The Well-Wishers (10 page)

But James gave me a meaningful look as the others started down the hill, and I waited with him and we brought up the end of the procession.

"What about this Dicky?" he said.

"What about him?" I said.

"Well, gee." James looked troubled. "I guess he behaved better than you'd expect, but look at the way he's always been before! Do we have to have him be one of us now?"

"I don't know about
you,
" I told him. "He's my friend from now on."

"Well, sure," pursued James, "but how
much
of a one? Gordy's worked out fine, but if we keep reforming hopeless characters and adding them on, that well's going to get awfully crowded."

"You make me sick," I said. "How can people with disadvantages ever improve if the people
with
the advantages keep shutting them out?"

"That's so," James admitted. "But gee, the way he looks! Maybe if he'd do something about that jacket and those boots?"

James can be awfully stuffy at times. But when we got to the red house, he behaved very well. He went up to Dicky and held out his hand. "That was a good job you did today," he said. "I hope from now on you'll feel free to stop by and see us anytime."

Dicky was busy spitting on his scuffed motorcycle boot and trying to polish it. "That's all right," he said. "Don't mention it." But he shook hands with James, and with Kip, too.

Gordy was hanging back and looking awkward, the way he so easily can. Dicky went up to him.

"I guess I've been kind of rough on you sometimes in school, kid," he said. "No hard feelings?"

"Sure. Gee. No!" Gordy beamed with his usual forgiving toothiness.

And then Laura, ever warmhearted and carried away by the emotion of the moment, started telling Dicky all about the well and the magic and the secret meetings and the Well-Wishers' Club, and invited him to join.

But James needn't have worried about that. Because Dicky listened to it all politely. And then he shook his head.

"I guess not," he said. "No offense meant, but it sounds kind of childish to me. Thanks all the same. I'd better be moseying along now."

He ducked his head at the others and chucked Deborah under the chin. Then he winked at me and grinned.

"So long, kid," he said. "I'll be seeing you."

And he flicked a speck of dust from his motorcycle jacket and went swaggering up the road.

Six pairs of eyes followed him. And everybody seemed to like him better suddenly, now that he'd turned down our generous offer.

"You're right," said James to me. "He's not a bad kid."

"And even if he won't join the club," said Laura, "if we're ever working on a big important wish, I think he'll be useful to have handy. I think he'll help us if we ask him."

"Sure he will," I said. And it turned out we were right.

Because it turned out that there was and we did. And he did. But what the important wish turned out to be, and what we did about it, is another story.

And the beginning of that story belongs to Kip.

This is Kip telling the story now. The reason this part of it belongs to me is that I was the only one of us in church that Sunday.

Not that James and Laura and Deborah don't usually come, but that morning their father had forgotten to set the alarm clock. That would have been a mere nothing to me. I can always make myself wake up exactly when I want to. I do it by concentrating before I go to sleep.

But James and Laura have never been able to work that trick. I think they let other thoughts creep in, which you must never do.

As for Gordy, his mother makes him go to a different church, a big rich one in the village.

But the rest of us like the little old-fashioned country church nearby better, at least Laura and James and Deborah and I do. Lydia says she doesn't need organized religion, and that a person can pray anywhere. This is true, I know, because I have prayed in some peculiar places, like the time I was painting the house and nearly fell off the roof. But for me, church helps.

So there I was that Sunday morning, not thinking anything but church thoughts, and certainly not about the magic or expecting an adventure to begin. And then Mr. Chenoweth, our minister, came to that part of the service when he makes announcements.

Only today he didn't talk about the vestrymen's meeting or the choir or the Young People's Club. He took off his spectacles and looked at the congregation. Then he said, "What I have to tell you today is not church business. Or perhaps it is."

And he went on to say that he had heard of a family that was about to move into the neighborhood. "I think some of you may know the one I mean," he said. And he gave the congregation another long look.

I don't remember his exact words after that. But what they amounted to was that some people apparently didn't want this family to move in. They didn't want it so much that they were getting up a petition about it. Mr. Chenoweth did not say why.

But he said, "This does not seem to me to be Christian behavior. So I myself have drawn up a statement
welcoming
these new arrivals to our coramunity. Those who wish to sign it with me may do so after the service. Or it will be in my study at the rectory at any time. And now let us join in singing the One Hundred and Thirty-third Psalm."

If you do not know that psalm, it is the one that begins, "Behold hoW good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity."

And then Mr. Chenoweth preached a sermon on the text, "Love thy neighbor." I thought he said some pretty good things. But all the time he was saying them, there was a buzzing undertone of people talking to each other, which is something I would know better than to do during a sermon. And yet it was grown-ups who were doing it.

After church Mr. Chenoweth was waiting by the door, the way he always is, except that today there was a little desk there, too, with a paper on it. Some people were already lined up, waiting to sign the paper, and my father and mother got in line and told me to go wait in the car and see if Alice, our dog, was all right.

I knew that was just an excuse. Because Alice was sure to be fine. She would be perfectly happy sitting in a car for a week if she thought somebody would take her for a ride at the end of it. But I walked to the car all the same, and found her peacefully sleeping, the way I knew I would. Then I came back and waited by the church door and watched the people.

Some of them were joining the line to sign the paper, but there were a lot more who stalked right out without even speaking to Mr. Chenoweth. Some of these gathered in a knot in front of the church, and I couldn't help overhearing what they were saying.

"Doesn't know his place," one lady sniffed, tossing her head. "He's entitled to his own opinion,
but...!
"

"You're right, Adele," said another. "And to bring it up in a church service, too! I think it's time we changed to the other church, with the people who count!"

"Or changed ministers!" said the first lady.

"We're going to have a fight on our hands, Harry," one man was saying.

"What if we do?" said his friend. "It's for the good of the neighborhood. Once one gets in they'll all come. We have to draw the line."

But nobody said what was wrong with the new family, or what line it was that had to be drawn.

I asked my parents about it on the way home, but I couldn't get anything out of them, either.

"I don't want to discuss it," my mother said. "It makes me too angry." But the minute we were in the house she was on the phone, telling James and Laura's mother all about it, only mysteriously; so I couldn't glean a single fact.

Parents can be maddening at times. Though mine are quite nice, as a rule.

Something was in the air and I wanted to get at the bottom of it. So I changed out of my church clothes and walked down Silvermine Road to the red house.

Laura and Lydia and Deborah and James were already assembled in the front yard, and I told them about Mr. Chenoweth and what they'd missed by missing church. In the middle of it Gordy's mother's limousine drove up and Gordy jumped out, followed by the sound of his mother's voice telling him to be careful of his Sunday suit. The things that boy has to put up with! So then I had to start over again.

"What's the matter with these people who want to move here?" said James when I'd finished. "Are they escaped criminals or something?"

"Probably moral lepers," said Lydia.

"What's a moral leper?" said Deborah.

I hurried on before anyone could tell her because once she learns a new word she uses it without mercy.

"No," I said. "I don't think it's anything like that. I think it's something else." Because I was beginning to think I knew what it might be.

"You mean it's just snobbishness, more?" said Laura.

"Sort of," I said.

"But that's terrible," said Gordy.

"Yes," I said, "it is. That's why I think we all ought to go over to Mr. Chenoweth's in a body right now and sign that paper; That's if children
can.
"

"Why bother with papers?" said Lydia. "What's the magic for if not for a time like this?"

"It could be the big good turn the well's been working up to," agreed Laura.

"If it is, Kip ought to be the one in charge," said James. "Because he found out about it, and he hasn't had an adventure of his own yet." Which was generous of him, because neither had he.

"I thought of that," I admitted, "but I don't know. Mr. Chenoweth seems to have it pretty well in hand already. And I don't know whether church and magic go together."

Laura's face fell. "I never thought of that," she said. "They
don't
seem to have much in common."

There was a pause.

"What about the Witch of Endor?" Deborah spoke up suddenly. "We had her in Sunday School."

"That's right," said James. "Solomon went to see her, and
he
was holy."

"Wise, too," said Gordy. "If he could use magic, why can't we?"

"Out of the mouths of babes again," said Lydia, patting Deborah on the head.

"Well, maybe," I said. "But before we go stirring up the well, I think we ought to clear it with Mr. Chenoweth."

So we started for the rectory, walking because it isn't far and it was a fine sunny day.

When we got there, Mr. and Mrs. Chenoweth were already finishing dinner, though it wasn't one o'clock yet. Still, I imagine preaching sermons must be famishing work.

They seemed surprised to see us, but cordial. Mrs. Chenoweth offered us some store butterscotch pudding, which we civilly refused.

"We won't keep you a minute," I said. "We just want to sign that paper you talked about in church, if children are allowed to."

Mr. Chenoweth's face took on an odd expression. But he seemed to be pleased. "It so happens," he said, "that the family I have in mind includes three children. I think it would be very appropriate if the children in this neighborhood joined in welcoming them. In fact, you have given me an idea. I believe I will begin a second page, especially for children's signatures."

And he did, and we all signed it with a will.

"If you have any friends who would like to add their names to yours," Mr. Chenoweth said, "just send them to me."

I hesitated. "We do have some friends we were thinking of," I told him, "but they're not children, mostly." And I went on then about the magic and the Well-Wishers' Club and the good turns we had done so far.

"The well hasn't failed yet," I said, "and we wanted to use it now but we weren't sure. Would magic mix with church?"

"Or would it be sacrilege or something?" said Laura.

"Or just plain butting in?" said James.

Mr. Chenoweth was silent. But he was smiling to himself. Then he cleared his throat. "Ahem. I'm afraid I have not had a great deal of experience with magic. At least not the kind that lives in wells. But from what you tell me of the particular magic power you wield, I should say that it would 'mix with church,' as you put it, quite satisfactorily. I could even wish at times that more of my congregation were similarly gifted." He sighed. Then he smiled again. "In fact, I believe I may find a word of advice for you
here.
One so often can." And he took down a large Bible from a shelf and leafed through the pages. "Ah yes. Here we have it. Proverbs five: sixteen. 'Let thy fountains be dispersed abroad.'"

"And if that doesn't give us an absolutely free hand," said Lydia a minute later as we were walking home, "I'd like to know what would. We can disperse the well's magic anywhere we want to."

"Our carte is blanche," agreed James.

A minute later we arrived at the red house and all stood around the well in a solemn circle, while I spoke the words.

"Help us help that family to move in, please," I said. "And without any fuss or trouble."

And then we went inside, because time was passing and we were beginning to regret the butterscotch pudding. While we were raiding the red house's icebox, we heard familiar voices at the other end of the hall; so James and Laura led the way and we went into the living room, taking the cold chops and other things we'd found with us.

It turned out that my mother and father had stopped by and were deep in discussion with James and Laura's parents. What they were discussing I leave you to guess. When my mother saw us, she said, "Oh dear, I hate the children to hear all this."

"I think it's a good thing if they do, Margaret," said James's father. "This isn't a perfect world, and they might as well know it now."

"I think we know about it already," said James, "if the trouble's what I think it is."

"I might have known," said my mother philosophically.

"The thing that worries me," said James's father, picking up where he'd left off when we came in, "isn't getting those people moved into that house. I know we can get enough names on our side to override that petition. But there's bound to be some kind of demonstration when it happens. And how will that make the people feel about living here?"

"I know," said James's mother. "If I were they, I wouldn't want any part of this town. When I hear things like this, I wonder why I stay!"