Дэвид Балдаччи - Wish You Well

Atkins asked, “Has the jury reached a verdict?”

The foreman rose. He was a man from the town, a humble shopkeeper, his body swollen from too much beef and potato, and from too little effort with arms and shoulders. “Yes, Your Honor,” he said quietly.

Hardly a single person had left the courtroom since the jury had been given its charge from the judge and sent out. The whole population of the room leaned forward, as though they all had just been struck deaf.

“What say you?”

“We find . . . for Southern Valley.” The foreman looked down, as though he had just delivered a death sentence to one of his own.

The courtroom erupted into shouts—some cheers, some not. The balcony seemed to sway with the collective weight of the decision of a dozen men. Hugh Miller and George Davis exchanged slight nods, lips easing into victorious smiles.

Cotton sat back. The legal process had had its day; the only thing absent was justice.

Miller and Goode shook hands. Miller tried to congratulate Wheeler, but the big man walked off in obvious disgust.

“Order, order in this court or I’ll clear it.” Atkins slammed his gavel several times, and things did quiet down.

“The jury is dismissed. Thank you for your service,” he said and not very kindly. A man entered the courtroom, spotted Cotton, and whispered something in his ear. Cotton’s despair noticeably deepened.

Goode said, “Your Honor, it now remains solely to appoint someone to represent Miss Cardinal’s interests and assume guardianship of the children.”

“Judge, I’ve just received some news that the court needs to hear.” Cotton slowly stood, his head down, one hand pressed to his side. “Louisa Mae Cardinal has passed away.”

The courtroom erupted once more, and this time Atkins made no move to contain it. Davis’s smile broadened. He went over to Cotton. “Damn,” he said, “this day get better and better.”

Cotton’s mind went blank for a moment, as though someone had smote him with an anvil. He grabbed Davis and had it in his mind to deliver him into the next county with his right fist, but then he stopped and simply heaved the man out of his way, as one would shovel a large pile of manure off a road.

“Your Honor,” said Goode, “I know we’re all very sorry to hear about Miss Cardinal. Now, I have a list of very reputable people who can represent these fine children in the sale of the property that has just now passed to them.”

“And I hope you rot in hell for it,” cried out Cotton. He raced to the bench, Goode on his heels.

Cotton pounded his fist so hard on the mighty bench of justice that Fred the bailiff took a nervous step toward them.

“George Davis tainted that whole jury,” roared Cotton. “I know he’s got Southern Valley dollars burning a hole in his pocket.”

“Give it up, Longfellow, you lost,” said Goode.

Neither man noticed the courtroom doors opening.

“Never, Goode. Never!” Cotton shouted at him.

“He agreed to be bound by the decision of the jury.”

“I’m afraid he’s got a point there,” said Atkins.

A triumphant Goode turned to look at Miller and his eyes nearly crossed at what he was seeing.

“But Henry,” pleaded Cotton, “please, the children . . . Let me be their guardian. I—”

Atkins was not paying attention to Cotton. He too was now staring at the courtroom, his mouth wide open.

Cotton slowly turned to see what Atkins was looking at, and felt himself feeling faint, as though he’d just seen God walk through that door.

Lou and Oz stood there before them all.

And between them, held up almost solely by her children, was Amanda Cardinal.

Lou had not taken her gaze from her mother from the moment Oz had led her down the hallway and into the bedroom, where her mother was lying in bed, her eyes wide open, tears running from them, her shaky arms finally reaching out to her children, her trembling lips forming a joyous smile.

Neither could Cotton take his gaze from the woman. Still, he had unfinished business before the court.

In a cracking, halting voice he said, “Your Honor, I would like to present to you Amanda Cardinal. The rightful and true guardian of her children.”

The sea of now-silent people parted and allowed Cotton to walk slowly over to mother and her children, his legs stumbling along, as though they had forgotten the proper motions. His face was smirched with tears.

“Mrs. Cardinal,” he began, “my name is—”

Amanda reached out a hand and touched him on the shoulder. Her body was very weak, yet her head was held high, and when she spoke her words were soft but clear. “I know who you are, Mr. Longfellow. I’ve listened to you often.”

TODAY

The tall woman walks along a field of bluegrass slowly curving in the wind. The line of mountains sweeps across in the background. Her hair is silver and hangs to her waist. She holds a pen and a paper tablet and sits on the ground and begins to write.

Maybe the wishing well did work. Or perhaps it was the unwavering faith of a little boy. Or maybe it was as simple as a little girl telling her mother she loved her. The important thing was our mother came back to us. Even as our beloved Louisa Mae left us. We had Louisa but a minute, yet we came close to having her not at all.

The woman rises, walks along, and then stops at two granite tombstones with the names Cotton Longfellow and Amanda Cardinal Longfellow engraved upon them. She sits and continues writing.

My mother and Cotton were married a year later. Cotton adopted Oz and me, and I showed equal love and affection to him and my mother. They spent over four wonderful decades together on this mountain and died within a week of one another. I will never forget Cotton’s great kindness. And I will go to my own grave knowing that my mother and I made the most of our second chance.

My little brother did grow into those big feet, and developed an even bigger arm. And on a glorious autumn day, Oz Cardinal pitched and won a World Series for the New York Yankees. He’s now a schoolteacher there, with a well-deserved reputation for helping timid children thrive. And his grandson has inherited that immortal bear. Some days I want nothing more than to be holding that little boy again, running my fingers through his hair, comforting him. My cowardly lion. But children grow up. And my little brother became a fine man. And his sister is truly proud of him.

Eugene went on to have his own farm and family and still lives nearby. He remains to this day one of my best friends in the world. And after his performance in that courtroom so long ago, I never heard anyone ever again refer to him as Hell No.

And me? Like my father, I left the mountain. But unlike Jack Cardinal, I came back. I married and raised a family here in a home I built on the land Louisa Mae left us. Now my own grandchildren come and visit every summer. I tell them of my life growing up here. About Louisa Mae, Cotton, and my dear friend Diamond Skinner. And also about others who touched our lives. I do so because I believe it important for them to know such things about their family.

Over the years I had read so many books, I started to write one of my own. I loved it so much, I wrote fourteen more. I told stories of happiness and wonder. Of pain and fear. Of survival and triumph. Of the land and its people. As my father had. And while I never won the sorts of awards he did, my books tended to sell a little better.

As my father wrote, one’s courage, hope, and spirit can be severely tried by the happenstance of life. But as I learned on this Virginia mountain, so long as one never loses faith, it is impossible to ever truly be alone.