy scowled. “You best take that back.”

Lou dropped her bag. “You best make me, if you think you can.”

“Shoot, I ain’t hitting no girl.”

This made Lou angrier than ever a thrown fist could have. She grabbed Billy by his overall straps and threw him to the dirt, where he lay stunned, probably both at her strength and at her audacity. The crowd moved closer.

“I’ll kick your tail if you don’t take that back,” Lou said, and she leaned down and dug a finger in his chest.

Oz pulled at her as the crowd closed even tighter, as though a hand becoming a fist. “Come on, Lou, please don’t fight. Please.”

Billy jumped up and proceeded to commit a major offense. Instead of swinging at Lou, he grabbed Oz and threw him down hard.

“No-good stinking northerner.”

His look of triumph was short-lived because it ran smack into Lou’s bony right fist. Billy joined Oz on the ground, blood spurting from his nose. Lou was straddling Billy before the boy could take a breath, both her fists pounding away. Billy, howling like a whipped dog, swung his arms wildly back. One blow caught Lou on the lip, but she kept slugging until Billy finally stopped swinging and just covered his face.

Then the seas parted, and Mrs. McCoy poured through this gap. She managed to pull Lou off Billy, but not without an effort that left her breathing hard.

“Louisa Mae! What would your daddy think?” she said.

Lou’s chest rose and fell hard, her hands still balled into mighty, boy-bashing instruments.

Estelle McCoy helped Billy up. The boy covered his face with his sleeve, quietly sobbing into his armpit. “Now, you tell Billy you’re sorry,” she said.

Lou’s response was to lunge and take another furious swing at him. Billy jumped back like a rabbit cornered by a snake intent on eating it.

Mrs. McCoy pulled hard on Lou’s arm. “Louisa Mae, you stop that right now and tell him you’re sorry.”

“He can go straight on to hell.”

Estelle McCoy looked ready to keel over in the face of such language from the daughter of a famous man.

“Louisa Mae! Your mouth!”

Lou jerked free and ran like the wind down the road.

Billy fled in the other direction. And Estelle McCoy stood there empty-handed on the field of battle.

Oz, forgotten in all this, quietly got off the ground, picked up his sister’s burlap bag, brushed it off, and went and tugged on his teacher’s dress. She looked down at him.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Oz said. “But her name is Lou.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Louisa cleaned the cut on Lou’s face with water and lye soap, and applied some homemade tincture that stung like fire, but Lou made herself not even flinch.

“Glad you got yourself off to such a good start, Lou.”

“They called us Yankees!”

“Well, good Lord,” Louisa said with mock indignity. “Ain’t that evil!”

“And he hurt Oz.”

Louisa’s expression softened. “You got to go to school, honey. You got to learn to get along.”

Lou scowled. “Why can’t they get along with us?”

“ ’Cause this their home. They act like that ’cause you’re not like nobody they ever seen.”

Lou stood. “You don’t know what it’s like to be an outsider.” She ran out the door, while Louisa looked after her, shaking her head.

Oz was waiting for his sister on the front porch.

“I put your bag in your room,” he told her.

Lou sat on the steps and rested her chin on her knees.

“I’m okay, Lou.” Oz stood and spun in a circle to show her and almost fell off the porch. “See, he didn’t hurt me any.”

“Good thing, or I really would’ve pounded him.”

Oz closely studied her cut lip. “Does it hurt much?”

“Don’t feel a thing. Shoot, they might be able to milk cows and plow fields, but mountain boys sure can’t hit worth anything.”

They looked up as Cotton’s Oldsmobile pulled into the front yard. He got out, a book cradled under one arm.

“I heard about your little adventure over at the school today,” he said, walking up.

Lou looked surprised. “That was fast.”

Cotton sat next to them on the steps. “Up here when a good fight breaks out people will move heaven and earth to get the word around.”

“Wasn’t much of a fight,” said Lou proudly. “Billy Davis just curled up and squawked like a baby.”

Oz added, “He cut Lou’s lip, but it doesn’t hurt any.”

She said, “They called us Yankees, like it was some kind of disease.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m a Yankee too. From Boston. And they’ve accepted me here. Well, at least most of them have.”

Lou’s eyes widened as she made the connection and wondered why she hadn’t before. “Boston? Longfellow. Are you—”