Sky of Stone

by Homer Hickam

  Dear Lord, we are gathered here to celebrate not just the independence of our great land, but also the document on which it stands. There is much to admire in that document but what we best remember is this: We hold these truths to be self-evident; that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

  To prepare for this invocation today, I have pondered long and hard these words. Most of you know that I rarely go anywhere without my Bible. It is an old Bible. It belonged to my grandfather. What you don’t know is that inside this book, I have always kept a copy of the Declaration of Independence. It also belonged to my grandfather. He believed it to be as holy as his Bible.

  When I was a boy, somebody once asked me if my grandfather had been a slave. I couldn’t imagine that could be true so I went to him and asked him: ‘Grandfather, were you a slave?’ He said, ‘Child, there was a man called me that but I was never a slave and you know why? Because I could read. My mama, she taught me when that man wasn’t looking, just as her mama taught her.’

  When he became officially a free man, my grandfather purchased this Bible and a copy of the Declaration of Independence. He kept them both until the day he died. He left them to me.

  I have come to understand my grandfather was right. No man is a slave if he can read. Especially if he can read the Bible and the American Declaration of Independence.

  But that means there are still slaves in this land. There are slaves who do not know that they have unalienable rights given to them by God, and that they also have, by the grace of the Lord, life, liberty, and the right to pursue their happiness and the happiness of their families.

  They are slaves to their own ignorance. Ignorance is the ultimate slaveowner.

  So on this Fourth of July, I pray a special prayer.

  I pray for the day when the tyranny of ignorance will be banished all across this great land and every man, woman, and child can read and understand what they read.

  I pray for that day.

  I pray every day for that day.

  The Reverend sat down, and for the first time ever, as far as I knew, the Fourth of July invocation got a big round of applause.

  I pitied the speaker who had to follow.

  It turned out to be my dad.

  Dad stood up, nodded to Reverend Richard, and said, “I am here to represent Olga Coal Company on this our celebration of Independence Day. I would remind one and all that it was the coal company that built Coalwood and it will be the coal company that will keep it going forever. If I believe in anything, it is this: Support this town and the town will support you. That’s what Captain Laird taught me. That’s what I believe. Now let’s eat, then play ball!”

  Dad got an ovation, too. There was nothing Coalwood people liked better than a speech, especially if it was short.

  THE UNION softball team gathered in a huddle along the third-base line. Mr. Dubonnet called out our roster. “I’m pitching,” he said, then looked up sharply from his clipboard. Nobody argued with him, so he kept going. “Catcher, Hub Alger. First base, Bobby Likens. Second base, Gordo Franklin. Shortstop, Sam Fragile. Third base, Billy Cooke. Left field, Jabbo Terrell. Center field, Billy Joe Blevins. Right field, Sonny Hickam. Third-base coach is Leo Mallett. Any questions?”

  “Who’s their pitcher?” Jabbo asked, nodding toward the management team, which was having their own little huddle, along the first-base line.

  “Not a clue,” Mr. Dubonnet said. “Some ringer, I’m guessing.”

  “If he’s not a company employee, I say we put in a protest,” Sam said. Sam had been a classmate of mine at Big Creek. It was good to see him. He was a big, strong guy, and one of the best basketball players the high school had ever produced. I hoped he could play softball, too.

  “Hold your horses, Sam,” Mr. Dubonnet counseled.

  Mr. Dubonnet handed out our team shirts. They were a dark blue with white letters on back that said COALWOOD UMWA LOCAL #768. I was proud to wear the union colors.

  I studied the management team as they took the field. They were wearing red jerseys that said OLGA COAL COMPANY on the back.

  Jake walked behind home plate. His pads and face mask showed him to be the catcher. Then I saw their pitcher. Mr. Dubonnet saw who it was, too. We both stared, but he spoke first: “What the Sam Hill?”

  All of the UMWA team, and the crowd as well, grew silent as Rita, holding a softball in her left hand and tapping it on her hip, walked to the pitcher’s mound. “They can’t play a girl!” Mr. Dubonnet protested.

  “That’s no girl,” Guy Cox, the management player-coach called back with a grin. “It’s but a junior engineer.”

  Jake settled down into a crouch and held up his catcher’s mitt. Rita stepped up on the mound, whipped her arm, and threw. The softball streaked along what seemed a grooved path until it hit Jake’s mitt with a sharp crack. Dust erupted from his glove.

  “Holy Mother of God,” Mr. Dubonnet said, his jaw dropping.

  “Don’t wear your arm out!” Jake yelled to Rita.

  She frowned, and yelled back, “I know what I’m doing!”

  Jake walked out to the mound and leaned in close. Rita’s frown deepened and she shook her head. Jake stalked back and crouched. Once more, Rita wound up. When her pitch came, the ball seemed to turn invisible the second it left her hand. It didn’t become whole again until it appeared in Jake’s glove. He took off his face mask and his glove, shook his hand, and threw the ball back to her. “Easy!” he yelled.

  She turned away from him, rubbing the ball and kicking at the dirt.

  Bobby was first in our lineup. He knocked the dust off his cleats and stepped into the batter’s box.

  That’s when I saw who the umpire was. It was a day for surprises. It was Dad.

  “Both sides agreed,” Mr. Dubonnet said when he saw where I was looking. “Everybody figured he’d be honest.”

  “But he doesn’t know anything about softball,” I said.

  Mr. Dubonnet gave me a piercing look. “Don’t you know your daddy was one of the best ballplayers, softball or hardball, to ever come out of Gary Hollow? I was about the only one who could ever fan him. Man, he could hit that ball hard!”

  That was news to me. And then I thought—if he was so good, why hadn’t he ever taught me a blamed thing about playing? Of course, I knew the answer. The coal mine and his job there. His almighty, holy job! How much of his life had it stolen from our family?

  Rita fanned Bobby, though he swung hard, and also our next two at-bats, zip, zow, zup! It was an amazing thing to watch. Dad’s job was easy. He just watched the balls go straight down the middle like runaway trains. The women in the stands, management and union alike, started to cheer each time she threw. The men, management and union alike, fell into silence. A woman beating men, especially miners? Nothing like that had ever been seen in Coalwood, or imagined!

  With our side retired, we took the field. I went out to right field and started praying nobody would hit anything my way. Mr. Dubonnet was a pretty fair pitcher. Mr. Wotring, the first management man up, flied out to Bobby. Next up was Mr. Cox. I’d always heard that he could have been a professional baseball player if he’d been scouted right. He knocked a couple of long fouls and then got a solid double. Then Jake came up next and managed to hit a line drive. Fortunately, it was right into Sam Fragile’s glove. Sam almost tagged Mr. Cox out, but he was able to scramble back to base.

  Then Rita came to bat.

  Jabbo had started us chanting in the outfield. I joined him. Swing batter, swing batter. She did as we suggested and connected with a hard fastball. It went sailing up, up, and then away. A shrill cry came from the stands. Oh, the women of Coalwood were having a fine time. Rita’s ball landed on the bank just beneath Highway 16. It was a home run!

  Rita trotted around the bases. The women began chanting:

  Go Rita Go! Go Rita Go!

  Mr. Cox,
followed by Rita waving at her admirers, sailed home, and we were behind two to nothing. The men in the stands spat in their cups without joy. The women kept cheering.

  After Rita, Victor came to bat. Mr. Dubonnet drilled one in and he hit it and it went high and to the right.

  To me.

  I squinted up at the ball, a nearly invisible little dot in the sky. I’d never caught a ball hit so high. Victor was chugging up the first-base line and Bobby was yelling at me, “Keep your eye on it, Sonny!”

  Victor rounded first base and headed for second. I moved up on the ball, then saw I’d overestimated and moved back. The ball looped on. “Get under it!” I heard Bobby cry.

  Time seemed to slow to a crawl. I kept my eye on the ball. Then, to the amazement of everybody at the New Camp field including myself, I put up my glove and caught it over my shoulder!

  I didn’t hear the cheers, although I was told later there were a lot of them. I just kept looking at the ball in disbelief. I had actually caught it!

  Bobby waited for me in the infield as I trotted in. “Pretty good,” he said. “Now smile. That’s it. Show off a little.”

  “Attaboy,” Mr. Dubonnet said as I came trotting in.

  Mr. Likens took me aside. “Let me see your batting stance,” he said. I showed him what I remembered from our weekend of practice, and he adjusted me. “Hold the bat up a little higher, feet apart, that’s it, knees bent a little.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Just keep your eye on the ball, then let instinct take over. You’ll be fine.”

  I went back to sit on the bench with the team. Rita didn’t let up a bit. The audience was starting to fall silent at her every pitch. It was like watching an artist at work. Our next two batters went down swinging. Then it was my turn. She turned her back to me.

  “Ease up a little,” Jake yelled at her, then sighed heavily, threw off his face mask, and trotted out to the mound. She kicked the dirt and he did, too. Then Mr. Cox trotted out to the mound and sent Jake back in. “She’s wearing her arm out,” he griped to Dad. “I’m nearly sorry I talked her into doing this.”

  “Looks like she’s doing fine, Jake,” he said.

  I turned to look at them. How could Dad talk so friendly to Jake? Jake caught me looking at him. “What?” he asked.

  “Is this what you had to talk to Rita about? Playing softball?”

  “Sure. What else would I talk to her about?” He peered at me. “Did I make you jealous?”

  “You make me jealous?” I laughed. “A drunk like you?”

  I didn’t know where that had come from. I colored, and Dad called a time-out. He pointed at me, then took me aside. Jake stayed in his squat, looking down at the ground.

  “I’m sorry,” I said before Dad could say anything.

  “That’s your answer for just about everything, isn’t it?” he demanded. “You figure if you say it, then everything will be all right. Look, Sonny, Jake is your friend. He took up for you in this town when everybody got down on you about your rockets. Have you forgotten that?”

  “No, sir. But he’s here now to destroy you. He’s not my friend anymore.”

  Dad put his face nearer to mine. “I’m not going to tell you this another time. That’s my business. If Jake and me have a problem, I’ll deal with it.”

  “You always said he was a drunk,” I replied, looking to defend myself. “If you can do it, why can’t I?”

  “Because it isn’t right for you to do it. I was his boss. He was your friend, but more to the point, you were his. Or doesn’t friendship mean anything to you?”

  “Play ball!” somebody in the stands yelled.

  “Come on,” Dad said.

  I tried to shrug away Dad’s indictment, even though I knew he was completely right. I reentered the batter’s box and dug in, but I was having trouble concentrating. Rita wound up, gave me a look, then—zoop! I only had a fraction of a second to look at the ball, and then it was in Jake’s mitt.

  “Strike one!” Dad called.

  Jake threw the ball back to Rita. I had to get my focus. “I apologize, Jake,” I said. “I was way out of line.”

  “No, you weren’t,” he said. “You were right on target.”

  I felt a small dose of absolution and planted my feet, just as Mr. Likens had said, and raised my bat. The next pitch came flying. You could almost hear it sizzle. Jake yelled, “Swing batter!”

  I did, swatting nothing but air. “Strike two!” Dad called.

  “Neat trick,” I said. I heard Jake slap his catcher’s mitt with his fist. Now I was mad at him again.

  The next pitch seemed slower. I watched it hum in, mesmerized by its flight. I thought it was high and let it go. “Swing batter!” Jake yelled.

  “Ball one!” Dad called.

  I looked back at Dad, but, in the way of all umpires, he ignored me, keeping a studied nonchalance.

  I dug in, unlocked my knees, waved the bat, and Rita let go. It was another hummer, straight on. Then, just as happened when I’d caught the fly ball, time seemed to slow down. I tracked the ball, noted its stitched seams turning as it roared toward me. I uncocked my bat and started my swing. The ball and the bat had their own trajectory. I was just applying the muscle power. I felt the collision, a sharp snap. Then I unleashed and kept swinging.

  Then time sped back up. I heard people cheering. The ball was accelerating over Rita’s head, moving out, almost like one of my rockets. Victor watched it soar over him. Out in center field, Mr. Nordman reached up under his cap and scratched his head.

  I’d hit the blame thing clean up on the highway!

  “I knew it!” Jake griped. “Threw her arm out!”

  I just stood there and gaped. I couldn’t believe it. Jake finally broke my reverie. “Go on, Sonny. Take a lap. You’ve earned it.”

  I looked at Jake, then at Dad behind him. Dad looked back, eye to eye. “Take your lap, son,” he said.

  “Yes, sir!”

  I trotted around the bases, then touched home plate. Floretta broke from the cheering crowd and hugged my neck. Little Richard came out, too. “Good boy!” he said, patting me on my shoulder.

  As all such moments tend to do, my personal glory passed and we kept playing. It was a hard-fought contest, but in the end, Rita murdered us, 10 to 3. Despite Jake’s concern, her arm stayed strong all the way through the last inning. On that Fourth of July in the summer of 1961, there was no beating Rita Walicki.

  33

  DANDY

  MINERS’ VACATION began with the rumbling sounds of a general evacuation as cars and trucks loaded with people and supplies headed out of town toward destinations in every direction. Some folks were headed for Myrtle Beach, others for the Smoky Mountains. Another favorite was Hungry Mother State Park just across the Virginia state line. I rose from my bunk, savored for a moment my home run in the Fourth of July softball game, then remembered that we’d lost the game and that I was stuck in Coalwood with nothing to do for nearly two whole weeks. My spirits sank, then rose again. I would at least get plenty of sleep and not have to lay track.

  The first thing I did was to see if there was anything I could do for Mrs. Dooley. I found her sitting on her porch swing with the mister. He was watching a cardinal singing on a limb and took no note of me. “Heard you almost pulled it out for the union yesterday,” she said. “But your girlfriend was too tough for you.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend, but I guess Coalwood’s never seen a better pitcher,” I replied. “Mrs. Dooley, anything I can do for you?”

  “Tomorrow, I’d like to give Nate another bath,” she said. “The grass needs mowing. I’d appreciate it if you gave the garden another good weeding. Otherwise, things are going along good.”

  “I’ll come up in the morning for the bath,” I said. “Looks like the grass could wait a day or two for the mowing. I’ll go take care of the garden right now.” Then I tried again. “Mrs. Dooley, how did Nate bust his wrist?”

  She rocked in the swing. “He did it to himsel
f,” she said.

  “How?”

  “He fell,” she said.

  “What made him fall? Did someone push him?”

  “He fell, that’s all,” she said, and by the set of her jaw, I knew she was through answering that particular question to me forever.

  I HELPED with Mr. Dooley’s bath the next day and mowed the grass a few days later. The Dooleys were about the only people I saw. Floretta was gone off to visit relatives in Kentucky, the junior engineers to Panama City, Florida. The tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the Club House parlor sounded like it was in an echo chamber.

  Since the Sharitzes were also on vacation, it was my job to feed the dogs. After a stop at the Dooleys each day, I walked on up to the house. Dandy seemed to have adjusted to his blindness. When Poteet made her daily excursion of the yard, he trotted behind her, sniffing her air, stopping when she stopped, then lumbering on. He even managed a few weak barks in the direction of a passing car or two. Poteet seemed to pace herself to let him keep up.

  Dad had left the house unlocked, and I wandered through its rooms. I admired once more Mom’s beach painting in the kitchen. It was really a work of art, better, in my opinion, than anything hanging on Doc Hale’s apartment walls. I had nearly forgotten Mom’s addition to her mural, her pet fox, Parkyacarcass. I examined it anew, wondering what Dad thought of it.

  The dining-room table was still stacked with mail. I poked through it, finding unpaid bills and unopened letters. My grades were exactly where Dad had tossed them when we’d had our argument. I walked into the foyer, looked at my old piano. I even sat down and played from some sheet music: “All I Have to Do Is Dream” by the Everly Brothers. It was what we rocket boys had called the song of the Cape, an anthem to the power of dreams. I had also sat down to a duet with Ginger Dantzler two Christmases past and we’d played that same song. My eyes became a bit damp at both memories.

  I peered into the living room. The family Bible sat on the coffee table. I took note of its well-chewed pages. Chipper had shredded generations of Hickams inscribed on the family-tree pages. Mom had forgiven him for it, of course. I walked out on the enclosed porch. It was called the Captain’s porch. Captain Laird had directed its original construction so that he could sit on it and rock in a rocking chair and contemplate the tipple he’d designed.