Дэвид Балдаччи - Wish You Well

“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.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

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.

Lou went to Louisa and sat with her by the fire, explained to her what she had found and read the pages to her in as clear a voice as she could:

“My name is John Jacob Cardinal, though I’m called Jack for short. My father has been dead five years now, and my mother, well, I hope that she is doing fine wherever she is. Growing up on a mountain leaves its mark upon all those who share both its bounty and its hardship. Life here is also well known for producing stories that amuse and also exact tears. In the pages that follow I recount a tale that my own father told me shortly before he passed on. I have thought about his words every day since then, yet only now am I finding the courage to write them down. I remember the story clearly, yet some of the words may be my own, rather than my father’s, though I feel I have remained true to the spririt of his telling.

“The only advice I can give to whoever might happen upon these pages is to read them with care, and to make up your own mind about things. I love the mountain almost as much as I loved my father, yet I know that one day I will leave here, and once I leave I doubt I will ever come back. With that said, it is important to understand that I believe I could be very happy here for the rest of my days.”

Lou turned the page and began reading her father’s story to Louisa.

“It had been a long, tiring day for the man, though as a farmer he had known no other kind. With crop fields dust, hearth empty, and children hungry, and wife not happy about any of it, he set out on a walk. He had not gone far when he came upon a man of the cloth sitting upon a high rock overlooking stagnant water. ‘You are a man of the soil,’ said he in a voice gentle and seeming wise. The farmer answered that indeed he did make his living with dirt, though he would not wish such a life upon his children or even his dearest enemy. The preacher invited the farmer to join him upon the high rock, so he settled himself next to the man. He asked the farmer why he would not wish his children to carry on after their father. The farmer looked to the sky pretending thought, for his mind well knew what his mouth would say. ‘For it is the most miserable life of all,’ he said. ‘But it is so beautiful here,’ the preacher replied. ‘Think of the wretched of the city living in squalor. How can a man of the open air and the fine earth say such a thing?’ The farmer answered that he was not a learned man such as the preacher, yet he had heard of the great poverty in the cities where the folks stayed in their hovels all day, for there was no work for them to do. Or they got by on the dole. They starved—slowly, but they starved. Was that not true? he asked. And the preacher nodded his great and wise head at him. ‘So that is starvation without effort,’ said the farmer. ‘A miserable existence if ever I heard of one,’ said the holy man. And the farmer agreed with him, and then said, ‘And I have also heard that in other parts of the country there are farms so grand, on land so flat that the birds cannot fly over them in one day.’ ‘This too is true,’ replied the other man. The farmer continued. ‘And that when crops come in on such farms, they can eat like kings for years from a single harvest, and sell the rest and have money in their pockets.’ ‘All true,’ said the preacher. ‘Well, on the mountain there are no such places,’ said the farmer. ‘If the crops come fine we eat, nothing more.’ ‘And your point?’ said the preacher. ‘Well, my plight is this, preacher: My children, my wife, myself, we all break our backs every year, working from before the rise of sun till past dark. We work hard coaxing the land to feed us. Things may look good, our hopes may be high. And then it so often comes to naught. And we still starve. But you see, we starve with great effort. Is that not more miserable?’ ‘It has indeed been a hard year,’ said the other man. ‘But did you know that corn will grow on rain and prayer?’ ‘We pray every day,’ the farmer said, ‘and the corn stands at my knee, and it is September now.’ ‘Well,’ the preacher said, ‘of course the more rain the better. But you are greatly blessed to be a servant of the earth.’ The farmer said that his marriage would not stand much more blessing, for his good wife did not see things exactly that way. He bowed his head and said, ‘I’m sure I am a miserable one to complain.’ ‘Speak up, my son,’ the holy man said, ‘for I am the ears of God.’ ‘Well,’ the farmer said, ‘it creates discomfort in the marriage, pain between husband and wife, this matter of hard work and no reward.’ The other man raised a pious finger and said, ‘But hard work can be its own reward.’ The farmer smiled. ‘Praise the Lord then, for I have been richly rewarded all my life.’ And the preacher seconded that and said, ‘So your marriage is having troubles?’ ‘I am a wretch to complain,’ the farmer said. ‘I am the eyes of the Lord,’ the preacher replied. They both looked at a sky of blue that had not a drop of what the farmer needed in it. ‘Some people are not cut out for a life of such rich rewards,’ he said. ‘It is your wife you are speaking of now,’ the preacher stated. ‘Perhaps it is me,’ the farmer said. ‘God will lead you to the truth, my son,’ the preacher said. Can a man be afraid of the truth? the farmer wanted to know. A man can be afraid of anything, the preacher told him. They rested there a bit, for the farmer had run clear out of words. Then he watched as the clouds came, the heavens opened, and the water rushed to touch them. He rose, for there was work to be done now. ‘You see,’ said the holy man, ‘my words have come true. God has shown you the way.’ ‘We will see,’ the farmer said. ‘For it is late in the season now.’ As he moved off to return to his land, the preacher called after him. ‘Son of the soil,’ he said, ‘if the crops come fine, remember thy church in thy bounty.’ The farmer looked back and touched his hand to the brim of his hat. ‘The Lord does work in mysterious ways,’ he told the other man. And then he turned and left the eyes and ears of God behind.”