Wish You Well(76)

"But what do you get?" asked Oz, as he examined his inherited spoils.

Lou picked up the box and took out the lump of coal, the one allegedly containing the

diamond. She would make it her mission to chip carefully away at it, for as long as it

took, until the brilliant center was finally revealed, and then she would go and bury it

with Diamond. When she noted the small piece of wood lying on the floor in the back of

the tree house, she sensed what it was before ever she picked it up. It was a whittled

piece, not yet finished.

It was cut from hickory, shape of a heart, the letter L carved on one side, an almost

finished D on the other. Diamond Skinner had known his letters. Lou pocketed me wood

and coal, climbed down the tree, and didn't stop running until she was back home.

They had, of course, adopted the loyal Jeb, and he seemed comfortable around them,

though he would sometimes grow depressed and pine for his old master. Yet he too

seemed to enjoy the trips Lou and Oz took to see Diamond's grave, and the dog, in the

mysterious way of the canine pet, would start to yip and do spins in the air when they

drew near to it. Lou and Oz would spread fall leaves over the mound and sit and talk to

Diamond and to each other and retell the funny things the boy had done or said, and there

was no short supply of either. Then they would wipe their eyes and head home, sure in

their hearts that his spirit was roaming freely on his beloved mountain, his hair just as

stuck up, his smile just as wide, his feet just as bare. Diamond Skinner had had no

material possessions to his name and yet had been the happiest creature Lou had ever

met. He and God would no doubt get along famously.

They prepared for winter by sharpening tools with the grinder and rattail files, mucking

out the stalls and spreading the manure over the plowed-under fields. Louisa had been

wrong about that, though, for Lou never grew to love the smell of manure. They brought

the livestock in, kept them fed and watered, milked the cows, and did their other chores,

which now all seemed as natural as breathing. They carried jugs of milk and butter, and

jars of mixed pickles in vinegar and brine, and canned sauerkraut and beans down to the

partially underground dairy house, which had thick log walls, daubed and chinked, and

paper stuffed where mud had fallen away. And they repaired everything on the farm that

called for it.

School started, and, true to his father's words, Billy Davis never came back. No mention

was made of his absence, as though the boy had never existed. Lou found herself thinking

of him from time to time, though, and hoped he was all right.

After chores were done one late fall evening, Louisa sent Lou and Oz down to the creek

that ran on the south side of the property to fetch balls from the sycamore trees that grew

in abundance there. The balls had sharp stickers, but Louisa told them they would be used

for Christmas decorations. Christmas was still a ways off, but Lou and Oz did as they

were told.

When they got back, they were surprised to see Cotton's car in front. The house was dark

and they cautiously opened the door, unsure of what they would find. The lights flew up

as Louisa and Eugene took the black cloths from around the lanterns and they and Cotton

called out "Happy Birthday," in a most excited tone. And it was their birthday, both of

them, for Lou and Oz had been born on the same day, five years apart, as Amanda had

informed Louisa in one of her letters. Lou was officially a teenager now, and Oz had

survived to the ripe old age of eight.

A wild-strawberry pie was on the table, along with cups of hot cider. Two small candles

were in the pie and Oz and Lou together blew them out. Louisa pulled out the presents

she had been working on all this time, on her Singer sewing machine: a Chop bag dress

for Lou that was a pretty floral pattern of red and green, and a smart jacket, trousers, and

white shirt for Oz that had been created from clothes Cotton had given her.

Eugene had carved two whistles for them that gave off different tunes, such that they

could communicate when apart in the deep woods or across acres of field. The mountains

would send an echo to the sun and back, Louisa told them. They gave their whistles a

blast, which tickled their lips, making them giggle.

Cotton presented Lou with a book of poems by Walt Whitman. "My ancestor's superior in

the arena of the poem, if I may so humbly admit," he said. And then he pulled from a box

something that made Oz forget to breathe. The baseball mitts were things of beauty, welloiled, worn to perfection, smelling of fine leather, sweat, and summer grass, and no doubt

holding timeless and cherished childhood dreams. "They were mine growing up," Cotton

said. "But I'm embarrassed to admit that while I'm not that good of a lawyer, I'm a far