Coal River

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  “Why doesn’t he like you?”

  “My father used to work under your uncle too.”

  “Used to?”

  “My father died when I was five.”

  “What happened to him?”

  He sighed and shifted in his seat, rocking the car. She tried to pretend she was on a porch swing, and that helped a little.

  “He was working in a section of the mine that they were getting ready to close off, when a roof collapsed. Otis refused to shut down production and send in a rescue team, so my uncle stopped working and went in to get my father out. He had to scrape my father’s body off the floor with a shovel because he’d been pulverized by falling rock. Afterward, Otis docked my uncle’s pay for the day. When my uncle found out, he hunted Otis down in a saloon and punched him in the face. It was a long time ago, but there’s been bad blood between our families ever since. I don’t care if your uncle likes me or not. He’s a no-good, rotten son of a bitch.”

  She swallowed. “I’m so sorry.”

  He looked out over the town, toward the mine, his thoughts somewhere else. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have said all that. Otis is still your uncle.”

  “I wish he weren’t. And we’re only related by marriage. I’m just sorry he treated your family so poorly. It’s inexcusable.”

  “I saw you arguing with him up at the mine,” he said. “Caused quite a ruckus from what I could tell. What were you doing up there? Everyone’s talking about it, trying to figure out what you were up to.”

  She wondered how much she should say. If she told him the truth, that she was up there because she wanted to help the breaker boys, he might laugh. Or maybe he’d be angry that she thought she could change things. “I wasn’t up to anything,” she said. “I was just trying to find out more about the breaker boys.”

  “What about them?”

  She searched his face, wondering if his belief that “you could judge a man by how he treated those below him” extended to getting little boys out of the mines, or if that was a step too far. If he said it was all right to put the breaker boys in danger because “that’s how it’s always been done” she wasn’t sure what she would do. One thing was certain, if he used that excuse, it would be easier to stay away from him. He held her gaze, his eyes as green and still as a millpond. “I wanted to find out how dangerous their job was,” she said.

  “It’s extremely dangerous. Everyone knows that.”

  “I didn’t know it,” she said. “I’d never heard of the breaker boys until I came back here. And then I saw boys with missing limbs and bleeding fingers, and the other day there was a funeral. . . .” Her throat closed, and she hesitated, trying to find her voice. “Shouldn’t there be a law to protect them, especially the little ones?”

  “There is,” he said, his voice grim. “Pennsylvania state law says no boys younger than twelve can work in the mines.”

  Her breath caught. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Then Mr. Flint is breaking the law.”

  “Yes,” he said. “A lot of mining companies are.”

  “That’s what everyone keeps telling me, but that doesn’t make it right. Someone needs to turn in Mr. Flint and protect those boys.”

  He shifted in his seat again, rocking the car. “You’re right. But it’s not as easy as you think. . . .”

  “I don’t care if it’s not easy,” she said. “Why haven’t you tried?”

  He took his arm from around her. “How do you know I haven’t?”

  Heat crawled up her neck. “I don’t. But—”

  “You should think before you talk about something you don’t understand.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just . . . I want to help. Mr. Flint needs to be stopped.”

  “And you think you can do something,” he said. “You think you can take on the Bleak Mountain Mining Company and save the breaker boys.”

  Save. Yes, Emma wanted to save the breaker boys. She had done nothing to save Albert. Michael’s words rang in her ears again. Why are you just standing there, doing nothing? She nodded, and her eyes flooded despite her determination not to cry. Suddenly the world blurred around her, and she forgot all about being stuck on a Ferris wheel. “It’s not right,” she said, her voice catching.

  “I agree.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “Did anyone tell you about the fire in the breaker ten years ago?”

  She shook her head, wiping her tears with his handkerchief.

  “My brother and I were working in the breaker when it happened,” he said. His face was set in the long lines of a man traveling a hated road. “One morning the furnace draft ignited the timbers separating the flue from the carriage way. The flames leapt to the breaker, and it started to collapse over the main shaft. Thirteen boys, including my brother, died. If Hazard Flint hadn’t sold off all the firefighting equipment, they might have been saved.”

  She gasped. “How old was your brother?”

  “I was ten. My brother was twelve,” he said. “He broke a window, lifted me through it, and shoved me out of the breaker right before the inside stairway gave way.”

  “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

  “I couldn’t work for a while after that,” he said. “And my father was dead, so Mr. Flint evicted my mother and me because we couldn’t pay rent. We moved into another widow’s shack with ten other people until I was old enough to earn a man’s pay.”

  She gaped at him, shocked. “Why on Earth are you still working for Mr. Flint? How can you?”

  “Right now I don’t have a choice. Mining is all I’ve ever known. And I can’t just walk away from this place.”

  “Because you want to make things better,” she said. “You want to force Mr. Flint to change the way he treats the miners.”

  “If only I had that kind of power.”

  “But Percy and Otis said you’re setting up secret meetings. That you’re trying to organize a union!”

  He stared at her hard, then looked away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Is there going to be a strike?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you going to help the breaker boys too?”

  “Why are you asking me all these questions?” he said, impatience creeping into his voice.

  She sighed, wondering how she could get him to trust her. She thought about telling him she’d been leaving food on miners’ doorsteps and marking their bills paid, but it was too soon. Besides, he might think she was foolish and tell her to stop. “I told you,” she said. “I want to help the breaker boys.”

  “Well, you’re barking up the wrong tree,” he said. “And if I were you, I’d stop asking so many questions. You’re just asking for trouble.”

  “But if everyone stood together,” she said. “If all the miners went on strike . . .”

  Clayton gestured toward the mine with his chin. “You see those wooden sheds overlooking the colliery? And that other one over there, near the courthouse?”

  She nodded.

  “Members of the Coal and Iron Police stand guard in those sheds,” he said, “with Gatling guns. And they’ll shoot anyone not in accord with the way Hazard Flint wants things done. A miner was shot just last week coming out of the mine at the end of his shift because he’d been mouthing off down at McDuff’s Ole Alehouse.”

  “Are you telling me you’re not even allowed to complain?”

  Just then, the Ferris wheel engine finally shuttered to life. Their car jerked forward a few inches, swinging wildly again. She grimaced and hunched her shoulders, gripping the safety bar. Then the car started moving again, making its way forward and down.

  When she’d gotten ahold of herself, she said, “How can I help?”

  “There’s nothing you can do.”

  “Think of something.”

  “I told you,” he said. “I’m keeping my head down and minding my own business.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

&n
bsp; Before Clayton could respond, the car slowed to a stop on top of the loading ramp. A carnival worker grabbed the backrest to stop it from swinging. He unlocked the safety bar and pulled it back, one greasy boot on the footrest. Clayton stepped out of the car, then turned to help Emma get out. She lifted the hem of her skirt and took his hand, then straightened and stood on trembling legs. He hooked his arm through hers, and they made their way down the ramp. She was so relieved to be on solid ground that, at first, she didn’t notice Uncle Otis and Aunt Ida standing side by side in the center of the crowd, their withering stares locked on her and Clayton.

  CHAPTER 12

  Four days after the carnival left town, Emma crept around the end of a wooden outbuilding up in the miners’ village, then followed a worn footpath along the back of a henhouse made of tin and lumber scraps. Nighttime dew soaked her shoes and the hem of her long skirt. A slight breeze rustled through the pines, and coyotes howled in the hills, crying like a pack of lost children. It was well before dawn, and she could only see as far as the yellow circle of light surrounding her oil lantern. Three hours earlier, long before her uncle and aunt would shut off their alarm and shuffle to the bathroom in their nightclothes—Ida in a cotton nightgown, Otis in a pair of red long johns—she’d gotten dressed and snuck out of the house.

  After Clayton told her that Mr. Flint was indeed breaking the law, she was certain she could find a way to help the breaker boys. Unfortunately, at the moment, providing food and talking to their families was her only plan. But she had to believe another solution would present itself if she kept her eyes and ears open. For now, she would wait until the miners and breaker boys left for work, then talk to some of the boys’ mothers.

  In a gunnysack hanging from a rope on her shoulder, she carried gifts to smooth the way: tins of black tea, jars of honey, bars of Cashmere Bouquet and Ivory soap. She’d found the tea hidden among the kitchen supplies in the back of Aunt Ida’s pantry, stolen the honey from the Company Store, and taken the soap from the never-ending supply in the wicker basket inside the linen closet, certain no one would notice a few bars missing.

  In another lifetime, in another place, she would have thought stealing was wrong. Not in Coal River. Here, they treated boys like men, deaf-mutes could speak, and stealing felt right. No, it felt more than right. It felt like precisely what she was meant to do.

  Over the past two weeks, she’d taken canned goods from Aunt Ida’s pantry, hunks of cheese from the icebox, potatoes from the root cellar, and sugar and flour from the Hoosier cabinet. Every time she worked at the Company Store, she marked at least two of the miners’ bills paid, grateful and relieved that the miners’ wives never questioned the ledger. When they came to the counter and she said their bill was paid, she always looked them in the eyes, hoping they would understand and play along. She lied to Percy, saying his mother had instructed her to pick up a few things, then filled a shopping basket with jam and bread, ham hocks and dried beans, and the occasional bag of peppermint sticks and lemon drops. Then, on her way home, she hid the food in the woods between her uncle’s house and the neighbor’s, keeping it safe from animals inside a battered metal container she’d found in the woodshed. After everyone was asleep, she snuck out, retrieved the food, trekked up to the miners’ village, and left it on the steps of different shacks. On her way home, she felt satisfied and powerful because she was undermining Mr. Flint. And, for a little while, she was free from her aunt and uncle’s control. But stealing food and sneaking out of the house was almost too easy, and she knew it was only a matter of time before she got caught. In the meantime, she’d never felt more alive. Except it wasn’t enough. She needed to do more.

  She could still picture Uncle Otis and Aunt Ida waiting for her when she got off the Ferris wheel, their eyes furious, their mouths twisted in anger. Uncle Otis had grabbed her by the arm and yanked her through the crowd toward his car, too livid for words. Aunt Ida followed, stammering and sputtering about how disappointed she was that any niece of hers would keep such dreadful company. Clayton tried to stop Otis, but Emma begged him to let her go before things got out of hand. She didn’t want him to be arrested and taken from Jack again, and she assured him she would be all right. Luckily, he listened.

  When they reached the house, Uncle Otis locked Emma in her bedroom, telling her to think long and hard about her actions, and whether she wanted to continue to receive their help. He confined her for the next three days, while Aunt Ida brought in eggs and soup, and let her out to use the bathroom. Her aunt only spoke to her once, on the first day of her incarceration.

  “Being seen with that hooligan was a slap in your uncle’s face!” she said. “Between that and going up to the mine to question him, you’ve hurt his feelings deeply. I’m not sure he’ll get over it until you can be more grateful for everything we’ve done for you.”

  Now, Emma blew out her lantern and hid behind a smokehouse, watching the silhouettes of wives and mothers in backlit doorways saying good-bye to the men and boys as they left in the darkness of early morning. One by one, the miners filed out of their shanties and walked in silence through pools of water and black slag, each seemingly lost in his own thoughts, their bodies still warm from sleep and a kitchen fire, their bellies filled with chicory and fried eggs. Breaker boys plodded silently beside their elders, yawning or looking at the ground, a solemn procession of small men in ragged clothing, small men who should be sleeping and dreaming about baseball and fishing.

  Moving in a dark, ragged group, the workers converged on the main road and trudged up the mountain toward the shaft, the only sounds the clink of dinner pails, the crunch of slag beneath hundreds of feet, and the miners’ short, hacking coughs. The women watched until the men and boys were out of view, no doubt thinking about their daily chores—making beds and pressing Sunday suits, mopping floors and washing dishes, stretching last night’s leftovers into one more meal. After the last man was over the hill, the women turned and went back into their homes—no doubt praying that the mine whistle wouldn’t blow until quitting time—and dozens of doors slowly closed in unison.

  Emma rounded the smokehouse and moved toward the first row of shanties. She passed the first two shacks and climbed the steps of the third, her insides fluttery with nerves. On the porch, an old rocking chair sat gray and splintered in one corner like a dried-out skeleton. Switchgrass and nimblewill grew through missing planks in the floor. She set down her lantern, smoothed her dress, and knocked. Behind the door a baby cried, and a mother softly sang a lullaby. Then there was the sound of footsteps padding across a wooden floor, and the door opened. A thin woman in bare feet and a loose cotton dress stood there with a baby boy in her arms, blinking at Emma in surprise. Her limp, brown hair hung loose and oily around her pale face, and she had bags under her eyes.

  “Help you?” she said, her voice flat.

  Emma cleared her throat. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Emma Malloy. I was wondering if I could talk to you for a few minutes.”

  “’Bout what?” the woman said.

  “May I come in?”

  The woman continued to stare, her mouth in a hard line. Emma took a deep breath and forced a smile.

  “I’m . . .” She paused, not sure how to begin. “I work at the Company Store.”

  “I know. I seen you down there.”

  “I’m sorry,” Emma said. “I’ve forgotten my manners. What’s your name?”

  “Pearl,” the woman said.

  “Nice to meet you, Pearl,” Emma said, extending her hand. The woman shook it halfheartedly. Emma took the bag from her shoulder, rummaged around inside and produced a bar of Cashmere Bouquet soap. She held it out to Pearl.

  “I brought this for you,” she said. “It’s my favorite.”

  Pearl stepped backward, and a little girl appeared, about two years old, chewing on her finger, drool shining on her chin. Wearing nothing but a pair of yellowed underwear fashioned out of a flour sack, she stared up at Emma with wide, wet eyes.
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  “Come on in,” Pearl said.

  Emma stepped over the threshold, wishing she’d brought something for the little girl, and entered the main room. It was both kitchen and living room at the same time, with two roughhewn doors on the back partition. The outer walls of the shack were bare wood, with no inner plaster, and the floor was made of lumber planks. The smell of fried eggs and burning coal hung in the air, along with the heavy, wet-coal odor of mud-soaked clothes. Two pairs of long johns hung over a line strung along the back wall, together with a pullover shirt and a pair of work overalls, the legs and knees stained black. A small coal stove sat at the back of the kitchen area, its flue leaking. An assortment of cast-iron pans and kettles hung from hooks in the ceiling, and a round, galvanized tub sat on the floor next to the coal stove. The floorboards around the tub were stained black by sooty water. On the wall above the chipped sink, a crude wooden shelf held scratched cups, cloudy glasses, and stacks of mismatched plates and mixing bowls. A battered kitchen table sat surrounded by chairs that looked like they’d fall apart if you touched them. On the far end of the room, a mouse skittered along the baseboard, disappearing through a hole beneath the sink. The woman didn’t seem to notice it.

  The little girl toddled over to a corner of the living room on little bowlegs and pulled a cloth doll from a homemade cradle. She lifted the doll and hugged it beneath her chin, then carried it over to Emma and held it up to show her. Emma knelt down and touched the doll’s face with gentle fingers.

  “Is this your baby doll?”

  The little girl nodded enthusiastically, her eyes shining.

  “Are you taking good care of her?” Emma said.

  The little girl nodded again, then went back across the room to return the doll to the cradle. Emma straightened and smiled at Pearl, who was bouncing the baby on her hip.

  “I’d offer you a cup of coffee,” Pearl said. “But we’re out.”

  “That’s all right.” Emma rummaged around inside her bag again. “I brought some tea. Do you like tea?”