The Well-Wishers (18 page)

I'm happy to report that the new family seems to be getting along just fine. And their garden is the neatest on Silvermine Road. Though of course it'll be spring before we see it in its glory.

And another thing.

This year some people started a teen canteen in town, to give the high school kids a place to go for sandwiches and dancing on Saturday nights. And on Saturday afternoons it's open to us sixth, seventh, and eighth graders.

There is a jukebox in the canteen, but there is a piano, too.

And the father of the new family has volunteered to give one Saturday night a month, and one Saturday afternoon, to the canteen. Because it turns out he can play pop just as well as he can classical.

Dicky LeBaron is good, but the father of the new family is tops. He can teach Dicky a thing or two, and sometimes he does. And when the two of them

get together, playing four-handed, the place really rocks.

Last Saturday afternoon at the dance I heard a boy whose father was one of the Smugs on that first day say he didn't know how we'd have got along if the new family hadn't moved in.

So it just goes to show that people
can
live together if they try.

I'm just sorry some people don't try first, instead of getting excited and stirring up trouble.

But I think maybe the magic taught this town how true this is. And if I helped the magic do that, then that's what I'm thankful for.

And now the end of the story of the new family belongs to Deborah.

This is Deborah writing all by myself, and not with Dicky LeBaron or anybody.

Hannibal just got elected treasurer of the first grade.

This is Dicky LeBaron.

I don't think I belong in this book by rights, not really being in the Well-Wishers' Club, but Laura said I should write something, and the book is her idea in the first place, so here goes.

I'm glad I got to know these kids. I always kind of wanted to, though I would never have said. That's why I used to watch them, well spy on them really. Some of the things they did looked pretty square and childish, and yet they seemed to have more fun than anybody.

I see now why they do. It's the way they look at things, as if anything could happen the next minute. And generally something does. If you want to call it believing in magic, okay, call it that.

I always thought they'd despise me for being poor. Not that they're so rich, but you don't have to have much to be richer than I am. But they don't think about things like that.

In some ways knowing them has changed me a lot. I've learned to like reading, which I used to think was a waste of time, and even doing good turns, which I used to think was corny. And Kip is getting me interested in classical music. You wouldn't think such a "down-to-earth guy would have longhair tastes, but he does.

Sometimes, though, a man doesn't feel like books, or good turns, or pretending, or Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. A man just wants to go play Kick the Can with the fellows in the vacant lot. Or listen to Elvis Presley.

And when I feel like that, that's what I go and do.

I always come back, though, in the end.

, My motto still is, stay cool, dad. And be yourself.

Only not too much so.

And now I'll pass this book on to James. That's if he can stop thinking about Florence Squibb long enough to write in it. Ha ha.

This is James.

I don't mind Dicky and his jokes. He just hasn't found out about life yet. Though sometimes I think he and Lydia are beginning to see the light.

But every time I think that, the next minute they begin pushing each other around, and scuffling, and insulting each other, and become utterly childish again.

Not that there's anything wrong with that, while you're young.

In fact, if we're all giving thanks, I think I'd say a happy childhood is what I'm grateful for most.

It's been wonderful having the well, and the magic, and now that I'm moving on into adult life, it will always be something to look back to. And tell my own children about.

I believe a man should marry young and have as many children as possible.

Of course I realize I have a lot to go through before then. High school and college arid finding my place in the economic structure and all that.

But I don't believe a man can start thinking about his responsibilities too early.

When I first knew Florence, I told her all about the magic, and the well. I thought she might want to join the club, and wish with us.

But she couldn't think of anything to wish for.

And in a way, I consider that a tribute to me.

I'll admit, though, that once in a while when Florence is busy after school, it is fun to sit around with Laura and Kip and the others, just like in the old days, and idly plan what we will do if the magic ever starts up again.

I don't think it's very likely that it will, though.

After all, we are all growing up now, and if the others don't realize this yet, they will sooner or later.

So I'm afraid that for us it is good-bye to the well, and the magic, too.

But I'm thankful to have had it, while it lasted.

This is Laura writing now, for the last time.

I am thankful for every single thing that has happened since we moved into the red house, for the well and the magic and the good turns we have managed to do, and all the new friends we have made.

But yesterday, with Thanksgiving Day already more than a week ago and fading into the dim past, I was sitting by the living-room fire reading this whole book over. And I couldn't help feeling sad, in a way.

James can be awfully stuffy at times, particularly since he has started going around with Florence Squibb, but there is something in what he says, all the same.

We
are
growing older, and things
do
change.

And it stands to reason that the well has run out of wishes, at least for us.

After all, magic has come into our lives now twice, and I know how lucky that makes us. Some people never have any magic adventures at all. It would be greedy to hope for any more.

But I am not disbanding the Well-Wishers' Club. Not yet.

There will always be good turns to be done, no matter how grown-up we get. And if they grow less and less magical as time grows on, we can still try to keep doing them by ordinary means.

All the same, as I sat by the living-room fire yesterday and thought of winter coming, and how wonderful the summer and fall had been and how quickly they had passed, and as I looked out at the bare trees and thought of how James has changed and how we hardly ever see him anymore and how pretty soon the others will probably start changing, too, I, couldn't help feeling sad, as I say. And rebellious at life, and the way it is.

Because I don't want things to change, or people, either. I want them to stay exactly the way they are.

That was how I felt yesterday.

But this morning I got up, and everything was different. There was frost on the ground but the sun was shining and squirrels were scolding, and on the gable over the wishing well a late-departing phoebe sat and wagged its tail.

I looked at the world, and suddenly I felt as if magic were surely going to happen any minute. I can't describe how that feeling feels, but if you have ever had magic adventures, as we have, you will know.

I couldn't think for a minute why I was smiling. But then I remembered. It wasn't magic that was in the air. It was something else.

Today is December first.

And Christmas is coming.

Edward Eager
(1911–1964) worked primarily as a playwright and lyricist. It wasn't until 1951, while searching for books to read to his young son, Fritz, that he began writing children's stories. In each of his books he carefully acknowledges his indebtedness to E. Nesbit, whom he considered the best children's writer of all time—"so that any child who likes my books and doesn't know hers may be led back to the master of us all."

HALF MAGIC

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