by Edward Bloor
The little train took off with a lurch. We pushed through a pair of wooden doors, leaving the daylight behind. We rolled past walls of rocks and wooden beams, moving steadily downward, our way lit by a series of red lanterns hanging on the walls.
The guide pointed out, “Those lanterns are electric, folks, but back in the day they would have been kerosene.” Then he added, “Those wooden beams you see won’t really help you in a cave-in, though. Nothing will. They are there mostly to make noise before they crack. The miners had a saying: ‘When the timbers start talking, you’d better start walking.’ ”
The train came to a halt in an open area crammed with prop items—tools, wheelbarrows, dummies of men and mules. The guide got out and walked over to a wall of pure anthracite. We followed and formed a semicircle in front of him.
“Seventy-five years ago,” he began, “coal miners and their helpers would chip away at veins of anthracite just like this one. They would fill carts with it, and mules would drag those carts to the surface.”
He pointed to Ben, Mikeszabo, and me. “The mules wouldn’t stop there, though. They’d keep pulling the coal up the hill to the breaker house. That’s where boys like you would be waiting. For ninety cents a day, you would sit in the breaker house and sort out the good coal from the rocks and dirt.”
Mikeszabo looked at me and whispered, “That’s not such a bad deal.”
I whispered back, “No. That’s more than I make.”
Jenny asked the man, “What about girls? Could they do that?”
The guide was adamant. “No, ma’am! There were no breaker girls. Just boys. The girls were back home learning how to cook and wash and sew.”
Arthur muttered, “Righteous.”
Jenny sneered at him playfully. But then she complained, “That’s not fair.”
The guide repeated, “No, ma’am. But that’s how it was, and everybody went along with it. Men and women. Boys and girls.”
It was at this point that I first noticed Jimmy Giles.
He did not look well. His face was pale and he appeared to be sweating, despite the fifty-two-degree temperature. His eyes were darting around.
But everybody else was focused on the guide, who continued talking. “And while we’re discussing what’s fair and what isn’t, here’s a question: Who can tell me how many pounds are in a ton?”
Wendy answered before anyone else could. “Two thousand.”
The guide nodded. “Well, you kids know that, and I know that, but the mine owners did not. They insisted that there were two thousand two hundred pounds in a ton. They called it a ‘long ton,’ and they made the miners add another two hundred pounds to every ton if they wanted to get paid.”
As we all contemplated that injustice, Jimmy took a big step away from the group.
Catherine Lyle asked him, “Are you okay, Mr. Giles?”
He whispered hoarsely, “Doomed. I’m doomed to die down here.”
“What’s that?”
“I gotta get out!”
Catherine Lyle turned to the guide. “Where is the nearest exit?”
He looked puzzled. “Well, there’s the way we came in, and there’s the way we’ll go out.”
“This man needs to go out. It’s an emergency.”
I guess it took the guide a moment too long to respond. Maybe he was hoping to finish his speech—I don’t know—but Jimmy could not wait. He squeezed behind the last coal car, got onto the tracks, and started back the way we’d come—walking first and then running.
The guide yelled, “Sir! You can’t do that.” He told us, “Everybody hop back in. I’ll get us out right now.”
We all clambered back into our cars, except for Arthur. He took off after Jimmy, scrambling as best he could over the wooden rail ties.
The train lurched forward and quickly picked up speed. We barreled around several curves before we hit another pair of doors and broke into the daylight.
The guide screeched to a halt, jumped out, and ran to the entrance. We all followed.
The guide pushed open the left wooden door and peered inside. He called over to us, “I see them! They’re okay!”
A minute later, Jimmy and Arthur emerged, blinking in the sunlight. Arthur had his hand cupped under Jimmy’s arm. Jimmy was covered with sweat and he was breathing hard, but he did manage to say, “I’m all right. I’m sorry, everybody. I’m sorry.”
Catherine asked, “Is there anything I can get you, Mr. Giles? Some water?”
Jimmy nodded, so Catherine and Wendy took off for the gift shop.
Jimmy repeated, “I am really sorry. I guess I wasn’t ready to go back down there. I messed up everybody’s trip.”
We all gathered around and assured him he hadn’t.
“It’s okay.”
“We saw enough.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
We moved toward the gift shop in a bunch. Catherine Lyle met us at the door. She was holding Jimmy’s bottle of water. No one else had money, so we just stood around and watched him drink it.
I should say no one else had money except Wendy. She went back in and shopped for jewelry. She wound up purchasing an anthracite heart on a silver chain.
A black heart.
Yeah.
When we were all back in the Suburban, Jimmy apologized some more, and everybody reassured him some more.
Arthur, who hadn’t said a word on the ride up, talked the whole way back. In a lowered voice, he told me, “Jimmy Giles was a wildcat miner when I first met him, but I don’t think he did it for too long.”
“Well, it’d be tough to be a miner if you were afraid of tunnels.”
“Yeah. It’s like if you were a roofer and afraid of heights.”
“Or a sailor afraid of water.”
“Right. So then Jimmy and Warren bought the flatbed truck. They hauled pine trees for the government, to make turpentine. They were supposed to haul a hundred trees at a time. They hauled maybe sixty, but they still got paid for a hundred. Jimmy used to say it was close enough for government work.
“Then they started moving college kids in and out of frats and dorms. They moved them in in September and moved them out in June. But you can’t work for just two months a year, so they came up with the idea of the Christmas-tree run.”
Arthur’s eyes lit up. “And they let me in on that deal! On the day before Thanksgiving, we load up with Frasier firs and Douglas firs for seventeen dollars each,” he explained. “Then we drive to a lot in Orlando and sell them for eighty to a hundred dollars each.”
“Florida—that’s cool. That’s a cool profit, too.”
“It can be, yeah. Unless there are problems. Last year, a Boy Scout troop staked out a lot next to us and really hurt our business. These Boy Scouts had an air horn that they blew whenever somebody bought a tree. That must be some kind of Florida thing. I never heard of blasting a damn boat horn over a Christmas tree. That horn was getting on my last nerve.
“One night, right before closing, Jimmy fell asleep in a chair tipped back against the truck. Two Boy Scouts crept over and blasted that air horn in his ear, making him crash to the ground, hurting his neck and ear something serious. Then they ran away, laughing.
“Jimmy and Warren and me all walked over and complained to the Scout master, some fat dude. A buncha Scout mothers started yelling that it wasn’t true, like their precious little darlings would never do that, so the Scout master started saying it wasn’t true, too. Then a bigmouth woman asked us, ‘Why don’t you go sell your trees someplace else? Let the Scouts make their money. They need it for camping and equipment and stuff.’
“Warren said, ‘We rent this lot every year from Mr. Peterson. We pay good money for it, so we have a right to be here.’ Then Warren called this Peterson dude and told him what was going on and told him to get out there and talk to the damn Scout mothers.
“Well, when Peterson arrived, he got all scared of the Scout mothers because they all had big mouths and they were all yel
ling and calling us liars and out-of-staters and crap. He backed down right away. He told us, in front of them, ‘Y’all will just have to make the best of the situation. Let these boys sell their trees. It looks like they’re about to run out. Then you can sell yours.’ ”
Arthur shook his head. “Well then, don’t another shipment of Boy Scout trees arrive the next day?
“Warren called Peterson back. Peterson told him he was sorry again. He said it would never happen again, because a Jiffy Lube was going up on the Boy Scout lot. So we decided to let it slide, but it did hurt our business. Near the end, we were selling those trees for forty bucks each.”
“That’s tough.”
Arthur assured me, “God will visit his wrath upon the infidel, upon those damn Boy Scouts, wherever they are.”
I looked at him curiously. “Arthur, do you really believe all those things you say about God and heaven and hell and all?”
He seemed confused. “Of course I do. I live in Caldera, cuz. I know there’s a hell. I grew up with it under my bed.”
It was dark when we arrived back at the school. Mrs. Weaver was parked there, waiting. So was a guy who turned out to be Ben’s father. (At least Ben got in the car and left with him.)
Arthur was giving me a ride home, which was a major concession from Mom. I was heading for his car when I heard a voice behind me.
Wendy’s voice.
She hadn’t even looked at me the whole trip, but now she was standing next to the idling Suburban, demanding to know, “Hey! What’s going on with you?”
I mumbled, “Not much.”
“Are you not talking to me or something? I thought we were good.”
I answered as evenly as I could, “I thought you weren’t talking to me.”
She shook her head no. Then she shrugged in a Whatever gesture. She pointed over my shoulder toward the Geo Metro and said, “How about poor Mr. Giles, huh?”
I turned and looked. Wendy said, “Catherine has been working with him, trying to desensitize him, but I guess he wasn’t ready. It was too much too soon.”
I watched Jimmy talking to Arthur at the car. I finally answered, “Yeah. That was rough.”
Wendy sounded empathetic. “It’s so sad. He takes two field trips, and he has two breakdowns. If I were him, I wouldn’t take a third.”
I actually considered correcting her grammar, “If I were he,” but I didn’t. Instead, I said, “Well, they say you have to take it one step at a time.”
She frowned at my cliché of an answer, but I didn’t care. Then Catherine Lyle beeped the horn, causing Wendy to turn and glare at her. She wasn’t even looking at me when she said, “Okay. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I didn’t answer. I watched her climb into the passenger seat and ride away.
By the time I got over to the Geo Metro, Arthur and Jimmy were sitting inside with the engine running. Arthur opened his door. He leaned forward and unlatched the seat so I could squeeze into the back. He pulled me into their conversation right away. “So, cuz, I just talked to Jimmy, and we got a proposition for you.”
“Really?”
“The Christmas-tree run this year is gonna start on November twenty-first.”
“The day before Thanksgiving?”
“Correct. We will drive down to sunny Florida in the big truck. Jimmy and Warren will stay for twelve days”—he turned toward me—“but I won’t. We are going to tow the Geo Metro, so that I can leave after five days. I’ll be back on November twenty-fifth, the following Sunday, in time for school on Monday.” Arthur paused for dramatic effect. “And Jimmy here says you can join us if you want.”
I was astounded. “Me?”
“Yep. Jimmy says they will even pay you for your labor.”
Jimmy confirmed this. “Three hundred dollars for five days’ labor.”
“Wow! Really?”
Arthur said, “Yeah. And it ain’t hard labor, cuz. People point at a tree; you pick it up and tie it to their roof.” He smiled and asked, “What do you say?”
I was thrilled. Three hundred dollars! Florida! But I must admit, I was a little scared, too. I didn’t really know Jimmy and Warren, except as people my parents kept me away from. I asked, “Are you sure we would be back in time for school?”
“Yep. Most trees get sold the first few days after Thanksgiving. That’s when they need our help. Jimmy and Warren will keep selling trees for another week after that. What they haven’t sold at eighty bucks by then, they’ll sell at forty and skedaddle.”
Jimmy repeated, “Skedaddle.”
Then I heard myself say, “Okay. Yeah. Count me in. Absolutely.”
It all sounded really really great to me.
Of course, it would not sound great at all to Mom and Dad.
Mom tries to do a traditional Thanksgiving at our house. But here is how it usually goes: Dad, Lilly, and I work late at the Food Giant on Wednesday night. Dad goes in for a few hours on Thursday morning, too, to catch up on Centralized Reporting System stuff.
I get up early and play video games on the TV in the parlor (like Banjo Kazooie on my old Nintendo, or Super Mario Brothers on my N64). Mom has her portable TV in the kitchen, blaring the Macy’s parade as she cooks. I’m not sure what Lilly does, but it probably involves hair and makeup.
Dad times things so he arrives at home just as Santa arrives at Macy’s. We gather in the kitchen. We fill our plates with food and carry them into the dining room. We hold hands (which is always a bit awkward), and Dad prays.
Then we have dinner—just the four of us—because our only other relatives are Aunt Robin and her crew from Caldera, and Mom doesn’t want them in the house.
It’s a tradition, I guess, but it’s a tradition that nobody seems to like, so why do we keep doing it?
I sure don’t want to do it this year. I have a better idea.
I want to go to Florida.
I was hoping to plant the idea of the Florida trip at dinner—to plant it with Mom, at least, since Dad couldn’t get away from the store. But before I even had a chance to speak, dinner took an awkward turn.
Mom suddenly asked Lilly, “So, are you and this Uno boy a serious couple?”
Lilly did not explode, as she normally would have. Instead, she answered calmly, even maturely, “He’s going by his real name now—John.”
“Good. Uno makes him sound like a Puerto Rican.”
Then Lilly exploded. “Mom!”
“What?”
“What is the matter with you?”
Mom held out her hands. “What?”
“That’s a racist thing to say.”
“No it isn’t. Ooh-no is Spanish. That’s a fact. There’s nothing racist about a fact.”
Lilly stopped talking.
After a few minutes, Mom tried another line of conversation, as if the first one had never happened. “You know, your uncle Robby and your aunt Robin met when they were very young.”
Lilly clenched her jaw.
“Robin snagged him when he was seventeen, and she was only sixteen. Some girls think they have to snag their men fast, because the bloom is quickly off the rose. Personally, I don’t agree with that. I think a girl should take her time.”
Lilly just stared at her food glumly.
Thankfully, the phone rang in the kitchen. I was relieved to get up and answer it. I leaned against the refrigerator and said, “Hello.”
I heard a familiar perky voice. “Tom?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Wendy.” She started in chattily, like nothing was wrong. “Did you hear Ben Gibbons on the ride home today?”
“No.”
“He described eating a chair—a whole wooden chair—when he was two years old. It took him, like, six months, but he did it.”
“No. I didn’t hear him. I was listening to Arthur.”
“Catherine says Ben is a classic example of a designated patient.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a disorder. Not as weird a
s pica, though. It’s when a whole family—parents, siblings, everybody—has serious issues but won’t admit it. Instead, they pick one family member to be the designated patient. They pretend that only that one family member has a problem, so the rest of them can pretend to be okay.”
All I could think of to say was a generic “That sucks.”
After a few seconds of dead air, Wendy finally got down to business. “Hey, I talked to Joel about that website. He was really embarrassed and, like, really sorry. He said he must have been wasted when he put me on there, because he didn’t even remember doing it, and he didn’t mean any of it.”
I interrupted. “Joel? That’s his name?”
“Yeah. He’s one of Dad’s top students. Really brilliant but, like, really immature.”
“And he lives across the street?”
“Yeah, in one of the frats. Anyway, Joel promised he’d take the whole website down. Like, permanently.”
I didn’t respond, so she went on. “But, you know, none of that stuff about me was true. I don’t even know what some of that stuff means. Okay? I am not like that. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“So will you stop being mad at me all the time? And start talking to me again? Because now you know that none of this is true?”
I thought to myself, I have no idea if this is true or not. But I finally repeated that everything was okay.
After a pause, she answered, “Okay. We’re good, then?”
“Yeah. We’re good.”
“Good. Well, see you at school.”
“Yeah. Bye.” I leaned against the refrigerator for one more minute. I let myself fantasize one more time about a kiss from Wendy Lyle. A beautiful piece of candy corn rising up toward me. The feel of her tongue in my mouth. Then I thought about that same piece of corn lying on the ground, in front of the railing. It’s just not the same after it’s been thrown up.
The Wendy thing was over.
But the Joel thing was not.
He had called me a “little townie.” Then he’d made out with Wendy right in front of me, like I didn’t exist. He would have to answer for those things. And for the website.
You don’t do that kind of stuff around here and get away with it. Maybe in California, and Florida, but not here.