Coal River

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  “No, but I don’t want you to think—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said, stepping out of the washtub. “Please. My skin is burning. Just get fresh water, will you?”

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded. “I’m sure.”

  Clayton untied the burlap, leaving it in place, then emptied the tub with a bucket, tossing the water out the back window until it was light enough to pick up. While he was busy, Emma turned her back to him and let the binding fall from her chest. Just as she suspected, black dust encrusted her nipples, and the skin was tender and sore everywhere the burlap had touched. When she turned around again, she crossed her arms over her breasts. Clayton glanced at her once, then quickly looked away.

  Once the tub was empty, Clayton refilled it, his eyes downcast, his face serious. He dropped the washrag and bar of soap back in and swished them around to make new suds. When that was done, he straightened and turned away from her.

  “Go on,” he said. “Get in and sit.”

  “I’m still wearing drawers.”

  “You can’t . . . take them off yourself?”

  “No. You wrapped my fingers. I can’t use my hands. Just untie them for me.”

  Clayton turned around and moved toward her, his eyes on the floor, her feet, anywhere but her face or bare chest. She lifted her arms and he closed his eyes and reached out, his big hands fumbling on her ribs, her hips, and finally her waist. With hesitant fingers, he felt his way around front to the drawstring, untied it, and pulled the waist open as far as it would go. Then he stepped back and turned around again. Using her wrists, Emma rolled the top edge of the underwear down. But the soggy material twisted and got caught on her wet skin.

  “I can’t do it,” she said. “Just yank them off.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Please. I’m so tired.”

  “Turn around first.”

  She turned, and he came up behind her and tugged on the legs of the drawers. They slid to her ankles and she stepped out of them, trying not to picture her naked buttocks in his face. He spun around again and stood with his back to her. She got into the water and sat down Indian style, the warm, soapy water like liquid silk on her irritated skin. Her white knees stuck out of the suds, resting on the wooden tub walls.

  “I can’t wash my chest,” she said.

  “Can’t you just sit forward and rinse yourself off?”

  “The water isn’t deep enough. Please, I just want to get this over with. Close your eyes if it makes you feel better.”

  He sighed, then came over and squatted next to the tub, keeping his face turned to one side. “Where’s the washrag?”

  “I’m sitting on it.”

  His shoulders dropped. “Lord in heaven.”

  “Listen to me,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. None of this matters. I trust you.”

  Clayton looked at her then, his eyes filled with affection. “I’m glad you trust me,” he said. “But I never should have let you go through with this in the first place.”

  “It was my decision.”

  “But I hate seeing you in pain.”

  “I’ll be fine. Really. Who am I to complain when little boys suffer like this every day?”

  He kept his eyes locked on hers for a long moment, as if deciding whether to kiss her, then reached into the water and pulled the washrag out from beneath her thigh. Washing her shoulders again, he squeezed the rag and let the soapy water run down her chest. This time, he watched what he was doing, his jaw tense.

  “You’re going to have to do better than that,” she said. “The coal dust is sticking to my skin.”

  He dunked the rag in the water again and swept it over her breasts. She held her breath and tried to think of something besides what he was doing. It was no use. She was mentally and physically exhausted, putting all senses on high alert. The gentleness of his touch and the soft, soapy rag against her skin took over all thought. Right now the only thing she wanted was to be in his arms, to feel his warm skin against hers, his strong hands keeping her safe. Unable to hold back any longer, she put her wrist behind his neck and pulled him close. His brows shot up in surprise, but then he dropped the washrag, stroked the back of her head, and leaned in to kiss her softly on the lips. She trembled and kissed him back, all pain disappearing into the pull of desire.

  He groaned and kissed her harder, his mouth open and hungry. After a while, he pulled away and lifted her to her feet. Retrieving a towel from the back of a kitchen chair, he wrapped it around her shoulders. She stepped out of the washtub and stood near the coal stove to let him dry her off. Moving slowly, he gently rubbed the towel over her skin, softly caressing her arms and breasts through the thick material. She put her head back and sighed, her breath heavy and deep. He kissed her collarbone and neck, then wrapped the towel around her shoulders again, lifted her into his arms, and carried her into his bedroom. When he put her down next to his bed, he let the towel drop to the floor. He pulled back the blanket, guided her back on the sheets, and placed her hands above her head, where they rested on his pillow. Then he locked the door, took off his shirt, and unbuckled his belt, his eyes fixed on her face.

  Emma shivered in anticipation as she watched him undress. She wished she could run her fingers through his thick hair, and touch his skin. He climbed in next to her, propping himself up on one elbow.

  “Are you sure about this?” he said. “You’re in pain and exhausted. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life,” she said.

  He drew closer and gently moved above her, his warm body finally touching hers. He kissed her mouth, his heart pounding against her chest, then made his way down her throat toward her breasts. She shuddered and looped her arms around his head. He moved up to kiss her again, and their heads turned and rolled as their kissing became greedy. When he pulled away and stared into her eyes, she thought his look of uncertainty mirrored her own. She’d always believed she would lose her virginity to the man she married, but right now she wanted nothing more than to give herself to Clayton. There was no going back now. She pulled him to her, kissing his face.

  Beyond all the books she had read, she had no experience at all. But it did not surprise her how clearly she knew what she wanted. They began to make love, the bed creaking with their movement. Even if they couldn’t be together forever, at least she would have this moment. Right now that was all that mattered.

  Later, Clayton went out to the kitchen to feed the children, then returned to sit on the edge of his bed and rub goose grease on Emma’s fingertips. He undid the rags and started on her right hand. She gritted her teeth, trying not to cry out. It seemed like the pain was worse than ever.

  “This will help them heal,” Clayton said. “But the next few days are going to be even harder.”

  “I know. But I think I might be able to take pictures right before. . .”

  He pressed too hard on one finger and she drew in a sharp breath.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Keep talking. Maybe it will help.”

  Emma tried to concentrate. “Right before the midday break. That’s when the breaker bosses leave the steps, get their dinner pails, and wait by the door until the crusher stops. I’ll do it when they’re not looking.”

  He finished putting the goose grease on her fingers and stood. “Just do it soon, so you can get out of there.”

  “I’ve got to wait for the light to be just right,” she said. “Besides, it might be a while before I can push the damn exposure level on the camera anyway.” She held up her fingers and gave him a weak smile.

  He kissed her forehead. “I’ll bring you in some dinner, then you’ve got to get some sleep.”

  “I’ve got my own bed.”

  He shook his head. “You’re not sleeping on a wooden floor anymore. And I hate to say it, but you need to rest so you can go back to work in the morning.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Over the next few days, the s
ky was overcast. Then it rained for two days. Not only did the foul weather make it seem like the middle of the night inside the breaker, but it made it impossible for Emma to use the camera. The photos had to be taken on a bright, sunny day, when the inside of the building was filled with the most daylight possible.

  Every day she wrapped her uncle’s camera in a rag and took it to work tucked into the waist of her trousers and hidden beneath her jacket. Every day, she sat at the top of chute five, praying for the sky to clear so she could pull the camera out when the sun was at its highest in the windows, turn in her seat, and take pictures.

  In the meantime, while sorting coal and trying to keep her hands and feet from being torn off by conveyor belts, she paid attention to the bosses’ routines and noticed what sorts of things drew the boys’ attention away from their job. When the bosses were distracted, she sent pieces of pure anthracite down the culm chute for the miners’ wives to cull from the banks, and picked through the coal with one hand, switching back and forth to give her fingertips a chance to heal. Even with nightly applications of goose grease, she wondered if her burning, cracked skin would ever scab over and harden. At mealtime she could barely hold a fork or a piece of cornbread. How did young boys face this day after day?

  While they were working, the breaker boys gestured with their hands behind the bosses’ backs, fingers flying to make letters and communicate with one another. During the midday break, they ate their meager lunches with filthy hands, then smoked cigarettes, played baseball and tag when it wasn’t raining, or ran into the machine shops to get nuts and pieces of iron to throw at the bosses when they weren’t looking. They played pranks on one another, throwing balls made of grease and coal at the back of someone’s head, nailing dinner pails to the floor, or tying a boy’s jacket in knots when he removed it during lunch. Luckily, Sawyer had told them that “Emmet” was a new orphan and didn’t talk much because he’d had the fever, and they left Emma alone.

  She watched from the side, amazed that the boys had enough strength to do anything more than rest and eat. It seemed as though they had become like their fingertips, both cracked and bleeding, and hard and calloused at the same time.

  Every day she looked for Michael, ready to turn away if she saw him. More than likely, he worked on a different floor in the breaker, but she worried he would recognize her if they got too close. Then one day she thought she saw him, eating his lunch on an empty dynamite box near the train tracks. His hat was off, his thick dark hair sticking up in all directions, and a pair of crutches lay next to him on the box. Plus, he was the only breaker boy eating alone. But his face was black like all the others, and she couldn’t tell for sure. Still, there was something about the way he held his head that looked familiar. Luckily, he sat in the same spot every day, making it easy to keep her distance.

  When the breaker bosses cracked whips and brooms across the boys’ backs, it took all her effort not to stand up and push them down the steps. Daily, she had to fight the urge to scream at the gap-toothed boss when he rapped his long stick across a boy’s knuckles. She was shocked and horrified to see that the boys were abused for not working fast enough, for turning their heads and talking, even for coughing too long. How was it possible that these men, who had worked in the breaker when they were young, showed no mercy for those who labored there now? Had they forgotten what it felt like to be afraid and in pain? Had they forgotten the need for sunshine and fresh air, the desire to swim and fish and do all the things young children were supposed to do? Had all those years in darkness turned their hearts to stone, like the pressure of the earth turned tree roots and fallen branches to coal? She knew the men needed their jobs, and Mr. Flint probably fired them if the coal wasn’t pure, but working in the breaker was hard and dangerous enough. Was it necessary to cause more pain in the process? Or did they believe they were readying the boys for the hard life ahead? Every time one of the breaker boys cried out in agony, Emma blinked back tears. It had to end.

  By Tuesday of her second week, she wondered if the sun would ever come out again. It rained all morning, and during the lunch break, the sky was still filled with high clouds. Then, an hour later, the sun finally slipped out from behind a thunderhead, shining in the highest corner of the grimy windows and filling the breaker with gray light. She touched the bulge beneath her jacket, wondering if she should get the camera out now or wait for a brighter day. Then one of the bosses shouted and she jumped.

  “Wake up, you lazy shit!”

  Emma glanced over her shoulder, her heart pounding in dread. It was the gap-toothed boss. But he wasn’t talking to her. He was standing beside a young boy at the bottom of chute two who looked to be about seven or eight. The boy jerked awake and straightened, his eyes bloodshot and puffy.

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “This is the third time I’ve caught you dozing today,” the boss said.

  “I’m feeling sick,” the boy said. “Can’t get warm and can’t stay awake.”

  “I’ll keep you awake,” the boss said. “Put your hand right here.” He tapped the step with his stick, parallel to where the boy was sitting.

  “I won’t doze off again,” the boy said. “I promise.”

  The boss lifted his stick and cracked it across the boy’s back. The boy cried out in pain. Most of the breaker boys had turned to watch, while others kept working, their heads down. The other bosses and a foreman were on the floor of the room, leaning on brooms and talking. Emma unbuttoned her coat and fumbled to unwrap the camera, her hands shaking. She had waited long enough. She opened the locking level, pulled out the lens panel, and turned in her seat, the camera held close in her lap.

  “Put your hand on the damn step!” the gap-toothed boss yelled.

  The sick boy did as he was told, grimacing and knowing he had no choice. The gap-toothed boss lifted his hobnailed boot and stomped on the boy’s fingers. The boy howled and hunched over, his face twisting in agony as the boss pressed his foot down harder and harder. Emma pointed the camera at them, struggling to hold it steady. She pushed the exposure level, waited for the shutter to close, then faced forward again and wound the key to get to the next picture, coughing over the winding noise, even though no one would hear it above the crusher and the boy’s tormented wails. Then she twisted in her seat again and pointed the camera toward the far corner of the breaker, hoping to capture several boys and chutes at once. She took the picture, turned forward again, and wound the roll of film to the next exposure. She did this four more times, moving the camera right and left, her entire body quaking.

  Finally, the gap-toothed boss took his boot off the boy’s hand. The boy slumped forward and held his bleeding fingers in his lap, sooty tears streaming down his black face. Just then, a man in a top hat and three-piece suit entered the breaker through a side door. One of the bosses left his broom and hurried over to talk to him. It was Mr. Flint. Emma spun forward, pushed the camera closed, and shoved it back inside her jacket. She glanced around to make sure no one had seen her taking pictures. The gap-toothed boss was going down the steps while the rest of the boys went back to work. A few of the younger ones were weeping. Emma let out a trembling sigh, her teeth chattering with a mixture of anger and fear. It was all she could do not to get up and push the gap-toothed boss down the stairs. But for now she just had to get through the rest of the day. She couldn’t even think about what would happen if the photos didn’t turn out. There were twelve exposures on the film, so counting the two of her aunt, uncle, and Percy on the Fourth of July, and the six she took today, she had four left. She just had to find a way to get inside the mine to take pictures of the nippers and spraggers so she could fill the roll. But instead of worrying, she went back to work.

  All of a sudden, the crushers and shakers slowed and ground to a halt. The entire breaker shuddered, like a giant beast shaking off water after a swim. Coal dust drifted down from the rafters like black rain. The boys straightened and looked around, confusion lining their faces. Em
ma stayed hunched over, one arm over the camera inside her jacket. Panic exploded in her mind. Had someone seen her taking pictures? Is that why they’d shut down the breaker? Was she about to feel the end of a whip, or worse? Or had someone discovered her identity? Maybe Mr. Flint was here to take her to jail.

  “Why are you shutting down?” Mr. Flint bellowed up from below.

  “There’s a boy in the crusher!” a man shouted above Emma’s head. “He was oiling the machinery and fell in!”

  Emma gasped, a jolt of horror rushing through her body. Several of the boys covered their ears and squeezed their eyes closed. Some cried out in alarm.

  One of the boys stood, his eyes filled with fear. “Who was it?” he shouted.

  “Jesus Christ!” Mr. Flint roared. He started toward the bottom of the coal chutes. “You boys, shut up and get back to work!” Then he yelled up to the man above Emma’s head, “Start her back up and keep working! You can take care of the body at the end of the shift!”

  Emma pushed her elbows into her sides, struggling to stay in her seat. She wanted to run down the steps and beat Hazard Flint with a stick until he bled. Maybe the breaker boys would help by holding him down. Then the giant gears above her started grinding again, the crusher turned, and she heard what sounded like ribs splintering. She hung her head and put a hand over her mouth, trying not to be sick. The conveyor belt between her legs started moving again. When she could breathe without gagging, she gritted her teeth and reached into the trough, tears stinging her eyes. She grabbed a piece of slate and immediately dropped it. The river of coal was streaked with bits of ragged flesh and glistening blood.

  CHAPTER 26

  A week after taking pictures inside the breaker, Emma made her way into the mouth of the Bleak Mountain Mine, trying to stay hidden between Nally and Clayton, her eyes on the ground. All around her, miners, nippers, spraggers, and mule drivers carried bar-down tools and tamping rods, cans of blasting powder and Davy lamps, drills and picks, sprags and bullwhips. Together they trudged into the dark shaft, talking and coughing, their dinner pails and tools and canteens clanging, their boots crunching on the loose slag. On one hand, she was relieved to be finished at the breaker. On the other, the thought of traveling hundreds of feet into the earth, moving beneath a massive mountain into long black tunnels of coal and rock, made her insides feel like they were being stirred in an iron kettle. She pressed her lips together and tried to breathe slowly, already feeling dizzy.