by Homer Hickam
Tag looked at Dreama while Doc packed his bag. “Cuke do this, ma’am?” She turned away. Tag glanced at Ginger and me. “I got to ask her some more questions ain’t fit for Ginger to hear, Sonny.”
I nodded understanding and took Ginger inside the dining room. The polished wooden floor creaked under our feet. It was a huge room with a fireplace at one end. There was a piano in the corner. The Club House dining room was also where the company parties were held. One time, Jake and a secretary had done a dirty dance at a Christmas party and had fallen into a table filled with desserts. My dad had him pitched out in the snow. I guess he would have frozen to death out there except his blood was full of John Eye’s antifreeze, and also because Jim and I had hauled him up to his room. I told Ginger the story. She laughed and clapped her hands. “I wish I’d seen it!”
I started to ask her why she hadn’t, but then I remembered that this was Ginger’s first year in high school. You had to be old enough to be in high school to come to a company party. “How old are you, Ginger?” My voice echoed in the big room.
“I’ll be fifteen in January,” she said. “Why?” Then she teased, “Are you afraid of robbing the cradle?”
“Oh, I was just wondering,” I said even though that wasn’t entirely true. The truth was I was suddenly very interested in everything about Ginger Dantzler. “Tell me more about New York.”
She grinned and twirled around with her arms outstretched. “They told me I had talent. All I need is a little coaching. Mom says I can go to any college I pick and study voice! I’m going to learn everything!”
The insight hit me like a brick. “You’re a Rocket Girl,” I said.
She stopped turning and wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m a what?”
“You’re a Rocket Girl. I mean, like I’m a Rocket Boy with a plan to go to college and learn everything I can about rockets and then go to Cape Canaveral. You’re just like that except you’re going to learn all about your music and then go off to New York or Atlanta or maybe even Hollywood. You’re a singing Rocket Girl.”
There was no mistaking the delight on her face. “I guess I am!” She looked around the hall, and then her eyes lit on the old upright piano in the corner. “Can you still play?”
“I doubt it.”
“Oh, you can, I know it. My mom’s too good a teacher for you to forget.” She tugged my arm to the piano bench and pushed me down on it, sitting beside me. “I always enjoyed your recitals. You always seemed to play with so much spirit.”
“I played fast. I just wanted to get it over with.”
“Play for me,” she said.
I put my hands on the keys. My right hand automatically moved to place my thumb on middle C and my little finger on A above it. The middle finger of my left hand touched F one octave down. “I think I remember ‘All I Do Is Dream,’ ” I said. The song of the Cape.
“Then play it for me, Sonny,” Ginger said softly. I turned and looked into her eyes. “Please,” she said.
I played but stumbled after the first few bars. “Here,” she said, and scooted in close. “Put your hands on top of mine.” I did, feeling their velvety strength. She played the song through, touching each key with precision. I could smell her, a heady mixture of young girl and rose petals. My heart was slugging my chest. She finished the piece and then took her hands back. “Now, play it all the way.”
In a trance, I did as she ordered. I didn’t miss a note. And then she sang. Her voice made me think of a necklace, each note a round and smooth and delicate pearl.
Dream, dream, dream . . .
Only trouble is, gee whiz, I’m dreaming my life away . . .
I finished and Ginger held the last note and then her voice died away in an echo. I turned to her. I was going to do it. I didn’t care what the Big Creek lovemaster thought about it. I was going to ask Ginger Dantzler to the Christmas Formal. I opened my mouth, but before I got a word out, she said, “You know what? You and I would make a cute couple.”
My heart sang. “I feel the same way,” I said enthusiastically. “Ginger, would you . . .?”
“Stuart can be so moody,” she said.
“Ginger, would you go to . . .” I stopped, her words sinking in. “Who’s Stuart?”
She blinked her big browns. “He’s the boy I date over in Welch.” After a moment of hesitation, she added the second of her one-two punch: “His dad owns a car dealership.”
A car dealership! My heart, singing only a moment before, sank down around my ankles. I knew I’d already been skunked before I’d gotten started. There was no way I could compete against a boy from Welch whose dad also owned a car dealership! That meant he was surely rich, probably had his own car, maybe a chauffeur! Then I latched on to the rest of what she had said and the careful way she had put it. Quentin had called me an “infernal optimist” more than once and I guess he was right. Ginger, I told myself, hadn’t said “Stuart” was her boyfriend. He was “the boy I date.” A subtle but important difference. There was hope! I was about to explore that difference when I heard a commotion in the foyer. Ginger got up. “What is it?” she called.
I followed her into the foyer to find Cuke Snoddy standing in the hallway. Mrs. Davenport blocked his way. “You’re not welcome here, Cuke,” she said.
Cuke looked past her into the parlor. “Dreama, I want you to come home right now,” he said.
Dreama, lying on the couch, shook her head and turned away.
Tag came out into the foyer. “Cuke, you go home. I’ll deal with you later.”
“I ain’t done nuthin’,” he said defiantly. “Tell ’em, Dreama! You fell down the steps, didn’t you?”
Dreama nodded. “Yes, Cuke. I fell down.” Her voice was thick.
“Damn old clumsy girl,” Cuke said.
Mrs. Davenport pushed Cuke in his chest. “Get out of my Club House, Cuke, or I swear I’ll get my pistol and shoot you right here in front of Tag and God and everybody else. She didn’t fall down. You knocked her down.”
Cuke sneered. “You shoot me, you go to Moundsville for the rest of your life.”
Tag laughed. “If she shot you, likely she’d get a medal, Cuke. You go on now. Do like I told you. Don’t make me have to knock you around. I’ll do it if I have to.”
Tag Farmer didn’t make threats. He made promises. Cuke turned and fled. Tag looked after him and shook his head and then went back into the parlor. Mrs. Davenport followed him.
After conferring again with Tag, Doc came out into the foyer. His eyes shifted from Ginger to me. “How’s your folks?” he asked me.
“They’re fine, sir.”
He gave me a disbelieving look. “About the only way I see Homer and Elsie is they have to be pretty much dead. You keep an eye on them, Sonny Hickam. Hear me, boy? And what are you doing out so late on a school night, Miss Ginger?” He had one eyebrow raised so high it looked like it was going to jump right off his forehead. “Come along, dear. I’ll walk you home.”
Ginger touched my arm. “I had a wonderful time.”
“I did, too,” I replied, and then Doc shepherded her along. He’s the boy I date. I had to think about that. I wished I could ask Roy Lee about it, but, of course, the Big Creek lovemaster had his own thoughts about my love life and they didn’t include Ginger. Maybe I could disguise my situation. Roy Lee, I know this boy, see . . . I shook my head. It was hopeless.
Tag came out into the foyer with Dreama and Mrs. Davenport. Dreama kept her head down so I couldn’t see her face. Then the two women walked past me, going outside. “Where are they going?” I asked Tag.
Tag yawned and stretched. “They’re going out to my car and have some woman talk, I hope. After that, I’ll take her on up the road.”
“Where’s she going?” I asked.
He shrugged. “She wants to go home.”
I was incredulous. “To Cuke Snoddy’s?”
“Yep.”
“After he beat her up?”
Tag shrugged. “Let me
tell you something, Sonny. There ain’t no figuring a woman’s heart. They get it in their head about a man, sometimes it takes more than a busted tooth to change their minds. Cuke’s her connection to Coalwood, too, and she’s got some fancy ideas about this place, like maybe it’s special. She wants to be part of our town, that’s the long and short of it, and Cuke’s the only one letting her be.”
I couldn’t figure it. “You mean she’s willing to get beat up just to stay in Coalwood?”
Tag shrugged. “Maybe you got to come from somewhere else to see it the way she does. Anyway, Cleo Mallett’s already come to me, asked me to run the girl off. I’m not going to do it, but Cleo and her bunch will, one way or the other.”
“Why do they hate her so much?”
He yawned. “Maybe they won’t, now that she’s got a tooth knocked out. She’ll look as common as them.” He looked at his wristwatch. “You want a ride home?”
“I have my bike.”
He nodded. “One thing, Sonny.”
“Sir?”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to hang out with the junior engineers.”
“Yes, sir.”
He pondered me. “You and Ginger make a cute couple,” he said.
“We’re just friends,” I replied, jamming my hands into the pockets of my jeans.
Tag smiled. “Yeah, I can tell,” he said.
16
ROY LEE’S LAMENT
I WOKE TO hear voices downstairs the next morning. I got dressed and sneaked down the steps to see who it was. I was born curious. One time Mom caught me reading a love letter from one of Jim’s girlfriends and said, “Curiosity killed the cat.”
“That’s true,” I said, still reading as fast as I could go, “but satisfaction brought it back.”
She said, “If a certain cat I know doesn’t stop smart-mouthing his mother and put that letter up where he found it, it’ll take a lot more than satisfaction to bring him back.”
I said, “Yes, ma’am,” even though I was just getting to the gushy part.
I peeked into the living room and saw Dad with one of his foremen, Woody Blankenship. Both of their faces were drawn. I wondered when they’d slept last. Mr. Blankenship was sitting leaning forward with a clipboard on his knee, a pencil poised, while Dad read from a small brown book that I recognized as his daily mine diary. I noticed both Dad and Mr. Blankenship were in their sock feet. Mom might let her ladies come in wearing their heels, but she protected her hardwood floors from Rocket Boys and mine foremen.
“Yesterday, the gearbox on the north face continuous miner burned up,” Dad read, then rubbed his eyes.
Mr. Blankenship nodded, saying, “Treadwell’s scared. Every time he takes a deep cut, his crews back out as fast as they can. That’s why he’s burning up his gears.”
Dad pondered his notebook as if Mr. Treadwell was going to pop out of it and give him an explanation. “Hmm,” he grunted, and then yawned. He made me sleepy just looking at him.
“Dubonnet came to me while I was fire-bossing his section,” Mr. Blankenship went on, “said he’d talked to the miners on 11 East and we ought to pull out.”
Dad scowled. “Remind John Dubonnet next time that I run this mine, not him. And keep him off that section. I don’t want him to know what we’re doing there.”
Mr. Blankenship made a note. Dad must have sensed my presence. He turned in my direction for a blink but then just as quickly looked back at his diary. Mr. Blankenship smiled shyly in my direction. I nodded to him. Dad snapped his diary shut, regaining his attention. “I’m going to change out Treadwell. Woody, the north face on 11 East is yours. You pick your best crew, take ’em in first thing tomorrow. I know you’re not a section foreman anymore. This is just temporary to get us past this rough patch. You let Treadwell know he’s out, but keep him with you for a while, teach him how to boss. Far as I can tell, he doesn’t know anything about ventilation, either. Teach him that, too.”
Mr. Blankenship wrote Dad’s directives down, his expression impassive. Then Dad got off onto the number of tons he wanted loaded out of other sections in the mine and I lost interest, but I’d also learned something, too: 11 East was eating up Dad’s foremen, one by one.
In the kitchen, I found Mom at the kitchen table, staring out the window. The percolator was bubbling on the stove. I fixed myself some hot chocolate and toast and sat down opposite her. There was a nuthatch pecking at one of Mom’s feeders. A curl of frost clung to the window. Old Jack Frost had been painting overnight, I thought. Then I took a look at the Bluefield Telegraph. There was some bad news right on the front page. “Oh, no!” I exclaimed.
“What?” Mom asked, startled.
NASA had launched a rocket to the moon but it had exploded before it had gotten more than a mile off the pad. Mom didn’t seem too impressed. “You boys are flying that high, aren’t you?”
“Higher,” I said, my eyes glued to the report. “Look, it says NASA used an air force Atlas rocket, not one of Wernher von Braun’s. That must be the problem.”
She didn’t seem to care. “Are you going to get the Christmas greens this Saturday?”
Christmas greens were what people in Coalwood called the pine boughs and rhododendron leaves they used as decorations around their windows and doors, sometimes with colored electrical lights woven through them. Coalwoodians who didn’t decorate for Christmas were considered pretty loutish. Even if Mom was going to Myrtle Beach, she couldn’t risk that. “Yes, ma’am,” I told her. “Sherman’s going with me.”
Mom nodded, sighed, and then had another sip of coffee. She looked beaten down. She raised her eyes to her mural. I could see where she’d painted over a spot in the sky. “What do you know about seagulls?” she asked.
I sorted through my brain. “They fly and they live by the ocean.”
“Thank you, Professor Audubon,” she sniffed. “I was thinking more about the shape of their wings.”
“I could ask Quentin,” I said. Quentin had read nearly every book in the McDowell County Library. I was certain he’d run across one about seabirds.
“It would be much appreciated if you did,” she said, and then regarded me with a knowing eye. “I hear you were up at John Eye’s last night. And then I heard you and Ginger participated in some excitement at the Club House with Cuke’s woman.”
“Everything I did, I was forced to do by my elders,” I said, wriggling on her hook.
She smirked. “I’m sure. But this house stinks of moonshine. I wish you’d find a better way to store that stuff.”
“I’ll look into it,” I promised, but I didn’t know anything except John Eye’s glass jars that could hold up to zincoshine juice.
“I also heard so far you have A’s in all your classes.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve got to get through exams, though.”
“Attaboy.”
“Did Dad tell you about my grades?”
“I heard it over the fence. Your dad is otherwise occupied these days, as you well know.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. I resisted telling her I’d told Dad about my grades and he’d made fun of me.
“You’re late for the school bus,” she said laconically.
I “yes, ma’amed” her and then I remembered Dreama. “Mom, do you think Doctor Hale could work on Dreama’s tooth? She had a pretty smile. I think she was proud of it.”
“Why do you care?” she asked.
“I don’t. I just wondered,” I said. It wasn’t exactly the truth. I did care. I didn’t know why. I just did.
“Wonder about something else,” Mom said. “She won’t be around much longer. Cleo Mallett and her gals will see to that.”
“Tag said Mrs. Mallett asked him to run her out of town.”
“I’m not surprised,” Mom said. “That girl came in here and started living with a man without so much as a ‘how-do-you-do?’ to anybody. I don’t much like Cleo, but she’s right about this one.”
“But it’s mean not
to fix her tooth,” I said glumly.
Mom nodded. “It is mean, I’ll grant you that.” I looked at her beseechingly. She got the drift of my look. “No,” she said. “Now, get to school.”
I made the bus but just barely. Jack, our often grumpy bus driver, regarded me with hooded eyes, an unlit stub of a cigar clamped between his teeth. “I swan, Sonny,” he said, “you going to be late for your rocket to the moon, too?”
In the auditorium before classes, Roy Lee kept elbowing me while I was trying to catch up on my civics homework, a comparison of our constitutional form of government with the ancient Athenian model. “Look,” he said, giving me the elbow every time Melba June Monroe walked up or down the aisle. She seemed to be doing a lot of walking that morning. “Look.” “Look.” “Look.”
“You elbow me one more time, I’m going to slug you, Roy Lee,” I warned. “Do you think it’s just a coincidence that a lot of the government buildings in Washington are built to look like Greek temples?”
“No. Yes. Who cares? Look!”
I looked. Melba June was a fine-looking girl, that was sure. She gave me a quick glance, her long lashes fluttering. Then she stopped to have a conversation with a football boy, Holder Wells. Holder had one eye that wandered. When you talked to him, you never quite knew where to stand so he was looking at you.
Roy Lee gave me another shot to the ribs. By then, they were aching. “There she is, Sonny! I’ve got her all primed. All you got to do is pop the question. Wouldn’t surprise me if she laid a kiss on you right here in this auditorium.”
Melba June had turned her profile to us. Her sweater looked like it had been painted on and she had some prodigious curves. “Look at her, Sonny,” Roy Lee said. “She’s ready and she wants you!” Then he started singing, to the tune of the popular song “Brazil.” “Brassiere, you hold the things I love so dear, Brassiere, Brassiere, Brassiere . . .”
“I’m asking Ginger,” I told him.
Roy Lee let his head drop. “If stupidity was money, you could buy this school,” he lamented.