Wish You Well

CHAPTER SIX

The train station at Rainwater Ridge was no more than a glorified pine-studded lean-to, with a single cracked and spider-webbed window and an opening for a door but no door to fill the space. A narrow jump separated this wreck of nail and board from the railroad track. The channeled wind was fierce as it fought its way through the gaps in rock and tree, and the faces of the few folk hanging about, along with the runted trees, evidenced the blunt force of its chisel.

Lou and Oz watched as their mother was loaded into an ancient ambulance. As the nurse climbed into the vehicle, she scowled back at her charges, the confrontation of the day before obviously still rankling her.

When the doors of the vehicle closed, Lou pulled the quartz necklace from her coat pocket and handed it to Oz.

“I slipped into her room before she got up. It was still in her pocket.”

Oz smiled, pocketed the precious item, and then reached on tiptoe to give his sister a kiss on the cheek. The two stood next to their luggage, patiently awaiting Louisa Mae Cardinal.

Their skin was scrubbed raw, each hair on their heads assiduously brushed—Lou had taken extra time with Oz. They were dressed in their very best clothes, which managed barely to conceal their pounding hearts. They had been there for a minute when they sensed someone behind them.

The Negro man was young and, in keeping with the geography, ruggedly built. He was tall and wide of shoulder, deep-chested, with arms like slabs of ham, a waist not small but not soft either, and legs long but one oddly pushed out where calf met knee. His skin was the color of deep rust and pleasing to the eye. He was looking down at his feet, which necessarily drew Lou’s gaze to them. His old work boots were so big a newborn could have slept in them with some room to spare, the girl observed. His overalls were as worn as the shoes, but they were clean, or as clean as the dirt and wind would allow anything to be up here. Lou held out her hand, but he did not take it.

Instead, with one impressive move, he picked up all their bags, then flicked his head toward the road. Lou interpreted this as “hello,” “come on,” and “I’ll tell you my name maybe later,” all wrapped into one efficient motion. He limped off, the bulging leg now revealed to be a bum one. Lou and Oz looked at each other and then trudged after him. Oz clutched his bear and Lou’s hand. No doubt the boy would have tugged the train after them if he could have somehow managed it, so as to effect a quick escape if needed.

The long-bodied Hudson four-door sedan was the color of a sweet pickle. The car was old but clean inside. Its tall, exposed radiator looked like a tombstone, and its two front fenders were missing, as was the rear window glass. Lou and Oz sat in the backseat while the man drove. He worked the long stick shift with an easy skill, nary a gear ever left grinding.

After the woeful state of the train station, Lou had not expected much in the way of civilization up here. However, after only twenty minutes on the road they entered a town of fair size, though in New York City such a meager collection of structures would hardly have filled one sorry block.

A sign announced that they were entering the township of Dickens, Virginia. The main street was two-laned and paved with asphalt. Well-kept structures of wood and brick lined both sides of it. One such building rose five stories, its vacancy sign proclaiming it to be a hotel at fair rates. Automobiles were plentiful here, mostly bulky Ford and Chrysler sedans, and hefty trucks of various makes adorned with mud. All were parked slantwise in front of the buildings.

There were general stores, restaurants, and an open-door warehouse with box towers of Domino sugar and Quick napkins, Post Toasties and Quaker Oats visible inside. There was an automobile dealership with shiny cars in the window, and next to that an Esso gas station sporting twin pumps with bubble tops and a uniformed man with a big smile filling up the tank of a dented La Salle sedan, with a dusty Nash two-door waiting behind it. A big Coca-Cola soda cap was hanging in front of one café, and an Eveready Battery sign was bolted to the wall of a hardware shop. Telephone and electrical poles of poplar ran down one side of the street, black cables snaking out from them to each of the structures. Another shop announced the sale of pianos and organs for cash at good prices. A movie theater was on one corner, a laundry on another. Gas street lamps ran down both sides of the road, like big, lit matchsticks.

The sidewalks were crowded with folks. They ranged from well-dressed women with stylish hairdos topped by modest hats, to bent, grimy men who, Lou thought, probably toiled here in the coal mines she had read about.

As they passed through, the last building of significance was also the grandest. It was red brick with an elegant two-story pediment portico, supported by paired Greek Ionic columns, and had a steeply pitched, hammered tin roof painted black, with a brick clock tower top-hatting it. The Virginia and American flags snapped out front in the fine breeze. The elegant red brick, however, sat on a foundation of ugly, scored concrete. This curious pairing struck Lou as akin to fine pants over filthy boots. The carved words above the columns simply read: “Court House.” And then they left the finite sprawl of Dickens behind.

Lou sat back puzzled. Her father’s stories had been filled with tales of the brutish mountains, and the primitive life there, where hunters squatted near campfires of hickory sticks and cooked their kill and drank their bitter coffee; where farmers rose before the sun and worked the land till they collapsed; where miners dug into the earth, filling their lungs with black that would eventually kill them; and where lumberjacks swept virgin forests clean with the measured strokes of ax and saw. Quick wits, a sound knowledge of the land, and a strong back were essential up here. Danger roamed the steep slopes and loamy valleys, and the magisterial high rock presided over both men and beasts, sharply defining the limits of their ambition, of their lives. A place like Dickens, with its paved roads, hotel, Coca-Cola signs, and pianos for cash at good prices, had no right to be here. Yet Lou suddenly realized that the time period her father had written about had been well over twenty years ago.

She sighed. Everything, even the mountains and its people, apparently, changed. Now Lou assumed her great-grandmother probably lived in a quite ordinary neighborhood with quite ordinary neighbors. Perhaps she had a cat and went to have her hair done every Saturday at a shop that smelled of chemicals and cigarette smoke. Lou and Oz would drink orange soda pop on the front porch and go to church on Sunday and wave to people as they passed in their cars, and life would not be all that much different than it had been in New York. And while there was absolutely nothing wrong with that, it was not the dense, breathtaking wilderness Lou had been expecting. It was not the life her father had experienced and then written about, and Lou was clearly disappointed.

The car passed through more miles of trees, soaring rock and dipping valleys, and then Lou saw another sign. This town was named Tremont. This was probably it, she thought. Tremont appeared roughly one-third the size of Dickens. About fifteen cars were slant-parked in front of shops similar to those in the larger town, only there was no high-rise building, no courthouse, and the asphalt road had given way to macadam and gravel. Lou also spotted the occasional horse rider, and then Tremont was behind them, and the ground moved higher still. Her great-grandmother, Lou surmised, must live on the outskirts of Tremont.

The next place they passed had no sign naming its location, and the scant number of buildings and few people they saw didn’t seem enough to justify a name. The road was now dirt, and the Hudson swayed from side to side over this humble pack of shifting earth. Lou saw a shallow post office building, and next to that was a leaning pile of boards with no sign out front, and steps that had the rot. And finally there was a good-sized general store with the name “McKenzie’s” on the wall; crates of sugar, flour, salt, and pepper were piled high outside. In one window of McKenzie’s hung a pair of blue overalls, harnesses, and a kerosene lamp. And that was about all there was of the nameless stop along the poor road.

As they drifted over the soft dirt, they passed silent, sunken-eyed men, faces partially covered by wispy beards; they wore dirty one-piece overalls, slouch hats, and lumpy brogans, and traveled on foot, mule, or horse. A woman with vacant eyes, a droopy face, and bony limbs, clothed in a gingham blouse and a homespun woolen skirt bunched at the waist with pins, rocked along in a small schooner wagon pulled by a pair of mules. In the back of the wagon was a pile of children riding burlap seed bags bigger than they were. Running parallel to the road here a long coal train was stopped under a water tower and taking in big gulps, steam belching out from its throat with each greedy swallow. On another mountain in the distance Lou could see a coal tipple on wooden stilts, and another line of coal cars passing underneath this structure, like a column of obedient ants.

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.”

Oz gaped at his ex–blood brother. “Why not?”

“Right chere’s good, Hell No. Come on now, Jeb.”

Hell No stopped the car. Directly in front of them was the bridge, although it was the puniest such one Lou had ever seen. It was a mere twenty feet of warped wooden planks laid over six-by-six tarred railroad ties, with an arch of rusted metal on either side to prevent one from plummeting all of five feet into what looked to be a creek full of more flat rock than water. Suicide by bridge jumping did not appear to be a realistic option here. And, judging from the shallow water, Lou did not hold out much hope for a lard-fried fish dinner, not that such a meal sounded particularly appealing to her anyway.

As Diamond pulled his gear from the back of the Hudson, Lou, who was a little sorry for what she had said, but more curious than sorry, leaned over the seat and whispered to him through the open rear window.

“Why do you call him Hell No?”

Her unexpected attention brought Diamond back to good spirits and he smiled at her. “ ’Cause that be his name,” he said in an inoffensive manner. “He live with Miss Louisa.”

“Where did he get that kind of a name?”

Diamond glanced toward the front seat and pretended to fiddle with something in his tackle box. In a low voice he said, “His daddy pass through these parts when Hell No ain’t no more’n a baby. Plunked him right on the dirt. Well, a body say to him, ‘You gonna come back, take that child?’ And he say, ‘Hell no.’ Now, Hell No, he never done nobody wrong his whole life. Ain’t many folk say that. And no rich ones.”

Diamond grabbed his tackle box and swung the pole to his shoulder. He walked to the bridge, whistling a tune, and Hell No drove the Hudson across, the structure groaning and complaining with each turn of the car wheels. Diamond waved and Oz returned it with his stained hand, hope welling back for maybe a friendship of enduring degree with Jimmy “Diamond” Skinner, crimson-crowned fisherboy of the mountain.

Lou simply stared at the front seat. At a man named Hell No.