Coal River

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  “And if there’s not?”

  “She’ll be evicted.”

  Emma shook her head, unable to find words.

  “You seem like a nice girl,” Fern said. “Why don’t you take my advice and go on back home? There’s nothing you can do here.”

  She patted Emma’s arm, then made her way to the new widow’s house with the rest of the women. Emma’s eyes filled as she looked around at the thin children on the porches and in the yards. Maybe Fern was right. How in the world could anyone stand up to the Bleak Mountain Mining Company and put a stop to Hazard Flint? How could anyone put an end to this tragedy, least of all, someone like her? When Michael said she should help, he must have been talking about something else.

  She searched the young faces for Jack, hoping she could figure out where Clayton Nash lived, but she didn’t see the boy anywhere. She looked for Michael’s grandmother, thinking a woman with long white braids would be easy to spot. Maybe Tala would understand how and why Michael had spoken to her, and how he knew about Albert.

  Just then, a group of miners appeared at the end of the dirt lane, their clothes and hats and gumshoes covered in coal dust, their sleeves and pants heavy and wet. Their canteens and dinner pails clanged together as they walked, echoing like cowbells in the hollow. They carried metal bars, shovels, picks, tamping rods, safety lamps, and cans of blasting powder. Their faces were black beneath caps with attached oil wick lanterns, their swollen, bloodshot eyes like bleeding holes in their heads.

  Emma scanned the crowd for Clayton but couldn’t see him. Except for Nally, who was heads and shoulders above the others, it was impossible to tell one coal-covered face from another. Every brow was furrowed, every mouth in a thin, hard line. Nally and several others broke away and headed toward the next row of shanties. She turned her attention back to the new widow’s house. A few seconds later, someone tapped her on the shoulder. It was Clayton, his dust-caked lips clamped around the end of a clay pipe. With a black hand, he took the pipe out of his mouth.

  “What are you doing up here?” he said.

  “I followed the Black Maria. Do you know what happened?”

  “Cave-in.”

  “Does that happen often?”

  He sniffed as if it were the most ridiculous question he’d ever heard. “It’s a coal mine,” he said. “We work hundreds of feet underground. What do you think?”

  She stiffened, surprised by his hostile demeanor. Was he blaming her for getting him arrested? “How would I know?” she said. “I didn’t grow up in a mining town. I spent a few months here when I was ten, that’s all. And it was a long time ago.”

  “Lucky you,” he said.

  “Yeah, lucky me.”

  “It’s worse when there’s an explosion,” he said. “Then we have to pick up the pieces, an arm here, a leg there, a man with no head, his brains splashed against the walls, mules blown to bits. Can’t even eat after that.”

  “Please,” she said. She put a hand over her stomach. “Why do you insist on torturing me with such horrible stories?”

  “I want you to see,” he said. “I want you to see that your uncle and the man he works for need to change the way this colliery is run before disaster strikes. Simple decency is all we ask. Emergency exits, proper ventilation. Better pumps to keep it dry and safe. The richest vein lies right next to the riverbed. Part of that could cave in at any second and drown us all. Instead Hazard Flint cuts corners and takes risks, digging columns too narrow, going back into partially collapsed shafts because there’s too much coal to ignore.”

  “What does that have to do with me?” she said. “The last time I checked, you worked for Hazard Flint too!”

  He said nothing for a long moment, then met her gaze. “Fair enough. But are you sure it doesn’t have anything to do with you? Who’s paying for those fancy clothes you’re wearing? And I suppose you’re growing your own food, milking your own cow, butchering your own pig?” He took off his hat, revealing a white forehead smudged with coal dust. “I’m sorry. I just found out you’re working at the Company Store. And I get angry when a good man gets killed.”

  Behind him, a group of policemen crested the hill on horseback, their rifles resting on their thighs, a cloud of dust rising up behind them.

  “You better leave,” Clayton said. He put his cap back on and sprinted, his head down, to catch up with the other miners.

  The women and children went back inside their shanties, and Emma started toward home, her eyes on the road, her head swimming. No wonder the miners were talking about a strike. If they refused to dig coal from the earth, Mr. Flint would have to listen to them, wouldn’t he? What were they waiting for? The herd of horses trotted past, their hooves throwing dirt and slag in the air. A horse stopped beside her and snorted, its brown hide covered in foamy sweat. She looked up at the rider. It was the police captain, Frank Bannister.

  “What are you doing up here?” he said.

  “Nothing,” she said, continuing on.

  He turned his horse and followed her. “Who were you talking to?” he said. “Was that Clayton Nash?”

  She stopped and glared up at him. “Who I talk to is none of your business.”

  “I’m trying to protect you, Emma,” he said. “Can’t you see that?”

  “I don’t need anyone to protect me, least of all you.”

  “Let me give you a lift back to town. The other men can handle this.”

  “Why are you even here?” she said. “These people don’t need the police. Someone’s already been killed. They need food and clothing and fair wages.”

  Frank scowled. “Well, I guess I’ve got my answer. Sounds like you’ve been talking to Nash after all.”

  “I’m not a fool,” she said. “I don’t need anyone to tell me that these people aren’t being treated fairly. All I have to do is look around. So unless you’re here to help them, we don’t have anything to discuss.”

  “I’m here on official business.”

  She looked back at the miners’ village. The rest of the policemen were making their way toward a two-story shanty with boarded-up windows. Three of them stopped and waited on horseback near the front porch while two others dismounted and climbed the steps, rifles in hand. One knocked on the door while the other stood off to the side, waiting. A pregnant woman opened the door. She wore a thin housedress with a fraying hem, and held a toddler in her arms. The first policeman showed her a piece of paper and pointed toward the road. The woman blanched and clutched her throat, her face contorted with fear and anguish. She pleaded with the officers.

  The bitter tang of contempt filled Emma’s mouth. She stared angrily up at Frank. “Are you throwing her out of her house?” she said.

  His face hardened. “It’s not hers,” he said. “Hazard Flint owns it. He owns all these shacks.”

  “But why are you evicting her?” she said. “What did she do?”

  “Your cousin, Percy, says they haven’t paid their bill at the Company Store in a month,” he said. “And her husband just got injured and can’t work. Right now he’s down at the saloon, drinking the last of his money.”

  “But they have a toddler and a baby on the way! Can’t you let them stay until her husband goes back to work?”

  “We’re just doing what Mr. Flint pays us to do.” He reached down for her. “Give me your hand. I’ll pull you up.”

  “No,” she said. “Please. Just leave me alone.”

  CHAPTER 7

  At half past midnight, when she was certain everyone was asleep, Emma got dressed, grabbed her suitcase, and snuck downstairs. She crept through hallways filled with grainy shadows, then slipped through the door into the kitchen. A bluish, otherworldly glow bathed the white-tiled kitchen, and the coal stove ticked in the quiet room. Moonlight reflected off the glass-front cupboards, making the panes look like squares of ice. She tiptoed across the floor and into the pantry, freezing with every creak and wooden groan. Moving as quickly as possible, she filled her suitcase wi
th canned goods, taking one jar each of beans, carrots, beets, tomatoes, corn, and peas. She prayed Cook wouldn’t notice anything missing. When she was finished in the pantry, she shoved two loaves of bread into a cloth sack, stole a half a wedge of cheese, and took a tin of milk from the icebox.

  Then she left the kitchen and crossed the dining room, her shoulders hunched, trying to ignore the feeling that her aunt and uncle were watching from the portrait above the fireplace mantel, their dark eyes following her every move. A high-pitched ringing filled her ears, along with the sound of her blood rushing through her veins. She went to the cherry sideboard, wrapped three scones inside a cloth napkin, and put them in the sack. Then she reached for a jar of marmalade, and froze. Someone was behind her, breathing hard and fast. Fear clutched her throat. She’d been caught. Trying not to panic, she tried to come up with a lie that would sound believable. Nothing came to her.

  Then a darker thought came to her mind, and the hairs on her arms stood up. It was Michael. He had broken in because he had another message for her. She spun around to face him, certain he would be standing there, staring at her with black eyes.

  There was no one there.

  A window was open on the far side of the dining room. A tree branch was brushing back and forth over the sill, rustling across the wood with a rhythmic swish-swish. Emma’s shoulders dropped, and she let out a sigh of relief, her thundering heart starting to slow.

  She made a move to go over and close the window, then decided it might make too much noise. Instead she grabbed the marmalade and hurried into the hall. Once there, she paused, waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom, and made her way through the living room toward the back veranda.

  Holding her breath and saying a silent prayer that the porch door would be unlocked, she gripped the glass doorknob and turned it. The latch clicked and the door slipped loose of the frame, squeaking softly. She slipped outside, carefully closed the door behind her, lifted the suitcase and sack of food over the veranda railing, and set them in Aunt Ida’s flower bed, trying not to disturb the prized roses. Then she straddled the railing, climbed over, and crossed the moonlight lawn. She stole a final glance over her shoulder to make sure she’d escaped undiscovered.

  Uncle Otis and Aunt Ida’s bedroom curtains were open. And their light was on.

  She ducked and sprinted toward the side yard, staying low until she reached a line of eastern hemlock and leafy dogwood on the far end of the lawn. There she hid in the shadows and looked back at the house again, nervous sweat breaking out on her forehead. Then she shook her head, a shaky laugh erupting from her lips. The bedroom curtains were closed, but the material was so sheer, it gave the illusion of them being open. No one was pulling the curtains back, watching her sneak across the yard. No one was opening the sash to yell after her into the night. She said a silent thank-you, then climbed over the wrought-iron fence at the rear of the yard and made her way down the hill toward town.

  The moon was high, and a million stars shimmered in the night sky above the mountains, like ice chips in a coal dust blanket. Praying everyone was in bed, she followed the residential streets of the village, avoiding the roads that ran beside saloons, hotels, and taverns. When she reached the village green, she started across the shadowy grass, hoping to take a shortcut across the lawn toward the road leading up to the colliery. Then she caught a glimpse of movement, and froze. A gathering of silhouettes lurked around the bandstand, the orange tips of cigars and cigarettes glowing in the dark. Drunken laughter and loud voices traveled across the green through the humid night air. Unless she wanted to take the chance of being harassed by a band of drunks, she would have to take the long way around. So she turned and went the other way, hardly daring to breath until she was safe from view.

  Keeping close to buildings and hurrying from one house to the next, she finally reached the road leading up the mountain. She trudged up the steep hill, her hand aching from the suitcase handle digging into her fingers. Black branches and leaves seemed to make shapes like faces and reaching hands. All of a sudden she stopped and drew in a dry breath. What if Michael was here, waiting for her on this dark road? What if she didn’t see him until the last minute?

  That’s enough, she told herself. There is no reason to be afraid. Michael is just a boy. He has no reason to harm me. If anything, I should be worried about running into more drunks. She exhaled and continued on her way, trying to devise a plan for what she was about to do.

  When she reached the miners’ village, she hid beneath a lone high-skirted spruce and set down the suitcase, checking to make sure the coast was clear. Other than a few open windows yellowed by flickering lantern light, the houses were dark, the roads empty. She picked up the suitcase and moved along the far edges of the main thoroughfare. Slag crunched beneath her shoes, and an owl hooted in the distance. At the end of Welsh Hill, a coonhound jumped off a porch and barked at her, making her jump. She scurried away and entered the dirt path that led into Murphy’s Patch. Behind her, the dog howled into the night, a long, sorrowful moan that echoed through the quiet hollow.

  With her heart in her throat, she continued along the lane until she reached the shanty of the new widow. The windows were dark, and black ribbons hung from the front door. Emma went around the side of the leaning front porch, knelt in the damp grass, opened the suitcase, and removed three jars of vegetables. She crept up the porch steps, careful not to trip on the broken treads, and set the jars of vegetables on the threshold, along with the cloth sack filled with a loaf of bread, the cheese, and the tin of milk. Then she pounded hard on the door, scrambled down the steps, picked up her suitcase, and ran. She sprinted across the dirt path and hid behind an outhouse, where she waited, hardly daring to move. When she peeked around the corner, the sour tang of human waste wafting from the outhouse door hit her and she clamped a hand over her nose and mouth, swearing under her breath. She wanted to move to a better spot, but worried the widow would come out and see her.

  A few seconds later, a lantern flickered behind a front window, and the door opened. The widow searched the empty porch, looking left and right, her weary face etched with confusion. When she didn’t see anyone, she stepped back and started to close the door. Then she noticed the jars of vegetables on the threshold. She knelt and peered inside the cloth bag. Her mouth fell open. She picked up the bag and grabbed the jars, clutching them to her chest with one wiry arm, then raised her face to the sky and crossed herself before closing the door.

  When she thought it was safe again, Emma stepped out from behind the outhouse and moved away from the shack, a surge of elation loosening the tightness in her neck and shoulders. For the first time in what seemed like forever, she felt a weight being lifted, as if she were crawling out from beneath a boulder, or being let out of prison. It felt as though she were taking her first deep breath since coming to Coal River. Maybe this was what Michael meant. Maybe this was what she was supposed to do.

  Still, there were so many unanswered questions. How did Michael know this was what she needed? And why was he able to speak to her if he was a deaf-mute? More importantly, why did he say Albert’s name? She had to find answers.

  On her way out of Murphy’s Patch, she left the rest of the vegetables and bread on random porches, wishing she knew if the evicted pregnant woman still lived somewhere in the village, so she could leave food on her doorstep too. When all the food was gone, she made her way back down the hill, her spirit soaring with something that felt like an exhilarating mixture of love and triumph. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before, and it was completely unexpected. Her insides felt full of light, her mind full of possibilities. She remembered reading a quote by Booker T. Washington a few years ago that said, “Those who are happiest are those who do the most for others.” Now, for the first time, she understood it completely. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt intoxicated, drunk on life and love for her fellow human beings. Tomorrow morning this elation would be gone, buried beneath the retu
rned weight of crushing sorrow. But for now she would savor the reprieve. And in the days to come, maybe helping the miners would lessen the wretched grief she carried inside her heart. She could hope anyway.

  CHAPTER 8

  The morning after the cave-in, and Emma’s nighttime excursion into the miners’ village, the sky was low and threatening, as if the endless smoke from the culm banks had gathered below the clouds, obscuring everything like a giant shroud of churning grief. It was a Sunday, and Emma was free to do as she pleased as long as she made it to church on time. She left her uncle’s house early, before everyone was awake. The world was gray and silent, except for the distant, snarling roar of Coal River.

  The previous night, she had gone to bed filled with hope and purpose, certain she was doing the right thing by leaving food on the widow’s doorstep. She had vowed then and there to take food up to the miners as often as she could without getting caught, hoping she had found a way to stay sane in Coal River. But then, after tossing and turning half the night, trying to figure out more ways to help the mining families, and wrestling with the fact that she was counting on her uncle to provide food and shelter with money earned off the miners’ backs, the weight of heartache and anger returned. Leaving food for the miners wasn’t enough. She had to do more. What, exactly, she wasn’t sure. But if she was going to start over, if she was going to help anyone, there was something else she had to do first.

  She made her way down the steep hill and around the edge of the village, following the road behind Flint Mansion and Susquehanna Avenue. She walked past the train depot, then took a narrow lane toward the river. She passed the coal pit used as a stoking point for the trains that ran through the switching yards, then she plodded down a steep, dirt path, her arms swinging in rhythm with her steps, trying not to think until she reached her destination. Locusts whirred in the river birch, and a cardinal called from the pines. Fir trees and honeysuckle bordered one side of the trail, and a tangle of grapevines and poison sumac lined the other. Nine years ago, when she’d chased Percy and his friends down this path, the trees had been mere saplings, the bushes an overgrown patch of chickweed and witchgrass. Still, she remembered the twists and turns, sidestepped the rocky sections, and slowed on the hairpin curves that edged foliage-camouflaged cliffs as if she’d run down it yesterday.