Wish You Well(13)

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 tfieir

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