Wish You Well(65)

ditch." "That's Billy's mother?"

Louisa nodded, as the wagon swayed along, the woods close oji either side of them, their

only light that arcing lamp-To Lou it appeared either as a beacon, true and reliable, or as

a Siren of sorts, leading them to shipwreck. "First wife die in childbirth. His children by

that poor woman got away from George fast as they could, afore he could work or beat or

starve 'em to death." "Why did Sally marry him if he was so bad?" " 'Cause he got his

own land, livestock, and he were a widower with a strong back. Up here, 'bout all it takes.

And weren't nothing else for Sally. She were only fifteen."

"Fifteen! That's only three years older than me." "People get married quick up here. Start

birthing, raising a family to help work the land. How it goes. I was in front of the

preacher at fo'teen." "She could have left the mountain." "All she ever know. Scary thing

leave that." "Did you ever think of leaving the mountain?" Louisa thought about this for a

number of turns of the wagon wheel. "I could'a if'n I wanted. But I ain't believe in my

heart I be happier anywhere else. Went down the Valley one time. Wind blow strange

over flat land. Ain't liked it too much. Me and this mountain get along right fine for the

most part." She fell silent, her eyes watching the rise and fall of the light up ahead. Lou

said, "I saw the graves up behind the house." Louisa stiffened a bit. "Did you?" "Who

was Annie?"

Louisa stared at her feet. "Annie were my daughter."

"I thought you only had Jacob."

"No. I had me my little Annie."

"Did she die young?"

"She lived but a minute."

Lou could sense her distress. "I'm sorry. I was just curious about my family."

Louisa settled back against the hard wood of the wagon seat and stared at the black sky as

though it was the first time she'd ever gazed upon it.

"I always had me a hard time carrying the babies. Wanted me a big family, but I kept on

losing 'em long afore they ready to be born. Longest time I thought Jake be it. But then

Annie were born on a cool spring evening with a full mane'a black hair. She come quick,

no time for midwife. It were a terrible hard birth. But oh, Lou, she were so purty. So

warm. Her little fingers wrapped tight round mine, tips not even touching." Here Louisa

stopped. The sounds of the mules trotting along and the turn of wagon wheel were the

only noises. Louisa finally continued in a low voice, as she eyed the depthless sky. "And

her Utile chest rose and fell, rose and fell, and then it just forgit to rise agin. It t'were

amazing how quick she took cold, but then she were so tiny." Louisa took a number of

quick breaths, as though still trying to breathe for her child. "It were like a bit of ice on

your tongue on a hot day. Feel so good, and then it gone so fast you ain't sure it was ever

there."

Lou put her hand over Louisa's. "I'm sorry."

"Long time ago, though it don't never seem it." Louisa slid a hand across her eyes. "Her

daddy made her coffin, no more'n a little box. And I stayed up all night and\ sewed her

the finest dress I ever stitched in my whole life. Come morning I laid her out in it. I

would'a give all I had to see her eyes looking at me just one time. It ain't seem right that a

momma don't get to see her baby's eyes just one time. And then her daddy put her in that

little box, we carried her on up to that knoll, and laid her to rest and prayed over her. And

then we planted an evergreen on the south end so she'd have her shade all year round."

Louisa closed her eyes.

"Did you ever go up there?"

Louisa nodded. "Ever day. But I ain't been back since I buried my other child. It just got

to be too long a walk."

She took the reins from Lou and, despite her own earlier warning, Louisa whipped up the

mules. "We best get on. We got a child to help into the world this night."

Lou could not make out much of the Davis farmyard or the buildings because of the

darkness, and she prayed that George Davis would stay in the barn until the baby was

born and they were gone.

The house was surprisingly small. The room they entered was obviously the kitchen,

because the stove was there, but there were also cots with bare mattresses lined up here.

In three of the beds were a like number of children, two of them, who looked to be twin

girls about five, lying naked and asleep. The third, a boy Oz's age, had on a man's

undershirt, dirty and sweat-stained, and he watched Lou and Louisa with frightened eyes.

Lou recognized him as the other boy from the tractor coming down the mountain. In an