Lou turned and saw the letters.

"What are those?"

"Letters your mother wrote to me. I want you to read 'em."

"What for?"

" 'Cause words say a lot about a person."

"Words won't change anything. Oz can believe if he wants to. But he doesn't know any better."

Louisa placed the letters on the bed. "Sometime older folks do right good to follow the young'uns. Might learn 'em something."

After Louisa left, Lou put the letters in her father's old desk and very firmly shut the drawer.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

LOU GOT UP ESPECIALLY EARLY AND WENT INTO HER mother's room, where she watched for a bit the even rise and fall of the woman's chest. Perched on the bed, Lou pulled back the covers and ma.s.saged and moved her mother's arms. Then she spent considerable time exercising her mother's legs the way the doctors back in New York City had shown her. Lou was just about finished when she caught Louisa watching her from the doorway. mother's room, where she watched for a bit the even rise and fall of the woman's chest. Perched on the bed, Lou pulled back the covers and ma.s.saged and moved her mother's arms. Then she spent considerable time exercising her mother's legs the way the doctors back in New York City had shown her. Lou was just about finished when she caught Louisa watching her from the doorway.

"We have to make her comfortable," explained Lou. She covered her mother and went into the kitchen. Louisa trailed her.

When Lou put on a kettle to boil, Louisa said, "I can do that, honey."

"I've got it." Lou mixed some oat flakes in the hot water and added b.u.t.ter taken from a lard bucket. She took the bowl back into her mother's room and carefully spooned the food into her mother's mouth. Amanda ate and drank readily enough, with just a tap of spoon or cup against her lips, though she could only manage soft food. Yet that was all she could do. Louisa sat with them, and Lou pointed to the ferrotypes on the wall. "Who are those people?'

"My daddy and momma. That me with 'em when I just a spit. Some of my momma's folks too. First time I ever had my pitcher took. I liked it. But Momma scared." She pointed to another ferrotype. "That pitcher mere my brother Robert. He dead now. They all dead now."

"Your parents and brother were tall."

"Run in the line. Funny how that get pa.s.sed down. Your daddy, he were already six feet when he weren't more'n fourteen. I still tall, but I growed down some from what I was. You gonna be big too."

Lou cleaned the bowl and spoon and afterward helped Louisa make breakfast for everyone else. Eugene was in the barn now, and they both heard Oz stirring in his room.

Lou said, "I need to show Oz how to move Mom's arms and legs. And he can help feed her too."

"That right fine." She laid a hand on Lou's shoulder. "Now, did you read any of them letters?"

Lou looked at her. "I didn't want to lose my mother and father. But I have. Now I've got to look after Oz. And I have to look ahead, not back." She added wiUi firmness, "You may not understand that, but it's what I have to do."

After morning ch.o.r.es, Eugene took Lou and Oz by mule and wagon to the school and men left to continue his work. In old burlap seed bags, Lou and Oz carried their worn books, a few sheets of precious paper tucked inside the pages. They each had one fat lead pencil, with dire orders from Louisa to trim it down only when absolutely necessary, and to use a sharp knife when doing so. The books were the same ones their father had learned with, and Lou hugged hers to her chest like it was a present direct from Jesus. They also carried a dented lard bucket with some cornbread chunks, a small jar of apple b.u.t.ter jelly, and a jug of milk for their lunch.

The Big Spruce schoolhouse was only a few years old. It had been built with New Deal dollars to replace the log building that had stood on the same spot for almost eighty years. The structure was white clapboard with windows down one side, and was set on cinder blocks. Like Louisa's farmhouse, the roof had no shingles, just a "roll of roofing" that came in long sheets and was tacked down in overlapping sections like shingles. The school had one door, with a short overhang. A brick chimney rose through the A-frame roof.

On any given day school attendance was roughly half of the number of students who should have been there, and that was actually a high number compared to the attendance figures in the past. On the mountain, farming always trumped book learning.

The schoolyard was dirt, a split-trunk walnut tree in the center of it. There were about fifty children milling about outside, ranging in age from Oz's to Lou's. Most were dressed in overalls, though a few girls wore floral dresses made from Chop bags, which were hundred-pound sacks of feed for animals. The bags were beautiful and of st.u.r.dy material, and a girl always felt extra special having a Chop bag outfit. Some children were in bare feet, others in what used to be shoes but were now sandals of sorts. Some wore straw hats, others were bareheaded; a few of the older boys had already upgraded to dirty felt, no doubt hand-me-downs from their daddies. Some girls favored pigtails, others wore their hair straight, and still others had the sausage curl at the end.

The children all stared at the newcomers with what Lou perceived as unfriendly eyes.

One boy stepped forward. Lou recognized him as the one who had dangled on the tractor over the side of the mountain their first day here. Probably the son of George Davis, the crazy man who had threatened them with the shotgun in the woods. Lou wondered if the fellow's offspring also suffered from insanity.

"What's the matter, y'all can't walk by yourselves? h.e.l.l No got to bring you?" the boy said.

"His name is Eugene," said Lou right to the boy's face. Then she asked, "Can anybody tell me where the second- and sixth-grade cla.s.ses are?"

"Why sure," the same boy said, pointing. "They's both right over there."

Lou and Oz turned and saw the listing wooden outhouse behind the school building.

"Course," the boy added with a sly grin, "that's just for you Yankees."

This set all the mountain children to whooping and laughing, and Oz nervously took a step closer to Lou.

Lou studied the outhouse for a moment and then looked back at the boy.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Billy Davis," he said proudly.

"Are you always that scintillating, Billy Davis?"

Billy frowned. "What's that mean? You call me a name, girl?"

"Didn't you just call us one?"

"Ain't said nuthin' 'cept the truth. Yankee once is a Yankee for life. Coming here ain't changing that."

The crowd of rebels voiced their complete agreement with this point of view, and Lou and Oz found themselves encircled by the enemy. They were saved only by the ringing of the school bell, which sent the children dashing for the door. Lou and Oz looked at each other and then trudged after this mob.

"I don't think they like us much, Lou," Oz said.

"I don't think I much care," his sister said back.

The number of cla.s.srooms was one, they immediately discovered, which served all grades from first to seventh, the students separated in discrete cl.u.s.ters by age. The number of teachers matched the number of cla.s.srooms. Her name was Estelle McCoy, and she was paid eight hundred dollars a school year. This was the only job she had ever had, going on thirty-nine years now, which explained why her hair was far more white than mousey brown.

Wide blackboards covered three walls. A potbellied stove sat in one corner, a long pipe from it running to the ceiling. And, seeming very much out of place in the simple confines, a beautifully crafted maple bookcase with an arched top took up another corner of the room. It had gla.s.s-paned doors, and inside Lou could see a number of books. A handwritten sign on the wall next to the cabinet read: "Library."

Estelle McCoy stood in front of them all with her apple cheeks, canyon smile, and chubby figure draped in a bright floral dress.

"I have a real treat for y'all, today. I'd like to introduce two new students: Louisa Mae Cardinal and her brother, Oscar. Louisa Mae and Oscar, will you stand up please?"

As someone who routinely bowed to the slightest exercise of authority, Oz immediately leapt to his feet. However, he stared down at the floor, one foot shifting over the other, as though he had to pee really badly.

Lou, however, remained sitting.

"Louisa Mae," Estelle McCoy said again, "stand up and let them see you, honey."

"My name is Lou."

Estelle McCoy's smile went down a bit in wattage. "Yes, um, their father was a very famous writer named Jack Cardinal."

Here, Billy Davis piped in loudly, "Didn't he die? Somebody say that man's dead."

Lou glared at Billy, who made a face right back at her.

Their teacher now looked completely fl.u.s.tered. "Billy, please. Uh, as I was saying, he was famous, and I helped teach him. And in my own humble way, I hope mat I had some influence over his development as a writer. And they do say the early years are the most important. Anyway, did you know that Mr. Jack Cardinal even signed one of his books in Washington, for the president of these United States?"

As Lou looked around the room, she could tell this meant absolutely nothing to the children of the mountain. In fact, mentioning the capital of the Yankee nation was probably not a smart thing to do. It didn't make her angry that they were not properly in awe of her father's accomplishments; instead it made Lou pity their ignorance.

Estelle McCoy was ill-prepared for the prolonged silence. "Uh, well, we welcome you, Louisa Mae, and you too, Oscar. I'm sure you'll do your father proud here, at his ... alma mater."

Now Lou stood, even as Oz hastily dropped back into his seat, his face down, his eyes scrunched closed. One could tell he was afraid of whatever it was his sister was about to do. Lou never did anything in a small way, Oz well knew. It was either both barrels of the shotgun in your face, or you got to live another day. There was rarely any middle ground with the girl.

And yet all she said was "My name is Lou." And then she took her seat.

Billy leaned over and said, "Welcome to the mountain, Miss Louisa Mae."

The school day ended at three, and the children didn't rush to go home, since it was certain only more ch.o.r.es awaited them there. Instead, they milled about in small packs in the schoolyard, the boys swapping pocket knives, hand-whittled yo-yos, and homemade burley chew. The girls exchanged local gossip and cooking and sewing secrets, and talked about boys. Billy Davis did pull-ups on a sapling that had been laid across the low branches of the walnut tree, to the admiring look of one wide-hipped girl with crooked teeth, but also rosy cheeks and pretty blue eyes.

As Lou and Oz came outside, Billy stopped his workout and strolled over to them.

"Why, it's Miss Louisa Mae. You been up see the president, Miss Louisa Mae?" he said in a loud, mocking voice.

"Keep walking, Lou, please," said Oz.

Billy spoke even louder. "Did he get you to sign one of your daddy's books, him being dead and all?"

Lou stopped. Oz, sensing that further pleading was futile, stepped back. Lou turned to look at her tormentor.

"What's the matter, you still sore because us Yankees kicked your tail, you dumb hillbilly?"

The other children, sensing blood, quietly formed a circle to shield from the eyes of Mrs. McCoy a potentially good fight.

Billy scowled. "You best take that back."

Lou dropped her bag. "You best make me, if you think you can."

"Shoot, I ain't hitting no girl."

This made Lou angrier than ever a thrown fist could have. She grabbed Billy by his overall straps and threw him to the dirt, where he lay stunned, probably both at her strength and at her audacity. The crowd moved closer.

"I'll kick your tail if you don't take that that back," Lou said, and she leaned down and dug a finger in his chest. back," Lou said, and she leaned down and dug a finger in his chest.

Oz pulled at her as the crowd closed even tighter, as though a hand becoming a fist. "Come on, Lou, please don't fight. Please."

Billy jumped up and proceeded to commit a major offense. Instead of swinging at Lou, he grabbed Oz and threw him down hard.

"No-good stinking northerner."

His look of triumph was short-lived because it ran smack into Lou's bony right fist. Billy joined Oz on the ground, blood spurting from his nose. Lou was straddling Billy before the boy could take a breath, both her fists pounding away. Billy, howling like a whipped dog, swung his arms wildly back. One blow caught Lou on the lip, but she kept slugging until Billy finally stopped swinging and just covered his face.

Then the seas parted, and Mrs. McCoy poured through this gap. She managed to pull Lou off Billy, but not without an effort that left her breathing hard.

"Louisa Mae! What would your daddy think?" she said.

Lou's chest rose and fell hard, her hands still balled into mighty, boy-bashing instruments.

Estelle McCoy helped Billy up. The boy covered bis face with his sleeve, quietly sobbing into his armpit. "Now, you tell Billy you're sorry," she said.

Lou's response was to lunge and take another furious swing at him. Billy jumped back like a rabbit cornered by a snake intent on eating it.

Mrs. McCoy pulled hard on Lou's arm. "Louisa Mae, you stop that right now and tell him you're sorry."

"He can go straight on to h.e.l.l."

Estelle McCoy looked ready to keel over in the face of such language from the daughter of a famous man.

"Louisa Mae! Your mouth!"

Lou jerked free and ran like the wind down the road.

Billy fled in the other direction. And Estelle McCoy stood there empty-handed on the field of battle.

Oz, forgotten in all this, quietly got off the ground, picked up his sister's burlap bag, brushed it off, and went and tugged on his teacher's dress. She looked down at him.

"Excuse me, ma'am," Oz said. "But her name is Lou."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

LOUISA CLEANED THE CUT ON LOU'S FACE WITH WATER and lye soap, and applied some homemade tincture that stung like fire, but Lou made herself not even flinch. and lye soap, and applied some homemade tincture that stung like fire, but Lou made herself not even flinch.

"Glad you got yourself off to such a good start, Lou."

"They called us Yankees!"

"Well, good Lord," Louisa said with mock indignity. "Ain't that evil!"