The Well-Wishers Read online

  My heart sank, because I had promised to call on Sylvia at Hopeful Hill, and if Miss Wilson kept me, I might be too late.

  But the whole day went on just like that. I was as bad in history and English as I was in arithmetic.

  By the time it was three o'clock and I was staying after, I was so sleepy and worried and mixed up that I couldn't even remember what a least common denominator was. Miss Wilson put her book down. "Gordon Witherspoon," she said, "exactly what is on your mind?"

  I decided to throw myself on her mercy. Maybe the magic would melt her. Because nothing else would.

  So I said, "Miss Wilson, do you believe in wishes?" And I went on to tell her about the well, and about everything that had happened.

  I guess the magic worked, for by the time I finished about Sylvia, Miss Wilson didn't look like herself at all. Usually she is sort of hard and dry, and as if she'd been breathing too much chalk dust. Now her face was soft.

  "The poor little thing," she murmured. "The poor little thing." Then she pulled herself together and shut her book with a snap. "Gordon Witherspoon," she said, "this foolishness can wait. Come with me."

  We got our hats and coats from the cloakroom and I followed her down the stairs and into her car, which was a treat, because she drives a Thunderbird, and fast. First we stopped at her house, which is big and white on a big neat lawn on Main Street, and Miss Wilson ran inside. She was out again in ten seconds, carrying a big box tied with pink ribbon. And we headed for Hopeful Hill.

  In the lobby we had a little trouble with a bossy nurse, because it wasn't visiting hours. But Miss Wilson was grand. "I," she said, "am Ermentrude Wilson." Just as if she were saying she was Queen Elizabeth. So now I know what Miss Wilson's first name is. On our grade cards she always puts just "E. Wilson," and no wonder. But I will never tell.

  Just then Doctor Lovely appeared, and after that it was all right. We went into the little side room and pretty soon a nurse brought Sylvia, just like the day before. Sylvia ran right over to me and took my hand.

  "Hello," she said. "You're late." And she smiled. When she saw the smile, Miss Wilson went all soft and started murmuring, "Poor little thing" again.

  Sylvia's face began to pucker and I was worried. It seemed to me she had probably been called a poor little thing often enough already, and it is no good feeling sorry for yourself. I know.

  But Miss Wilson has sense, and right away she brisked up again. She looked at me and maybe I gave her an idea. Because suddenly she did that same joke I'd told her about, pushing back her scalp and saying her ponytail was too tight. On Miss Wilson it looked awful. Sylvia laughed and laughed.

  And then Miss Wilson said, "Sylvia, I have brought you a present," and handed her the box, but sensibly let her untie the pink ribbon herself.

  I would be the last to know about dolls, but I would say the doll in that box was tops, for a doll. Sylvia's eyes got big and round and she said, "Oh!"

  "It was mine when I was your age," Miss Wilson told her. "No one has played with it since. At my house I have every doll and dollhouse I have ever owned. I was saving them for ... but never mind. Perhaps you would like to come and see them."

  And then she left Sylvia playing with the doll and drew Doctor Lovely aside. They seemed to forget I was there. But I could still hear.

  "I wonder," she said, "if you would let me take Sylvia. I have a large home and ample means. I have been teaching school in this town for twenty-five years. The Board of Education will vouch for me. Perhaps just at first she could visit in my classroom, till she is ready to join the third grade. And after school"—she smiled rather sadly I thought—"I have all the time in the world. I have always wanted a child of my own."

  Doctor Lovely looked at her, and I guess she approved of what she saw. "Why not ask Sylvia?" she said.

  "Sylvia," said Miss Wilson, "would you like to come visit me and my dollhouses for a while? Perhaps you might even want to stay."

  Sylvia turned to me. "Would you come and see me?"

  "Sure," I said. "But you'll be making friends of your own once you're in the third grade." I do not know any of the kids in three-one-A personally, but I am sure there are lots of good types.

  Sylvia smiled round at all of us. "All right," she said.

  It seemed to me the adventure was over. I had to hand it to the magic for working everything out just fine. I staited edging away, but Miss Wilson looked up. "Wait," she said, and she followed me to the door.

  "Gordon," she went on, "I know that you have friends in Mrs. Van Nest's class. I have been wondering if you wouldn't be happier with them. It is a fast group, of course, but I think if you enjoyed school more, you might do better work and be able to keep up."

  I couldn't believe it. The thought of being with Kip and James and Laura and Lydia was too much. Still, maybe they'd get tired of me if I were there all the time. And they would be disgusted if they saw how dumb I can be in class, sometimes.

  But that wasn't really it. The thing was, it seemed mean to leave Miss Wilson now, just when I was getting to know what she was really like. Perhaps I could help her with Sylvia, too, at first.

  So I said, "Let's wait till midyears, and then see.

  Miss Wilson's face looked funny. "Thank you, Gordon," she said. And then she went down on her knees by Sylvia again.

  I looked at Doctor Lovely. She grinned. "Congratulations, Hippocrates," she said.

  I do not know why she keeps calling me these names. But I grinned a crocodile grin right back. "So long," I said. "I'll be seeing you." And I ran out of Hopeful Hill and all the way down Silvermine Road as fast as I could, to tell the others all about it.

  3. Laura Organizes

  This is Laura writing now because it was my turn next.

  If this were a real book, I would probably start out by telling how we waited for Gordy after school that day, and how he didn't come, and how worried we all were. And I would say things like "Meanwhile, back at the school" and "had I but known."

  But what would be the point, when you already know exactly where Gordy was and what he was doing?

  It is those parts in books that James and I always skip. I only mention it at all because it was while we were waiting for Gordy that Dicky LeBaron came swaggering up to us, and you might as well know about him now as later. He was wearing black denim trousers and motorcycle boots and a black leather jacket as usual, and he was just as hateful-acting as usual, too.

  "If you're looking for your rich friend," he said, "he had to stay after." And then he sort of sneered, and went swaggering away.

  Lydia started after him, but I stopped her. There is no point in talking to some people. Consider the source is what I say.

  Dicky LeBaron is the kind of person that I used to think only happened in cities, and then people write plays and articles about them and call them juvenile delinquents. It was quite a shock to find that they can turn up in the country, too.

  Dicky had never been anything but insulting to me, and I was sure he bullied Gordy in six-one-B, though Gordy would never say. As for Lydia, she and Dicky were old enemies. Lydia often boasted of what she would do to Dicky LeBaron if she had the chance, and sometimes I thought it might be interesting to let her try. But right now our bus was waiting.

  In the bus we forgot Dicky LeBaron and argued about what to do next with the magic. James thought Gordy's staying after school meant we were free to take over and rescue Sylvia from durance vile. When we passed Hopeful Hill, he and Kip wanted to get out and deploy about the building, at least. But I thought we ought to go to the red house and wait for Gordy. So that's what we did, and pretty soon he came running down the road and told us all about Sylvia and Miss Wilson.

  I thought it was a beautiful happy ending like a movie, but Lydia was indignant. "What kind of magic is that?" she said. "Saving her from one old witch just to hand her over to another!"

  Gordy looked stubborn. "You don't know Miss Wilson," he said. "She's all right."

  Lydia wasn'
t satisfied. "If I'd been there, the ending would have been different. But the whole adventure just skipped everybody but Gordy!"

  "Don't you see why? I do," I said. "It's because I was mean and grabby when Gordy made the wish. So the well left us right out of the whole thing."

  "Moral lessons," said Lydia. "When I get my adventure, I'm not going to let any old moral lesson come into it at all."

  That is how she always talks. As to whether or not it worked out that way when she came to have her turn, let that remain to be seen.

  I will not tell about the next few days, because James said we would leave out the times when nothing happened. Suffice to say that nothing did.

  Except that every day Gordy went to see Sylvia and took a different one of us along each time. So far as anyone could see, Sylvia and Miss Wilson were getting along fine. "But just wait," said Lydia.

  All this while, of course, we kept our eyes peeled for good turns that needed doing, wherever we went. But no long-lost heirs or damsels in distress were forthcoming, and by Saturday I decided we should stay home and try letting the magic come to us. There were a lot of leaves that needed raking, and maybe if we attended to those, the magic would see how useful we were being and take a hint.

  So Kip and Gordy and Lydia and I raked, while Deborah buried herself in the piles of leaves and James sat on the wellhead and read us interesting bits from the Advertiser out loud.

  The Advertiser is our town newspaper and it comes out every week, but James is the only one of us who ever looks at it much. James likes to keep up with everything. He even reads the letters to the editor. It was one of those that he read to us now.

  "Dear Sir:

  Here's good luck to our new railroad station.

  A Well-Wisher"

  "Honestly, did you ever hear of anything so feeble?" he went on. "If I didn't have anything better than that to say, I wouldn't write a letter to the editor at all."

  "What does it mean?" I wondered. "We don't have a new railroad station. Do we?"

  "Maybe it's a secret code," said Kip.

  "Maybe it's somebody who's got a well like ours, with wishes in it," said Deborah, poking her head up from the nearest leaf pile.

  James stared at her. "Out of the mouths of babes!" he said.

  "You mean," said Kip, "that maybe there're other people with magic in this town, too?"

  "Why not?" said James. "When you think of all the magic there must be, floating around. And when you think of all the wells people have in their front yards. Maybe it's a whole organization, and we've just joined the club."

  This was an exciting idea. "Or if there isn't," I said, "we could start one. We could organize all the people with wells, to work together. If we all wished at the same time, there's nothing we couldn't do. I think it's a sign. I think it's what the magic wants. James was sitting right on the well when he read the letter. Probably the magic seeped through. Probably if he'd been sitting somewhere else, there wouldn't have been any letter at all. Anyway, we've got a name now. We're Well-Wishers from today on. We wish everybody well, don't we? It stands to reason."

  Since it was my turn for an adventure, everybody had to agree. But I think they all liked the idea, too. We decided to start right out and investigate the wells on our own Silvermine Road first. But we took our bikes along, because there was no telling how far the organization might spread. Gordy rode Deborah on his handlebars as usual.

  But first I went over to our own well and looked down. "Thank you for the message," I told it. "Did we get it right? Now just keep on cooperating, please."

  And we started up Silvermine Road.

  The first well we came to was awfully pretty, with iron curlicues all over it and vines trained around. But when we looked down, we saw that it wasn't a real well at all, but just decoration. Some people would do anything for show.

  The next well had a sign on the lawn saying, "Beware of the dog," and we didn't and we wished we had. I don't know how many wells we missed before the dog got tired of chasing us and went home.

  The third well ought to have been the lucky one, but while we were investigating it, a little old lady came out of the house and said yes, it was a wishing well, and every morning when the morning glories said good morning to her, a dear little fairy looked out of the well and said good morning, too. This was discouraging, but we were polite about it.

  But some of the other wells belonged to quite understanding people who said that they hadn't tried wishing yet, but they certainly would at the first opportunity. I wrote their names down in my notebook, and they promised to let us know what happened. And one of them gave us a whole half of a Lady Baltimore cake. But it seemed that if there was a secret club called the Well-Wishers, we were the only members.

  The Lady Baltimore cake was delicious, though. We ate it in the little old forgotten cemetery by the corner of Wilton Road. Kip says picnicking in cemeteries is grisly, but I like this one. It is quiet, and old enough to feel historical. And there is nothing like munching some good cake in a quiet place to make a person think, I find.

  Sure enough, just as I was finishing the last crumbs, I had an idea.

  "You know what?" I said. "That part of the letter about the railroad station. That could mean something, too."

  "Like a clue?" said Kip.

  "Why not? Magic doesn't just go round saying things at random. It's all supposed to add up. I think we ought to head for the station right now, and see what happens." So it turned out to be a good thing we'd brought our bikes along. But maybe the magic had attended to that, too.

  When we came down Elm Street, a train had just pulled in that Kip said was the one-eighteen. He is good with timetables. There were only two passengers left on the platform, and as we coasted into the station yard, they drove off in a taxi. James and Lydia were sure they were part of the magic, and wanted us to jump in the next taxi and say, "Follow that cab!" and see what adventure the people would lead us to.

  But we only had fifty cents among us, and besides, I had seen who the two people were and I knew where they would lead us. It was Florence Squibb and her mother, back from the dentist's in Stamford, and the only place they would lead us would be the Squibbs' house on Whiffle tree Lane. And Florence Squibb is a perfectly nice girl, and fine for trading movie stars' pictures with when all else fails, but there is no magic in her.

  "No," I said, "I think we're meant to stick to wells. I think we're meant to start from the station and try the first well we see." So we went along Park Street, because it was closest.

  But there are no wells on Park Street. It is all neat houses in rows, almost like being in the city. Later on, though, it runs into Old Stamford Road, and there is country again. We went^jast the Bird Sanctuary, and Gordy revealed hidden depths, telling us what the different birds were and all about them, till we begged him to stop.

  It is wonderful what magic can do for people. I have never heard Gordy even mention a robin before. But now it is almost as if he were the Sleeping Beauty and Sylvia had broken the spell and wakened him up.

  But there was no well in the Bird Sanctuary. We didn't count the birdbath.

  We were beginning to be discouraged when we heard a voice calling us ahead. That seemed like a hopeful sign, and we urged our flagging bikes forward.

  The voice turned out to belong to a little old man at a roadside stand, and now we could hear his words.

  "Apples, ripe apples, Winesaps, Northern Spies, Greenings!"

  And we saw the apples piled round on shelves, bright red and light green and mixed, and all rounder and juicier-looking than you'd ever find in any store. We saw the orchard, too, stretching out on all sides, the trees thick with fruit. Next to the stand was a sign, "Appledore Orchard, Adam Appledore, Prop." Judging by looks, we felt sure the little old man could only be Adam Appledore himself. His face was the shape of an apple and the color of an apple, too. A red one, that is.

  It had been a long pull from the cemetery to the station, and by now the Lady Ba
ltimore cake seemed long ago and far away. So we put our fifty cents together and Mr. Appledore made us up a wonderful basket, of all the kinds he had except the cooking ones.

  James bit into a Delicious. "And rightly named," he said.

  "Eat your fill," said Mr. Appledore. "It's your last chance."

  And then we noticed another sign, to one side. "This property is condemned," it said.

  "Poor orchard. What's it done?" said Deborah, when we had explained to her what "condemned" meant.

  "Not a thing," said Mr. Appledore, "except earn a living for me and mine these forty year. And for my father before me and his father before him."

  "But that's terrible," I said. "A beautiful big orchard like this."

  "Ayeh," said Mr. Appledore. "That it is. Beautiful in fall with the fruit of them and beautiful in spring with the bloom of them and beautiful in winter with just the shape of them, them trees are. What with feeding and spraying and picking 'em, them trees has been like friends of mine, from a boy. And it's sad to see one friend pass on at my time o' life, not speakin' o' two thousand and two, that being the sum in question."

  "Where are they passing on to?" said James. "What's going to happen to them?"

  "Lumberyard," said Mr. Appledore, "or firewood. All cut down to make room for this newfangled railway station!"

  At that we all looked at each other. And I was sure we were on the right track.

  "Couldn't they build their station someplace else?" asked Lydia.

  "No place else near the railroad line big enough for the parking lot," said Mr. Appledore. "Pesky overgrown station wagons! Danged commuters!"

  "The town's paying you, isn't it?" said Kip in rather a peculiar voice.

  "Ayeh," Mr. Appledore admitted. "They're paying me well enough. But where can I find another orchard this size without emigratin' to foreign parts? Nearest one is three miles across town. And I like this here neighborhood right here. There've always been Appledores on Old Stamford Road."

  "Mr. Appledore," I said, "do not despair. We'll save you. We were sent to save you. I don't know how just yet, but we will."