The Wish Giver

by Bill Brittain

  Polly stepped into the house. Behind her she could hear Agatha and Eunice whispering.

  “I never saw Polly act so nice and polite.” Agatha sounded a bit worried.

  “What could have come over her?” added Eunice.

  They went into the kitchen, and the three girls took seats at the big table. Mrs. Benthorn put the kettle on to boil and then set the cookies on a plate.

  Soon the tea was ready. Polly took a sip. It was boiling hot. She rubbed at her mouth.

  “Don’t you like the tea, Polly?” Agatha simpered. “It’s called oolong, and it comes all the way from China. It’s fearfully expensive.”

  “It’s just fine,” Polly replied. “It’s a lot like the kind my mother makes. Only hers is stronger.”

  “Oh, my dear girl!” said Agatha. “Surely you can’t compare your mother’s tea with this costly type. But then, perhaps only a real lady knows how to savor not only the delicate aroma but the exquisite taste. Wouldn’t you agree, Eunice, dear?”

  Polly managed a thin smile. “I’m sure you’re right, Agatha,” she said. “I haven’t had much practice at being a real lady. But I’m hoping you two can teach me how to do it.”

  Agatha and Eunice looked at one another in consternation. The whole purpose of inviting Polly was to get her riled, so she’d look like a fool and they could laugh at her. With luck she’d even start jug-a-ruming, the way she did in school. But Polly was being all cool and calm and polite. Agatha decided to try again.

  “I love your new dress, Eunice dear,” she said grandly. “All that lace—it’s quite the style this year. Of course some people have no sense of style at all.” And here she stared straight at Polly.

  It was like water rolling off a duck’s back. “I would so like to be stylish,” Polly said. “But my mother makes my clothes, and she’s too busy to keep up with the latest fashions. But you do look just beautiful, Eunice.”

  Neither girl knew what to say. Agatha couldn’t criticize Polly’s remark without insulting Eunice. And Eunice rather enjoyed the compliment.

  “What do you usually do after school, Polly?” Agatha asked. Then she winked her eye at Eunice.

  “I usually play down by Spider Crick,” Polly replied. “With the Wickstaffs. There’s a little pool that’s filled with tadpoles every spring. As the days go by, you can see legs start growing out of ’em. And then they turn into frogs. I like watching ’em change.”

  Agatha made a face. “Ugh! Tadpoles and frogs are horrid things!”

  “And so are Leland and Lenora Wickstaff,” Eunice added.

  “Well, there are flowers along the crick, too. There’s jack-in-the-pulpit and Queen Anne’s lace and—”

  “We have our flowers sent in from a florist,” said Eunice with a toss of her head.

  “Uh-huh.” Polly fought back the urge to say what was on her mind. “And what do you two do? After you’ve had your tea and cookies, I mean?”

  “We do needlepoint,” said Agatha.

  “And we practice our languages,” said Eunice. “I can speak French rather well.”

  “And we look at the magazines to see what the latest fashions will be.”

  “And we take our piano lessons.”

  “And we do all the things that really well-bred girls should do,” Agatha concluded.

  “That’s just fine…real fine,” replied Polly. “But don’t you ever like to get out and do other things, too?”

  Agatha and Eunice looked at one another in surprise. “Other things? Like what?”

  “Well…” Polly had to think about this. “Why, just last month, Lenora Wickstaff learned…taught…me how to tickle up a trout. Have either of you tried to do that?”

  Eunice looked shocked. “Tickle a trout?”

  “Sure. It’s real easy. You lie down at the edge of the water, right where some big trout is hiding. You get right down on your belly.”

  Both girls wrinkled their noses at the word belly.

  “Then you reach your hand in the water real slow. You move it just a little at a time until you can feel the fish finning itself right there in the palm of your hand. Then, WHOOSH! You grab that trout fast and toss him on the bank, and it’s fish for dinner.”

  “How awful!” moaned Agatha.

  “How gross!” groaned Eunice.

  “I think it’s fun,” said Polly. “And Leland has promised to show me how he throws a baseball so it curves right in midair. Now that’s something to know.”

  “A real lady doesn’t catch fish,” said Agatha positively.

  “And a real lady doesn’t play…baseball.” Eunice said the word as if the game were some kind of a disease.

  Polly just stared at those two girls as if she was seeing ’em for the first time. She recalled the months and years when she’d have given anything to get an invitation to Agatha’s house. Now here she was, and it wasn’t at all the pleasant thing she’d expected. It was—it was boring, that’s what it was.

  All that time wasted. Time when she could have been making lots of real friends and not trying to cozy up to these two frilly, doll-like creatures who wanted no part of her. Olivia Heidecker now—she’d be a friend if Polly didn’t scare her off half the time with her sharp tongue. And Janice Proctor, who’d enjoy seeing the fairy ring of toadstools in the woods, and Karen Shay, who could shoot a slingshot straighter’n any boy, and even Charlie Peabody and Alfred Dawes, if she’d give ’em half a chance.

  Suddenly Polly wanted to go home or be down by the crick or walking through town or almost anywhere except sitting at a table in the Benthorn kitchen with two priggish girls who thought they were being real ladies when they were really the world’s worst snobs.

  Polly got to her feet. “I think I’ll be leaving now,” she said.

  “But you can’t go!” cried Agatha. “Not until we…”

  “I can go whenever I want to. The time was, Agatha, when I’d have crawled to this house on hands and knees if I thought you’d invite me inside. But that time is over. I’m my own person now. So I bid you…you ‘ladies’…good-bye.”

  With that, Polly marched to the front door, where Mrs. Benthorn was standing.

  “Good-bye, Polly,” she said. “Please come again.”

  “I do thank you for your hospitality, ma’am. But I don’t think I’ll be coming back.”

  “But why not? Didn’t you have a good time today?”

  “It was…interesting. I guess both Agatha and Eunice consider themselves to be real proper ladies. But I must say, Miz Benthorn, I hope I never get to be that kind of a lady.”

  Before the woman could reply, Polly was out the door.

  She ran and ran until she was deep in the woods beyond Spider Crick. Then she looked around until she spotted a big hollow tree. She put her mouth to the opening in its side and began yelling as loud as she could.

  “Agatha Benthorn! Eunice Ingersoll! You two ain’t got the brains you was born with. There is a whole world out here just waiting to be looked at and used, and all the two of you want to do is look at pictures in magazines and drink tea and eat little cookies. Ladies? You two ain’t ladies. You are poor wretched things, and the lowliest animal in the woods has got more life in it than you’ll ever have. You are the…

  “JUG-A-RUM!”

  So now she was stuck for a spell, only able to croak like a frog. In spite of that, Polly felt happier than she had in a long time. She threw a stone into Spider Crick just for the pleasure of hearing it plonk into the water. Then she climbed high up in a willow tree and looked off toward the Benthorn house in the distance. Agatha and Eunice were in the front yard. To Polly, they looked about the size of a pair of ants.

  I don’t need those two anymore, Polly thought. I’m free! From her high perch she shouted with joy.

  “JUG-A-RUM! JUG-A-RUM! JUG-A-RUM!”

  After supper, though, Polly didn’t feel quite so happy. Her ma had gone into town for some thread, for the store was open late. Polly sat on the front steps with her hands
propping up her chin. “Looks like I’ll be saying nothing but nice things from now on,” she told herself mournfully. “But knowing me, I’ll bust out with something blunt and mean at just the wrong time. Oh, what’s it going to be like from now on, having people laughing at me when I start sounding like a swamp critter?

  “Consarn that ol’ Thaddeus Blinn anyway! That fat little warthog should have known better’n to let me have that wish. He’s so…

  “JUG-A-RUM!”

  There were answering croaks from several frogs along the crick. Polly was thankful there was nobody else around to hear. She was stuck, good and proper.

  One wish—that’s all Thaddeus Blinn had given each of those who’d sat in his tent. Polly wondered if the story she’d heard about Rowena Jervis talking to a bunch of trees had anything to do with the wishing.

  If there was any way out of the predicament, it’d take somebody smarter’n Polly herself to find it. But where was there anyone with enough Yankee cleverness and common sense to—

  Then a little gasp came from Polly’s lips. Perhaps there was a way, after all. If only…

  Quickly Polly got to her feet. She started at a walk, but her feet moved faster and faster, and soon she was running as fast as she could—running toward where the lights of Coven Tree were blinking on in the twilight.

  The Tree Man

  As soon as her folks brought her home from the Church Social, Rowena Jervis scurried up the stairs to her room. She placed the red-spotted card from Thaddeus Blinn in the ebony box on the table by her bed and looked at the big calendar on the wall.

  The following day—Sunday—was circled in red. Right across the number Rowena had printed a name in big block letters:

  HENRY PIPER

  “Henry’s coming,” she sighed to herself. She heard the back door slam downstairs as her pa went out to the barn to see to the livestock. There was a buzz of voices in the kitchen. Sam Waxman, the hired boy, was due to clean up the cellar, and Mrs. Jervis wanted to be sure he did the job right.

  Rowena was annoyed. She wanted to talk to her mother alone, not with Sam around. She’d put the thing off as long as she could. If the idea she had in mind was going to work out, she had to see Mama about it right now. Tomorrow would be too late.

  She went downstairs, resisting the urge to slide down the banister. That was for children. At fifteen, one had to be more dignified.

  Her mother and Sam were seated at the kitchen table. Mrs. Jervis mumbled something to Sam. “Yes’m,” he replied, and his thick shock of red hair bobbed about as he nodded his head.

  Tall and gangly, Sam seemed to be mostly arms and legs, stuck somehow onto his long stick of a body. But he could do a man’s work around the farm. He took his meals with the Jervises and lived in a little room out in the barn.

  Rowena wasn’t at all fond of Sam. Sam was seventeen and had a way of speaking his mind that she found annoying and sometimes downright rude. Sam was just a bumpkin—so unlike Henry Piper.

  “Mama?” she said softly.

  “Yes, Rowena?” her mother said. “What is it?”

  Sam got to his feet. “I’d best be going out and help Mr. Jervis in the barn,” he said, “so’s you two can talk alone.”

  “Sam Waxman, you stay put,” replied Mrs. Jervis firmly. “Clifton said he could do without you for two days while you cleaned the cellar. And I mean to have it done right this time. Anything Rowena’s got to tell me won’t take long. Now what is it, girl?”

  “Well, I…” she began. “Mama, Henry Piper will be coming to town tomorrow.”

  Mrs. Jervis sighed deeply. “I suppose so,” she said. “Twice a year, just like clockwork, the Neverfail Farm Implement Company sends that Henry Piper around with his catalog. And your father ends up with more seeders and cultivators and hay forks than he could use around here in a month of Sundays.”

  “Mother,” said Rowena, “Henry would never sell anybody something they didn’t need.”

  “No? Well, you just watch him at his peddling sometime. Flirting with the farm wives and grown daughters, and chucking the babies under their chins. Talking about the far places he’s been to and the things he’s seen. And all to sell his tools and machinery. I tell you, Henry Piper could charm the socks off a snake. Well, he’ll only be here for three days, and I give thanks for that blessing.”

  “Mama, don’t talk so! Henry’s just so sophisticated and worldly that it takes a very special kind of person to appreciate him.”

  Mrs. Jervis scowled at her daughter. “Rowena, you sound almost like you think you’re in love with that boy. You’re far too young to be even considering such nonsense.”

  “I’m fifteen, Mama. In only seven more months I’ll be sixteen. And I…I…”

  “Oh, get on with it, Rowena. What was it you wanted to ask me?”

  “Well…you know Henry always stays at Miz Ballentine’s rooming house when he’s in town.”

  “Yes. Where else would he put up?”

  “I…I was wondering whether he might stay here this time.”

  Sam let out a snort that a horse would have been proud of. Then he started chuckling behind his hand.

  “Sam Waxman, you stop that this instant!” Rowena put her hands on her hips, and her eyes glittered angrily.

  “Rowena, you have got a thing for that fella, ain’t you?” said Sam.

  “No, I don’t—”

  “Yes, you do too. Remember Sunday dinner last fall when he came by? Maybe you didn’t think I noticed the two of you holding hands under the tablecloth. And them things he was telling you!”

  Sam tried to copy Henry Piper’s manner of speaking. “Oh, St. Louis and Boston are fun,” he mimicked. “But New York City! Now there’s a place where everything is going on at once.”

  Sam took Rowena’s hand. “Rowena,” he crooned in a mocking whisper, “we’ll walk the streets at three in the morning, and it’ll be just like noon, with lights all over the place. Just imagine you in your best dress, sashaying down Broadway on my arm, the two of us looking up at buildings five times as tall as the highest pine in Coven Tree. Then eating in fine restaurants where we’ll be served any kind of food you can imagine. Oh, Rowena! My dear one!”

  Sam kissed Rowena’s hand with a loud smack. She jerked her hand away quickly. The words had sounded so lovely when Henry had said them. And here was Sam, making fun of the whole thing.

  “Sam Waxman, you stop it at once!” she snapped. “I’ll have no more of this.”

  “And I’ll have no more talk of Henry Piper’s being in this house for three days making calf eyes at you, Rowena,” said her mother.

  “With all that walking around the city at night, how does Henry manage to get any sleep?” Sam went on.

  “If you say one more word, Sam, I’ll—”

  “Have done, the both of you!” ordered Mrs. Jervis. “Henry’s not staying here, and that’s flat.”

  Rowena flounced out of the kitchen and back upstairs to her own room. It just wasn’t fair, she thought, flinging herself onto the bed. Bad enough Henry’s coming to Coven Tree only twice a year. The least Mama and Daddy could do was let him stay here where she could see him as often as she liked.

  Rowena lay on her stomach, imagining how grand it would be if Henry’d settle in Coven Tree. Then she could see him every day. She closed her eyes and pictured him, all fine and neat in his striped suit, with his black hair slicked down.

  Then the picture changed. It wasn’t Henry she saw in her mind’s eye anymore.

  It was Thaddeus Blinn.

  I can give you whatever you ask for, Blinn’s sign had said. Rowena knew what she wanted. She wanted to see Henry a lot more often than a few days twice a year.

  She opened her eyes. There, just inches from her face, on the bedside table, was the ebony box. She opened it and took out the red-spotted card. Then she got up, went to the closet, and put the card in the pocket of her best dress.

  “We will see what we will see,” she said to herself, “
as soon as Henry gets here.”

  The next day, after church, Rowena was out in front gathering some flowers when she heard a shout from the road.

  “Hello, the Jervises! Is anyone about?”

  Henry Piper! With a glad little cry, Rowena ran toward the gate, calling his name. “Oh, I…I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said.

  “I couldn’t stay away, lovely lady,” replied Henry with a deep bow. “I came here first thing, as soon as I got off the train.”

  Rowena thought she might faint from pure joy. Then she heard a voice behind her.

  “You came here first thing, huh? Then how come you ain’t got no bags with you except that little case with your catalog and order slips in it? Naw, you got yourself fixed in at Miz Ballentine’s first. Got all freshened up. Your hair’s still wet.”

  Ohh, that Sam! Rowena could have killed him!

  “Sam Waxman, ain’t you got anything better to do than stand gawking while two old friends get reacquainted?”

  “Yep. Reckon I do.” Sam looked Henry up and down. “It won’t do for me to stand here talking. That’s Henry’s department—talking.” And off he walked toward the barn.

  “Never mind Sam,” Rowena said sweetly. “You come inside, Henry. Perhaps you can stay for dinner.”

  “Perhaps I can, my dear. I have a whole new line of machinery I want to talk to your father about.”

  Rowena pouted prettily.

  “And later, maybe you and I can have a few words together—alone.” When Henry said “alone” that way, Rowena’s innards felt like they were filled with butterflies.

  Henry stayed the whole day. He spent most of the afternoon in the front parlor with Mr. Jervis, talking about machinery. It wasn’t until that evening that Rowena got Henry to herself. They sat on the big back porch, watching the last of the sunset.

  Rowena was of two minds about Henry. She was, of course, delighted to have him there. But she was already thinking ahead to the time two days hence when he’d be leaving Coven Tree.

  “After tomorrow I have some time off from school,” she said hopefully. “And on Tuesday, Susannah Haskill is giving a party. I thought perhaps you could…I mean, we could…”