Дэвид Балдаччи - Wish You Well

They passed over a large bridge. A tin sign said this was the McCloud River flowing thirty feet underneath them. In the reflection of the rising sun the water looked pink, like a miles-long curvy tongue. The mountain peaks were smoke-blue, the mists of fog right below them forming a gauzy kerchief.

With no more towns apparent, Lou figured it was time to get acquainted with the gentleman up front.

“What’s your name?” she asked. She had known many Negroes, mostly writers, poets, musicians, and those who acted on the stage, all her parents’ friends. But there had been others too. During her excursions through the city with her mother, Lou had met colored people who loaded the trash, flagged down the cabs, heaved the bags, scooted after others’ children, cleaned the streets, washed the windows, shined the shoes, cooked the food, and did the laundry, and took, in amicable measures, the insults and tips of their white clientele.

This fellow driving, he was different, because he apparently didn’t like to talk. Back in New York Lou had befriended one kindly old gentleman who worked a lowly job at Yankee Stadium, where she and her father would sometimes steal away to games. This old man, only a shade darker than the peanuts he sold, had told her that a colored man would talk your ear off every day of the week except the Sabbath, when he’d let God and the women have their shot.

The big fellow just continued to drive; his gaze didn’t even creep to the rearview mirror when Lou spoke. A lack of curiosity was something Lou could not tolerate in her fellow man.

“My parents named me Louisa Mae Cardinal, after my great-grandmother. I go by Lou, though, just Lou. My dad is John Jacob Cardinal. He’s a very famous writer. You’ve probably heard of him.”

The young man didn’t grunt or even wiggle a finger. The road ahead apparently held fascination for him that a dose of Cardinal family history simply could not compete with.

Getting into his sister’s spirited attempt at conversation, Oz said, “He’s dead, but our mom’s not.”

This indelicate comment drew an immediate scowl from Lou, and just as quickly Oz looked out the window, ostensibly to admire the countryside.

They were thrown forward a little when the Hudson came to an abrupt stop.

The young boy standing there was a little older than Lou, but about the same height. His red hair was all crazy-angled cowlicks, which still failed to cover conical ears that could easily have caught on a nail. He wore a stained long john shirt and dirty overalls that didn’t manage to hide bony ankles. His feet were bare even though the air wasn’t warm. He carried a long, hand-whittled cane fishing pole and a dented tackle box, which appeared to have once been blue. There was a black-and-tan mutt of a dog next to him, its lumpy pink tongue hanging out. The boy put his pole and box through the Hudson’s open rear window and climbed in the front seat like he owned it, his dog following his relaxed lead.

“Howdy-howdy, Hell No,” the stranger boy said amiably to the driver, who acknowledged this newcomer with an ever-so-slight nod of the head.

Lou and Oz looked at each other in puzzlement over this very odd greeting.

Like a pop-up toy, the visitor poked his head over the seat and stared at them. He had more than an adequate crop of freckles on his flat cheeks, a small mound of nose that carried still more freckles, and out of the sun his hair seemed even redder. His eyes were the color of raw peas, and together with the hair they made Lou think of Christmas wrapping paper.

“I bet I knowed me what, y’all Miss Louisa’s people, ain’tcha?” he said in a pleasant drawl, his smile endearingly impish.

Lou nodded slowly. “I’m Lou. This is my brother, Oz,” she said, with an easy courtesy, if only to show she wasn’t nervous.

Swift as a salesman’s grin, the boy shook hands with them. His fingers were strong, with many fine examples of the countryside imbedded in each of them. Indeed, if he’d ever had fingernails, it was difficult to tell under this remarkable collection of dirt. Lou and Oz both couldn’t help but stare at those fingers.

He must have noted their looks, because he said, “Been to digging worms since afore light. Candle in one hand, tin can in the other. Dirty work, y’all know.” He said this matter-of-factly, as though for years they all had knelt side by side under a hot sun hunting skinny bait.

Oz looked at his own hand and saw there the transfers of rich soil from the handshake. He smiled because it was as though the two had just undertaken the blood brother ritual. A brother! Now that was something Oz could get excited about.

The red-haired young man grinned good-naturedly, showing that most of his teeth were where they were supposed to be, though not many of them were what one could call either straight or white.

“Name’s Jimmy Skinner,” he said by way of modest introduction, “but folk call me Diamond, ’cause my daddy say that how hard my head be. This here hound’s Jeb.”

At the sound of his name Jeb poked his fluffy head over the seat and Diamond gave each of the dog’s ears a playful tug. Then he looked at Oz.

“That a right funny name fer a body. Oz.”

Now Oz looked worried under the scrutiny of his blood brother. Was their partnership not to be?

Lou answered for him. “His real name is Oscar. As in Oscar Wilde. Oz is a nickname, like in the Wizard of.”

His gaze on the ceiling of the Hudson, Diamond considered these facts, obviously searching his memory.

“Never tell of no Wildes up here.” He paused, thinking hard again, the wrinkles on his brow crazy-lined. “And wizard’a what ’xactly?”

Lou could not hide her astonishment. “The book? The movie? Judy Garland?”

“The Munchkins? And the Cowardly Lion?” added Oz.

“Ain’t never been to no pitcher show.” Diamond glanced at Oz’s bear and a disapproving look simmered on his face. “You right big fer that, now ain’tcha, son?”

This sealed it for Oz. He sadly wiped his hand clean on the seat, annulling his and Diamond’s solemn covenant.

Lou leaned forward so close she could smell Diamond’s breath. “That’s none of your business, is it?”

A chastened Diamond slumped in the front seat and let Jeb idly lick dirt and worm juice from his fingers. It was as though Lou had spit at the boy using words.

The ambulance was far ahead of them, driving slowly.

“I sorry your ma hurt,” said Diamond, in the manner of passing the peace pipe.

“She’s going to get better,” said Oz, always nimbler on the draw than was Lou with matters concerning their mother.

Lou stared out the window, arms across her chest.

“Hell No,” said Diamond, “just plop me off over to the bridge. Catch me anythin’ good, I bring it fer supper. Tell Miss Louisa?”

Lou watched as Hell No edged his blunt chin forward, apparently signaling a big, happy “Okay, Diamond!”

The boy popped up over the seat again. “Hey, y’all fancy good lard-fried fish fer supper?” His expression was hopeful, his intentions no doubt honorable; however, Lou was unwilling just now to make friends.

“We all shore would, Diamond. Then maybe we can find us a pitcher show in this one-horse town.”

As soon as Lou said this, she regretted it. It wasn’t just the disappointed look on Diamond’s face; it was also the fact that she had just blasphemed the place where her father had grown up. She caught herself looking to heaven, watching for grim lightning bolts, or maybe sudden rains, like tears falling.

“From some big city, ain’tcha?” Diamond said.

Lou drew her gaze from the sky. “The biggest. New York,” she said.

“Huh, well, y’all don’t be telling folks round here that.”