Wish You Well (33 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.”
Lou folded the letter and looked at Louisa, hoping she had done the right thing by reading the words to her. Lou wondered if the young Jack Cardinal had noticed that the story had become far more personal when it addressed the issue of a crumbling marriage.
Louisa stared into the fire. She was silent for a few minutes and then said, “It be a hard life up here, ’specially for a child. And it hard on husband and wife, though I ain’t never suffered that. If my momma and daddy ever said a cross word to the other, I ain’t never heard it. And me and my man Joshua get along to the minute he took his last breath. But I know it not that way for your daddy up here. Jake and his wife, they had their words.”
Lou took a quick breath and said, “Dad wanted you to come and live with us. Would you have?”
She looked at Lou. “You ask me why I don’t never leave this place? I love this land, Lou, ’cause it won’t never let me down. If the crops don’t come, I eat the apples or wild strawberries that always do, or the roots that’s there right under the soil, if’n you know where to look. If it snow ten-foot deep, I can get along. Rain or hail, or summer heat that melt tar, I get by. I find water where there ain’t supposed to be none, I get on. Me and the land. Me and this mountain. That ain’t prob’ly mean nothing to folks what can have light by pushing a little knob, or talk to people they can’t even see.” She paused and drew a breath. “But it means everything to me.” She looked into the fire once more. “All your daddy say is true. High rock be beautiful. High rock be cruel.” She gazed at Lou and added quietly, “And the mountain is my home.”
Lou leaned her head against Louisa’s chest. The woman stroked Lou’s hair very gently with her hand as they sat there by the fire’s warmth.
And then Lou said something she thought she never would. “And now it’s my home too.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Flakes of snow were dropping from the bellies of bloated clouds. Near the barn there came a whooshing sound and then a spark of harsh light that kept right on growing.
Inside the farmhouse Lou groaned in the throes of a nightmare. Her and Oz’s beds had been moved to the front room, by the coal fire, and they were bundled under crazy quilts Louisa had sewn over the years. In Lou’s tortured sleep she heard a noise, but couldn’t tell what it was. She opened her eyes, sat up. There came a scratching at the door. In an instant Lou was alert. She opened the door and Jeb burst in, yipping and jumping.
“Jeb, what is it? What’s wrong?”
Then she heard the screams of the farm animals.
Lou ran out in her nightshirt. Jeb followed her, barking, and Lou saw what had spooked him: The barn was fully ablaze. She ran back to the house, screamed out what was happening, and then raced to the barn.
Eugene appeared at the front door of the farmhouse, saw the fire, and hurried out, Oz at his heels.
When Lou threw open the big barn door, smoke and flames leapt out at her.
“Sue! Bran!” she screamed as the smoke hit her lungs; she could feel the hairs on her arms rise from the heat.
Eugene fast-limped past her, plunged into the barn, and then came right back out, gagging. Lou looked at the trough of water by the corral and a blanket hanging over the fence. She grabbed the blanket and plunged it into the cold water.
“Eugene, put this over you.”
Eugene covered himself with the wet blanket and then lunged back into the barn.
Inside a beam dropped down and barely missed Eugene. Smoke and fire were everywhere. Eugene was as familiar with the insides of this barn as he was with anything on the farm, yet it was as though he had been struck blind. He finally got to Sue, who was thrashing in her stall, threw open the door, and put a rope around the terrified mare’s neck.
Eugene stumbled out of the barn with Sue, threw the rope to Lou, who led the horse away with assistance from Louisa and Oz, and then Eugene went back into the barn. Lou and Oz hauled buckets of water from the springhouse, but Lou knew it was like trying to melt snow with your breath. Eugene drove out the mules and all the cows except one. But they lost every hog. And all their hay, and most of their tools and harnesses. The sheep were wintered outside, but the loss was still a devastating one.
Louisa and Lou watched from the porch as the barn, bare studs now, continued to burn. Eugene stood by the corral where he had driven the livestock. Oz was next to him with a bucket of water to dump on any creep of fire.
Then Eugene called out, “She coming down,” and he pulled Oz away. The barn collapsed in on itself, the flames leaping skyward and the snow gently falling into this inferno.
Louisa stared in obvious agony at this ruin, as though she were caught in the flames herself. Lou tightly held her hand and was quick to notice when Louisa’s fingers began to shake, the strong grip suddenly becoming impossibly weak.
“Louisa?”
The woman dropped to the porch without a word.
“Louisa!”
The girl’s anguished cries echoed across the stark, cold valley.
Cotton, Lou, and Oz stood next to the hospital bed where Louisa lay. It had been a wild ride down the mountain in the old Hudson, gears thrashed by a frantic Eugene, engine whining, wheels slipping and then catching in the snowy dirt. The car almost went over the edge twice. Lou and Oz had clung to Louisa, praying that she would not leave them. They had gotten her to the small hospital in Dickens, and then Lou had run and rousted Cotton from his bed. Eugene had gone back up to look after Amanda and the animals.
Travis Barnes was attending her, and the man looked worried. The hospital was also his home, and the sight of a dining room table and a General Electric refrigerator had not comforted Lou.
“How is she, Travis?” asked Cotton.
Barnes looked at the children and then pulled Cotton to the side. “She’s had a stroke,” he said in a low voice. “Looks to be some paralysis on the left side.”
“Is she going to recover?” This came from Lou, who had heard everything.
Travis delivered a woeful shrug. “There’s not much we can do for her. The next forty-eight hours are critical. If I thought she could make the trip, I’d have sent her on to the hospital in Roanoke. We’re not exactly equipped for this sort of thing. You can go on home. I’ll send word if her condition changes.”
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