The Well-Wishers

by Edward Eager

  "That's as may be," said Mr. Appledore.

  And then I gave the others a look, and we moved on, because I thought it would be more delicate to discuss Mr. Appledore's problem in private. There wasn't a doubt in my mind, or James's or Lydia's or Gordy's or Deborah's, about the good turn the magic wanted us to do. We walked slowly, wheeling our bikes, so as to have more breath for talking.

  "We've got to save those apples," I said. "Only how?"

  "I don't see why we need a new station in the first place," said James, and I agreed. Personally we hadn't been near the station since we first moved here from New York City, until today. Because who would want to go anywhere when we had the country, and magic, too?

  "I think there ought to be a town meeting," said Lydia, "like before."

  She was thinking of the time when the town wanted to build a new school and some people tried to stop it. But we worked our magic on the town meeting, and today the new school is going up and almost finished.

  Kip spoke for the first time in quite a while. He was frowning, which was unusual, because he is mostly a happy-go-lucky type without a serious thought in his head.

  "I don't think this is quite the same thing," he said. "I think this time there're two sides to it."

  I looked at him, surprised.

  "It's all very well for you," he went on, to James and me. "Your father's a writer and works at home. And Lydia's grandmother's an artist and Gordy's mother's just rich and doesn't do anything. But my Pop's a businessman and his business is in New York. He goes in there every day so we can stay out here. And if he's willing to make that sacrifice, I think at least he ought to have a place to park his car. And the old station lot isn't half big enough; I've heard him say so."

  There did seem to be some sense to this. Somebody has to be in New York, I suppose, or they wouldn't have it. "But those wonderful apples!" I said.

  "I'm sorry about them," said Kip, "but I think maybe they'll have to go. I think maybe if you try to save them, you'll be like those people who didn't want the new school because it would spoil our lovely old village quality. I think you'll be standing in the way of progress. And you can't. Nobody can."

  Kip certainly can be convincing when he tries. Maybe because he doesn't try very often. But I felt like a balloon that somebody's pricked a hole in. "If the magic didn't mean us to save the apples," I said, "what did it mean?"

  "The thing is," said James, "to find a way for Mr. Appledore to leave his orchard and have it, too."

  We were so deep in thought and talk that we weren't looking around or noticing where we were going. But Deborah has sharp eyes and never misses anything.

  "There's a well," she said now.

  We had forgotten all about wells, but we looked, and there one was, in the middle of a big garden by the side of the road. There was a hedge all round the garden, and a gate at the entrance. The hedge was overgrown and the gate was off its hinges.

  The mailbox by the gate said "Smith." Someone had painted a border of bright flowers around the name, but the paint was peeling and the mailbox hung all crooked.

  The garden looked lovely at first, but when we came closer, we saw that the lawn was full of dandelions and plantains and there were tent caterpillars on the shrubs. Plants bloomed in the flower beds, but they hadn't been staked and the tall ones had fallen down and were lying all over the low ones.

  We stood looking over the gate and now a lady came from the house. She was a very large lady and not very young or very beautiful, but she moved as if she thought she were both. She had on a lot of trailing scarves and a big garden hat, and as she came swaying down the path, she suddenly threw back her head and screamed. Or at least that's what I thought at first, but then I realized she was probably singing.

  And Kip, who is a hi-fi fiend, said later that it was the "Jewel Song" from Faust, and grand opera.

  "'Ah, what gems with their magic glare deceive my eye? Ah!'" She sang, going up higher than you would think anyone could, or would want to. She leaned over the well. "'Marguerite, is it you? Is it you, or some lovely vision?'" she sang, peering into the well as if she expected to find the truth at the bottom of it.

  I led the way through the gate and up the path.

  "I beg your pardon, ma'am," I said. "Is that a wishing well?"

  The lady did not seem surprised to see six strange children in her garden. But then she is a very vague lady, as we were to learn.

  "Who knows?" she said. "I was just wishing there were someone to hear me, and now there you are! So perhaps it is. Now you can tell your children and your children's children that you were the last to hear the golden notes of Marguerite Salvini!"

  "Gosh," said Kip. "Is that who you are? My pop's got an old record of you."

  "Records?" said the lady. "What are records? They are as nothing to those who have seen Marguerite Salvini in the flesh!"

  And as we surveyed her ample curves, I am sure we were all ready to believe that this was true.

  "The mailbox says Smith," said James, ever one for getting the facts straight.

  "So it does," said the lady. "That was my secret. When crowned heads bowed before the great Marguerite Salvini, little did they think that she was born plain Maggie Smith. Yet plain Maggie Smith became the toast of Europe. In Paris they drank champagne from my slipper. In Rome they unharnessed my horses and pulled my carriage through the streets!"

  "And then," I said, "I suppose you wearied of the vain pomp and show?"

  "Yes," said the lady, "that's exactly what I did. What joy, I thought, to be plain Maggie Smith again and live in a cottage by the side of the road and be a friend to man! But it has riot worked out at all. The roof leaks and the peas failed and the corn got borers and the beans came up upside down!" And she raised her voice in song. "'Farewell to the bright visions I once fondly cherished. Already the roses that decked me have perished!'"

  "There's a rose still," said Deborah, picking a late red one and handing it to her. The lady raised it to her nose and dropped it again. There was a Japanese beetle on it.

  "You see?" she said. "And as for the apples..."

  "Apples?" I said, excited. "You have apples?"

  "A whole orchard full." She waved an arm, and for the first time I noticed apple trees covering the hill beyond the house for as far as I could see. "But alas. All wormy."

  "If they're wormy, the trees must need spraying," said James.

  "Sprrrraying?" said Madame Salvini, getting more trilled r's into it than you'd think one word could hold. "What do I know of spraying? Or digging or weeding or hammering nails? What has an artist to do with these?" And she was off again. '"Love and music, these have I lived for, nor ever have harmed a living being. The poor and distressful by stealth I have succored...."'

  "Yes, it's very good of you, I'm sure," I interrupted when she paused for breath, "but why do it by stealth? I know somebody distressful you could be succoring right this minute."

  "It would be being a friend to man, too," Kip put in.

  "Aha!" said Madame Salvini, rolling her eyes. "If we begin to speak of men..."

  "We don't," I said quickly, because she looked as if she might be going to tell us the story of her life. "What Kip meant was a hired man."

  "How could I hire him? My little income has dwindled away. And still the place goes from rack to ruin!"

  "I think," I said, "I may be able to fix that. Wait right there. We'll be back." And we started up the road. Nobody needed to be told where we were heading. The sound of Madame Salvini's voice followed us, borne upon the breeze.

  "Ah, ye beautiful songbirds, I hear your pinions! What seek ye? Whither going? Who knows?'" she sang. A crow flew over. "Caw," it said.

  When we reached Mr. Appledore's stand, he was busy selling a basket of crab apples to a woman in a Chevy. We waited till he was free and then I stepped forward.

  "Mr. Appledore," I said, "all is not lost. I told you not to despair. Follow me." And I took hold of his arm.

  "Wh
at's all this?" said Mr. Appledore, hanging back. "Where you taking me? What about my stand and my cashbox?"

  "Oh dear." I turned to James. "I suppose it's up to me to stay and watch them."

  But Gordy gave me a little push. "Go on. It's your adventure. I had mine. I don't mind waiting here one bit." Honestly, you would never believe how that boy has changed.

  Deborah volunteered to stay and keep him company, and the rest of us hustled Mr. Appledore along. As we drew near the house with the hedge, we could hear Madame Salvini still rendering arias, but Mr. Appledore wasn't scared away, the way I was afraid he would be. He even seemed to like it.

  "High voice, ain't she?" he said. "I admire a high voice in a woman. Pity she don't sing something a body could hum. 'Home on the Range' now, or "'Trees'".

  "Speaking of trees," I began, trying to call his attention to the orchard.

  But he was looking over the gate at Madame Salvini. He seemed to like what he saw, large or not. I introduced them, and Mr. Appledore swept off his cap.

  "Afternoon, ma'am. You farming this place all on your own? Stony ground hereabouts. Hard job for a frail woman." His eye rested on her flowing contours. "Hard job for a woman," he corrected himself.

  He went through the gate and walked about, eyeing the place from all angles. He looked down at the lawn. "Dandylions. Fruit knife for those. Get 'em all out. Taproots." He looked at the flower beds. "String needed there. Green kind. Won't show. Or pea-brush. Kerosene for them beetles." He looked at the house, went closer, and dug his penknife into the boards. "Dry rot. New sills wanted."

  Madame Salvini sighed. "I am afraid it is all Greek to me. All I hoped for was peace, and a quiet nest to rest in, now my song is over."

  "Not much peace about a farm," said Mr. Appledore. "Not much rest, neither. One year's seeding, ten years' weeding. Once a place starts going downhill, there's no stopping it."

  Then at last his gaze fell on the apple trees and he was silent. He was silent so long I began to be worried.

  "Shocking state, them trees," he said finally.

  "Are they that bad?" I said. "Past repair? Not worth bothering with?"

  "Wouldn't say that," he muttered. "Wouldn't say that ezzactly. Takes a lot o' killing, a apple tree does. Nitrogen. Lime sulfur. Arsenic of lead. Wouldn't happen overnight, mind you. Rome wasn't built in a day. But lemme at them trees, and I'd have 'em bearing again good as new. And no worms."

  I felt good. "You'd enjoy it, too, wouldn't you?"

  "Nothin' perks up a farmer's heart like re-claimin' lost land," he admitted.

  "And the town will be paying you a lot of money, for your orchard," Kip reminded him.

  "And you could afford to pay Madame Salvini a good rent for hers," said James.

  "And then she could afford to fix her place up," said Lydia.

  "And you could give her pointers," I said. "You see? It all adds up. And there would still be Appledores on Old Stamford Road."

  Mr. Appledore was silent again. His gaze rested on Madame Salvini. Then he spoke. "Ayeh. It might not be so bad."

  "Not bad? It'd be perfect," I said. "You'd be a sort of team."

  Madame Salvini sighed. "I was a team with Mar-tinelli once. People came from all over the world to hear us."

  "And this way they'll probably come from all over the world to taste your apples," I said. "And that ought to be just as good, in a way."

  Madame Salvini sighed. "It is tempting," she said. "But no. It is not to be. I should never have deserted my public. Dozens write to me every day, asking when I will come back and shower my golden notes upon them again. And that's what I must do. It is my duty to share my great gift."

  "Are you sure?" I said, for her notes had not sounded as golden as that to me. "Wouldn't it be better to quit while the quitting's good?"

  "At least let me see inside the house before I go," said Mr. Appledore. "Hain't been in that house in thirty year. Old Mis' Jenkins lived in it then. She couldn't farm, neither."

  Madame Salvini sighed. "Very well," she said. "It's nothing to me. 'Home no more home to me, whither shall I wander?'"

  She drifted toward the house, and Mr. Appledore followed her and held the door for her and went in after her, and that seemed to be that.

  In a way, I supposed, it had worked out fine. If Madame Salvini were leaving, Mr. Appledore could probably buy her orchard cheap. But somehow I felt disappointed. It all seemed to be just business, and with no romance in it. I had hoped for more from the magic than that. And yet the more I went on thinking about it, I couldn't imagine Mr. Appledore drinking champagne out of anyone's slipper, and neither could the others.

  "Well," I said, "I suppose we might as well go home."

  "We can't," said James. "Remember the apple stand?"

  I had forgotten, but now I remembered. We went back up Old Stamford Road, and there Gordy and Deborah were, waiting patiently. They had taken in eighty-seven cents.

  And then we all waited, but not so patiently, and the minutes kept going slower and no cars stopped, and it began to be dark and time for supper, and we were all hungry, but there was nothing to eat but apples.

  We had no money, but we put in an IOU each time. But apples do not go a long way when you are starving.

  "I for one," said Lydia when she had downed her third, "will never save an orchard again. I think they ought to be stamped out."

  Gordy uttered a burp. At any other time we would have lectured him on manners, but right now we felt a sympathetic bond. We would have all done the same thing if we could.

  And it was then, as spirits ebbed and the flesh was weakest, that Dicky LeBaron came round the corner, riding in a stripped-down jalopy with a coupie of tough older boys. He goes around with the worst kids in the high school and toadies up to them something awful.

  When they saw us, they stopped their car with a squeal of brakes and just sat there looking at us with nasty grins on all three of their faces, and my heart sank even further. But it seemed to be Gordy they wanted to bully most.

  "Well, if it isn't Gordon'T. Witherspoon III!" said the one driving.

  "What you doing in this low-down common neighborhood, rich boy?" said the other high school boy.

  Dicky LeBaron was less insulting, but he was insulting enough. "Hey, Gordy," he said in lordly tones, "toss me an apple."

  Gordy's face looked whiter than usual. But he was spunky, as always. "No," he said. "They're not mine."

  The two high school boys pretended they couldn't believe their ears. "Did I hear Gordon'T. Witherspoon III say no to you, Dicky boy?" said the first one.

  "Do you let rich little squirts talk rough to you like that, Dicky boy?" said the second. "I thought you were the boss of six-one-B!"

  Dicky LeBaron's face got red. "Come on, hand it over," he said gruffly.

  James stepped up by Gordy. "We're minding this stand for a friend," he said. "If you want to buy an apple, they're five cents each."

  The boy who was driving flicked his eyes over James. "Boy Scouts," he said. And he spat into the road.

  "Do-gooders," agreed the second boy. "Teacher's pets."

  Dicky LeBaron shifted in the car seat as if he were uncomfortable. "Aw, come on," he said. "Let's get outa here."

  "Wait," said the second boy. "Got to teach these teacher's pets a lesson first. Whaddaya say we wreck their stand for them?"

  Dicky LeBaron opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, the boy who was driving suddenly headed his car straight at us and stepped on the gas, and we all had to scatter and jump.

  Of course he swerved at the last minute and went peeling on up the road, but one wheel did graze a corner of the stand and apples started toppling off and rolling every which way.

  Lydia didn't waste time on words. She just reached down and grabbed up one of the apples and sent it after the car. She can throw straight as any boy.

  The apple hit the driver on the back of the neck, and it must have hurt, because he let out a yell and jammed on his brake
s and started climbing out of the car. But just then some grown-ups appeared, walking along the road, and he must have thought better of it. Because he got back behind the wheel and drove away.

  "Darn," said Lydia. "I wanted to hit that Dicky LeBaron. Wait till it's my turn for an adventure. I'll show him."

  "He wasn't as bad as the others," I pointed out. "And the magic's not for getting even; it's for doing good turns."

  "To squelch Dicky LeBaron," said Lydia, "would be a good turn to the whole human race."

  And then we helped Deborah and the boys pick up apples.

  We were still at it when the grown-ups we'd noticed before came nearer. But when I looked up and really saw them, I couldn't believe my eyes.

  It was Madame Salvini and Mr. Appledore, but what a change! They were walking hand in hand, and she was rolling her eyes at him and hanging on his every word, and when we talked to them, she hardly seemed to notice us at all. It just showed I shouldn't have been in such a hurry to criticize the magic. It knows what it's doing.

  Or maybe Mr. Appledore has hidden depths, like Gordy.

  "I'm afraid some apples got spilled," James said.

  "Oh, that," said Madame Salvini vaguely, not taking her eyes from Mr. Appledore.

  "We ate some, too," said Kip, "but we kept a record of every one."

  "Oh, them," said Mr. Appledore. "Take them and welcome. I got me a new orchard now. Down to Maggie's place. We're pardners from now on. They can build their peslky station and plow my land under anytime they choose. Eat your fill."

  James shuddered. "Thanks. We already did." But I was excited.

  "Is it really all settled? What about your public?"

  Madame Salvini rolled her eyes at Mr. Appledore. "Adam has convinced me. The simple life is best. We will be a ... how do you say it? A team. It will be paradise regained and we will be Adam and Eve!"

  "Good," I said. "I guess that proves your well is a wishing well, all right. And you can be our first real new members."

  I wrote their names down in my notebook and told them all about the Well-Wishers' Club, but I don't think they listened much. They kept looking at each other. When we left, they were strolling back toward Madame Salvini's house, still hand in hand. And I guess Mr. Appledore was teaching Madame Salvini a new song, because her voice followed us as we biked along.