Folks in Piedmont like to make out like the world is a steady and sensible place, but every so often, a thing happens that shakes that notion clean off its hinges. One such thing occurred on a warm March afternoon when an unfamiliar wagon rolled up Ladiga Street, rattlin’ like it had been put together by a blind man with one hand tied behind his back.
The mule pullin’ it looked half asleep.
The driver looked half wild.
And the wagon itself carried more junk than a county landfill.
The fellow sittin’ atop it was tall and skinny, dressed in a coat the color of storm clouds and a hat that might have once belonged to a riverboat gambler before bein’ repurposed by a scarecrow. He held the reins with a kind of lofty disinterest, as if he were accustomed to grander entrances than Piedmont could offer.
He brought the mule to a stop right in front of the old barbershop and called out in a voice that carried all the way to the railroad tracks.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and those still decidin’, behold the greatest collection of wonders this side of the Mississippi.”
Most folks ignored him. Piedmont had met its share of salesmen, miracle tonic sellers, and one evangelist who tried to peddle prophetic seed packets that never sprouted.
But Jimmy Matthew Cartwright was not most folks.
Jimmy Matthew was seventeen, curious as a raccoon in a feed bin, and twice as likely to make regrettable decisions. His mama had given up worryin’ about him and instead took to prayin’ in advance for any foolishness he might attempt that week.
So, of course, Jimmy Matthew was first to approach the wagon.
“Sir,” he said, starin’ up at the collection of objects that hung from hooks and shelves and twine like ornaments on a deranged Christmas tree, “what is it you’a sellin’?”
The peddler leaned down, his eyes glintin’ with a mischievous spark.
“My boy, I sell possibility.”
Jimmy Matthew blinked.
“Does it hafta have batteries?”
The peddler smiled like a man who had just been handed a fool’s fortune.
He lifted a small wooden box from the wagon’s side. It was plain, unremarkable, carved with swirls that resembled smoke or river currents.
“This,” the peddler said, “is a Wishin’ Box. One wish inside, sealed tight. Not two. Not three. Exactly one. You open it, you speak it, and the world takes notice.”
Jimmy Matthew squinted.
“Ain’t never heard of a Wishin’ Box.”
“That’s why it works,” the peddler said serenely.
Jimmy Matthew considered this logic, which was thin as pond ice but just sturdy enough for him to trust.
“How much?”
The peddler held up two fingers.
“Two dollars.”
Jimmy Matthew fished out the last two dollars he owned, originally earmarked for moon pies and a big RC, and slapped them into the man’s palm.
The peddler bowed.
“Use it wisely. Or at least foolishly in an interesting way.”
Then he flicked the reins, the mule snorted, and the wagon rattled off as if pulled by unseen strings.
Jimmy Matthew stared at the box.
“Well,” he said aloud, “there ain’t no way this’ll cause trouble.”
That was the first lie of the day.
The Wish
Jimmy Matthew waited until he got home to open the box, partly for privacy and partly because he had a hunch that wishin’ in public might attract attention.
He sat on the edge of his bed, turned the box over once, twice, then flipped the tiny latch.
Inside sat a slip of paper that read:
Speak your heart with boldness. One wish. Final and binding.
Jimmy Matthew cleared his throat.
“Alright then. I wish…”
He thought.
He considered.
He realized he should have planned this better.
Finally, he blurted:
“I wish I could play baseball like Hank Aaron.”
The room stirred.
A breeze moved through the house, even though no windows were open.
The Wishin’ Box dissolved into a curl of smoke and vanished with a faint pop.
Jimmy Matthew blinked.
“Well… I think I might’a got cheated.”
The Trouble
The next day at practice, Jimmy Matthew stepped up to bat.
He felt something new. Something powerful. Something almost holy.
The pitcher wound up.
Jimmy Matthew swung.
The ball left the bat with a crack so mighty it sent Mr. Pepper’s old hound dog into a fit and shattered three church windows on its way out of town. The ball kept goin’ until somebody in Bremen claimed to have found a mysterious white comet embedded in their chicken coop.
This was impressive.
This was phenomenal.
This was catastrophic.
Because Jimmy Matthew could not turn it off.
At school, he accidentally hurled his lunch bag clean across the cafeteria, hittin’ Principal Hand square in his giant forehead. He high-fived a friend so hard it dislocated the boy’s shoulder. His mama asked him to open a stuck pickle jar, and he cracked it in half like a walnut, brine splashin’ across the kitchen floor.
By evening, Piedmont was under a kind of sports-related siege.
The sheriff paid a visit.
“Son,” he said, holdin’ a cracked basketball Jimmy Matthew had ruined by attemptin’ to dribble it, “you got to stop touchin’ things.”
Jimmy Matthew held up his hands helplessly.
“I ain’t doin’ it on purpose.”
The town elders gathered.
Reverend Eubanks laid hands on him.
Miss Shirley Mae attempted an exorcism with Crisco Oil and sweet tea.
Raymond Rue shook his head and said the boy had the look of somebody who’d been meddlin’ in unnatural affairs.
And all the while, Jimmy Matthew prayed the Wishin’ Box would show itself again so he could take his words back.
But wishes listen better than they obey.
The Ending, or Something Like It
Just when the town seemed ready to wrap Jimmy Matthew in cushionin’ and keep him inside until the Second Comin’, the peddler returned.
His wagon creaked into town as if on cue.
Jimmy Matthew ran out to meet him.
“Mister, I need to git that wish undone. I ain’t built to be Hank Aaron.”
The peddler nodded.
“I figured as much. You got the wrong sort of wish for someone with your gift for confusion.”
“You can undo it?” Jimmy Matthew begged.
The peddler looked at him with pity.
“No.
But you can outgrow it.”
The boy blinked.
“What does that mean?”
“Use the strength until it leaves. All magic fades when a fool learns somethin’ honest.”
Jimmy Matthew tried to figure this out, failed, and asked plainly:
“What honest thing am I supposed to learn?”
The peddler chuckled.
“That you were fine enough without it.”
And just like that, he vanished again.
Two days later, Jimmy Matthew noticed he no longer shattered doorknobs just by touchin’ them.
A week later, he missed a fastball by a country mile.
By the end of the month, he was back to his old self.
Piedmont sighed in collective relief.
But for years after that day, any time a stranger came rattlin’ through town with a wagon, folks kept an eye on young Jimmy Matthew.
Some people attract trouble.
Some people seek it.
But Jimmy Matthew Cartwright was a rare wonder in Piedmont.
He bought it.
New Yesterdays can be found at: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon, as well as your favorite bookshops. The Audiobook is available from Libro.fm, as well as Amazon.
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