The mining supervisor, a buttoned-down city type, not from these parts, shoots me a look that says, “What are you doing here?” Spec picks up on this and tells him, “She’s with me.” I ask an intelligent question about the explosion, and the foreman’s brow relaxes like he’s decided I’m okay and can stay and be of some help. He is a foreigner, too, but that’s where the similarity between us ends. His demeanor and condescension are a perfect example of why locals don’t like these company men. They come in with an attitude.
As explosions go, this does not appear to be a bad one. There is no fire yet; the smoke is from a power gash near the mouth of the mine. The mining foreman is trying to explain the location of Level Three to the company man when I look up and see Jack Mac crawling out of the air vent with Amos Johnson. I hear a scream as one of the wives runs toward her husband. She is held back as the rescue team from Coeburn tends to him. I run toward Jack Mac as he turns to go back into the mine. The foreman shouts at me to stop him. Jack Mac turns and looks at me. I tell him, “Rick is still inside.” Two of the company engineers try to stop him, but he throws their hands off of him and goes back into the mine. The foreman chews me out for releasing information and tells me to stay behind the line and wait for the injured.
The worst thing about these accidents is the lag time between men going in and men coming out. The waiting periods are filled with silence and some muffled weeping. For the most part, folks don’t cry; accidents are an occupational hazard, and there is no sense worrying until something actually happens.
Spec is miffed at me because he’s been rendered impotent by my big mouth. Spec likes to get in the middle of things, and now he is a sideliner. Twenty minutes go by. Still no Jack Mac. I feel horrible guilt about this. Why did I tell him about Rick? Couldn’t I have left it up to the company men to come up with a rescue solution? Didn’t I know that Jack Mac would never sit and wait for them to do something? A hand is placed on my shoulder. I turn and see Sweet Sue with a look of total terror on her face.
“Is he in there, Ava?”
“He’s getting Rick out. Don’t worry.” I comfort Sweet Sue as best I can, and she goes to join the rest of the women behind the line. I look over at them. Their expressions range from utter desperation and fear to pure fury. They are tired of this, and they have a right to be angry. They have sharp eyes—nothing gets past them—but there is also a weariness that comes from disappointment.
Spec shouts at me to follow him as most of the other rescue squads have already departed with injured. The foreman is still furious with me for telling Jack Mac about Rick. His job is to save as many men as he can, and now it looks as though he will lose two. Spec is starting to referee our argument when we hear a woman scream, “Help them! Help them!”
The crowd hushes to still quiet as smoke pours out of the mine. Then, almost as if in a dream, Jack MacChesney emerges from the mine carrying a man. I hear someone yell, “Jack Mac’s got Rick! He’s got Rick!” Rick Harmon’s body is lifeless. We move in to resuscitate.
Spec is terrific with CPR and oxygen, so he takes charge and I assist. Jack Mac collapses and a doctor tends to him immediately. I look over at him and see that he is out cold. Rick’s wife, Sherry, runs to us with her kids. They clamor to touch Rick, believing they can bring him around with familiarity and love and kisses. But the supervisor pulls them away and we continue to pump, pump, pump. Spec looks up at me. “He’s coming to.”
The doctor joins us and takes over. He tells us to move Rick away from the residual smoke, so Spec and I lift him carefully onto a stretcher and carry him a few feet to a clearing. Rick opens his eyes and says, “My foot. Goddammit, my foot.” I smile at Rick with a look that says, I don’t think this is a good time to be cursing God; and he looks back at me apologetically.
“Let me take a look at it.” I hadn’t noticed his foot. It is mangled and bloody. I smile again and tell Rick not to worry. But I am worried; there is a deep cut across the top of his foot, and I cannot make out his toes. I fear he may lose it. “How is it, Ave?” he asks, suspecting the worst.
“It’s not too bad.” Rick looks relieved and closes his eyes. He passes out. I wrap the foot and ice it.
The Norton crew places oxygen on Rick and hoists him into the ambulance. The doors slam shut and they speed away. I turn to find Jack Mac, but he is gone. The unit from Appalachia has taken him to the hospital.
The supervisor grumbles at Spec and me as we pass. I stop and ask if everybody is for sure out of the mine. He assures me that they are. He smiles, not a smile of relief for the men who survived, but a selfish one. Saving lives for him is all about numbers; he has had a good day, and he knows his job is secure.
The women rush away from the roadside and get into their cars. They speed down the mountain to follow the ambulances to the hospital. Rick’s wife comes toward me and I give her a hug. All I can think is how much she must love him, and how happy she and Rick were dancing the other night at the Fold.
Spec drops me off at the Pharmacy, and I tell the girls I’m going to make a run to the hospital to see how the men are doing. Fleeta and Pearl need no details; they got the rundown from the police radio. Fleeta stops me as I’m leaving and wipes dirt off my face with a tissue.
Saint Agnes Hospital was founded by Irish Catholic nuns who migrated here in the 1930s. The common wisdom around here is, “When you’re sick, let the sisters take care of you.” Even though the locals don’t particularly care for Catholics, they make an exception when it comes to health care. The nuns built their hospital in Norton, the closest city and the location most central to the coal camps. I love the hospital because there are statues of saints and angels tucked in every corner. One time Eulala Clarkston was in for a blood clot and she swore that she saw the Virgin Mary wave at her. Sister Julia told me that, as much as they would love for the Blessed Mother to make an appearance in Norton, they were pretty sure Eulala didn’t actually see her. She was on Darvon at the time and was seeing things.
Most of the miners have been released. I ask one of the nurses if there is any word on Rick Harmon, and she tells me that he is undergoing surgery at UVA Hospital in Charlottesville, and that as soon as there is word, she’ll let me know. I see Spec in the hallway and compliment him on his CPR; he thanks me for helping. As I turn the corner to go, I run right into Jack MacChesney. I give him a quick hug that catches him off guard.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jack Mac is looking at my face funny, so I assume Fleeta didn’t get all the soot off of me. I wipe my face with my sleeve. Then he says quietly, “Thank you for telling me about Rick—”
I interrupt him. “The supervisor really let me have it. That guy is a real jackass.” Why am I talking so loud? I’m obnoxious. Then I blurt, “Do you need a ride home?”
Jack Mac looks like he would love one and is about to answer me when we hear a familiar voice.
“Jack!” his mother cries. “Let me see you!”
Mrs. Mac is on the arm of Sweet Sue. Jack looks at me, confused for a moment. Then Sue runs to him and covers him in kisses. Mrs. Mac then takes her turn and keeps touching his face like he’s five. All of a sudden I feel all the sad things I felt as a girl: I’m an outsider. Sweet Sue and Mrs. Mac embrace Jack, and rightly so, for he is the town hero now. He didn’t save thirty men, but he did save one; in the eyes of folks around here, that is just as important.
I’m happy Mrs. Mac and Sweet Sue are fussing over him. He deserves it. To be loved like that! To have somebody to worry about you. To have your mother hold your face in her hands like delicate china! I am watching something perfect and beautiful, and I am not a part of it. They are a family. I walk back around the corner and out the door to the parking lot.
All I want is a hot bath, a glass of wine, and a long phone call with Theodore, but as I round the driveway to the back of the house, I see that I have company. Aunt Alice and Uncle Wayne’s Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme is parked near my
back porch. The two of them are walking in the yard surveying the trees.
“You ought to get the forestry division over here to check that poplar. It has root rot.”
I want to say, And how are you, Aunt Alice? but instead, I shrug.
“We’d like to talk to ye, Ava,” my uncle says.
I invite them in and offer them iced tea, which they decline. As we pass through the dining room to get to the living room, Aunt Alice takes into account every piece of furniture, dish, and glass. It’s as if her neck were on a wire, craning this way and that, to record each item and its placement in her memory.
I can’t imagine why they’re here. They never visit, call, or invite me to their home. After Dad died, out of respect, Mama and I would call them on holidays, but they were always so curt, we stopped trying. Aunt Alice has not aged well. She is around sixty now but looks far older. Her short hair is permed into dry, blue, tight curls. Her small face, wrinkled from a lifetime of grimaces, squints, and frowns, has an overall sour expression. She could use some Queen Helene. Her eyeglasses are too large for her face, and she has false teeth now—I can hear air whistle through them when she talks. Life has settled in on her, and the results aren’t pretty.
“What can I do for y’all?” I ask and sit. Aunt Alice sits, but Uncle Wayne remains standing. He looks awkward, as though he’s uncomfortable around his own wife. He is tall and lean, with the face of a wizened marionette; its creases are deep, as have been his compromises.
Aunt Alice answers, “We come down here ’cause I ain’t gonna chase you all over hell to discuss business with you. So you just set there and listen to me because I got something I need to say. Now, I know your mama done came clean with you.” She used the word clean, implying that what came before it was dirty.
“Inez Eisenberg needs to look up client confidentiality in the dictionary.”
“Now, Ava, you listen here,” offers Uncle Wayne. “We don’t want no trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” Then I look at Aunt Alice. “And what kind of business?”
Then Aunt Alice explodes. “You look here, youngun, I have stood by all my life and watched my brother, who I loved very much, give all he had to you and your ungrateful mother, and I kept silent because he wished it so, but now, now that the truth is out, you need to know that restitution must be made to me as I am my brother’s only living blood relative. Blood. You know what I mean.”
I nod.
“You are not blood. You will never be blood. It almost killed my mama when Fred came home with a wop. A pregnant one! Jesus help us! He shows up back here, on this here porch with a sullied feriner! She moved in here with her high-and-mighty attitude, looking down her nose at us, and took him for all he was worth. He done educated you, clothed you. You ate well and lived like a princess with trips here and yon and up to Monti-sello and so forth, and I done never even got as far as Roanoke. You done took all you’re gonna take from me. And I mean that, missy.”
I sit quietly and look at my hands. There are three small cuts on my right index finger. I don’t remember getting them, but now they pulse a little and hurt. I must have gotten them removing Rick’s gear as the Norton crew lifted him into the ambulance. There is a little bit of dried blood around the first cut. I rub it off on my pant leg. Aunt Alice continues.
“After all, that business of his made you rich. That was my pappy’s building, and this was the Mulligan family homestead, and I got nothing from all of this. Do you know what it does to me to think I can’t live in the house I grew up in? That some stranger is living in my mama and daddy’s house, instead of me? I’m treated like this, and I am his true relative?”
“His blood relative,” I say quietly.
“Damn right! And here we are! Struggling! We’re on Social Security, but that ain’t enough. And you’re over here, rich as all get-out, and you have never lifted one finger to help us.” Aunt Alice turns to look up at Uncle Wayne. His mouth moves but no words come out, just like the mechanical Santa I put in the window at Mutual’s every Christmas. She stares at him to command him to speak, but he cannot. The vein in her neck is a tight, dark blue cord. Her head snaps wildly about in anger. She looks directly at me, which she has never done. I look into her eyes. Behind the bifocals, they are light brown, googly, off center, and surrounded by whites. (In face-reading, irises that float, surrounded by white, belong to folks with criminal pathologies. I’d say she’s angry enough to kill right now.)
“I wish somebody had thought about me for once. Looked out for me. Nobody never done looked out for me!”
This is true. Other than those few times after Fred Mulligan died, I never looked in on them, or brought them a gift, or stopped by. But I didn’t because they were the nastiest people I ever knew. Small and clannish, gossipy and mean, they didn’t deserve a loving niece. Besides, they had committed the worst of sins in my mind: They were hateful to my mother. Aunt Alice never showed me any affection whatsoever. Nor could I remember a birthday gift, a card, or an Easter egg for me, ever. Really, I had no attachment to them. That is why it is so easy for me to say:
“How much do you want?”
My question catches them both completely off guard. They look at each other. Uncle Wayne is practically salivating, like I could cut them a check right now. Aunt Alice is dizzy with greed, looking around, wanting everything in this simple house, including the house itself. Uncle Wayne shifts his posture to stand up straight.
“Your aunt and I haven’t actually come up with the specifics yet.”
“Well, I think you should.”
Aunt Alice looks at me. She doesn’t trust me. Her eyes narrow. “We’ve been talking to a lawyer down in Pennington, and he is advising us.”
“Have him call me.”
They look at me blankly. They didn’t expect me to respond this way.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I just had a job with the Rescue Squad and I’m mighty tired. Maybe you heard. We had a bad explosion up at Wence. If you don’t mind.” I stand and motion them to the door. Aunt Alice leaves first and doesn’t look back at me. Uncle Wayne, now in a gracious mode because he can taste cash, smiles weakly at me through his thin lips.
“We just want what we got coming to us.”
“I hope you get what you’ve got coming to you.”
I bolt the door behind them and go directly to the bathroom. I throw up. I am scared by how much I’m vomiting, and intermittently I cry. I flush with my left hand and lean and run the cold water with my right. As soon as I can splash the cold water on my face, vomit comes up again. This happens over and over, until nothing but clear water comes up from within me. I brush my teeth. I go to put the toothbrush back in its holder and find I can barely lift it. It is as though the toothbrush is made of concrete. I begin to cry again. I want my mother. I grip the sink. I watch my tears hit the white porcelain and disappear down the drain. “I should have killed her for what she said about you, Mama.” But deep within me, I know there is a better way to finish off Aunt Alice. I just have to find it.
CHAPTER FIVE
The old wisdom that everybody needs a good lawyer is true. I have Lew. He is thorough and competent. I just wish Inez wouldn’t repeat everything she hears in his office. I don’t want my personal business discussed in line at the grocery store. Fleeta almost got in a fistfight when some unflattering stories were being passed around about me on double-coupon Saturday. For the most part, though, folks are more fascinated than judgmental that I turned out to be a bastard. They can’t believe the intrigue of it all, or that a regular person like me could be in the center of such a tale. The truth is, most folks around here are cautious conservatives, and the Bible is a serious guidebook for them. I’m getting looks of pity and wonderment from practically everybody I run into. I can tell which of my customers are repeating stories because they cannot look me in the eye. I surprise myself, because it seems that something like this should cause me some shame. I am more relieved than ashamed, though. The re
lief hasn’t brought me any peace of mind yet, but I am hopeful it will.
I need to speak to Lew, and I don’t want Inez to hear what I have to say, so I wait until I see him leave his office to pick up his mail at the post office. I grab my coat and follow him.
Lew juggles his keys and opens his post office box. It is stuffed with mail. As he pulls it out, he drops a periodical and I pick it up for him. I tell him about Aunt Alice and Uncle Wayne’s visit. Then I tell him my plan. I was up all night, scheming and drinking coffee, so I have a crazy look about me, but my mind is clear.
“You’re thinking like a lawyer. That’s scary,” Lew says, as he makes a cylinder out of his mail and snaps a rubber band around it.
I wait for Lew to exit the post office. I buy a pack of stamps and wait a couple of minutes before I go. As I walk back to the Pharmacy, I see Inez grabbing a smoke on the stoop of the law office. I wave to her and smile. Any sign of warmth throws her off, so she looks at me like I’m the town kook, waves back, and smiles weakly.
I return to the Pharmacy. I fill all my prescription orders, check my inventory, and make my bank deposit. I skip lunch. I don’t make any calls. I don’t say much to Fleeta or Pearl. I do my work. And I wait. A few hours pass, and Pearl calls me to the front.
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