The Fairies of Sadieville

by Alex Bledsoe

  Sean joined the geologist at the window. On the mountain slope above them was the mine itself, the Sadie Number One. A long wooden slide led from the mine down to the town.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” the geologist said.

  “Yes, indeed,” Sean agreed. “What’s that slide up there?”

  “That’s the tipple. They use it to slide coal down to the hopper, and from there it’s loaded into waiting train cars.”

  “Isn’t that something?” Sean said.

  “The coal they’re sending down is three hundred million years old, did you know that?”

  “I did not.”

  “You’ve heard of dinosaurs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s two hundred million years older than even the oldest dinosaur we know of. All these mountains? They actually formed the bottom of the ocean then.”

  “What happened?”

  “Two pieces of the earth’s crust ran into each other, and with nowhere to go but up, they went up. Then, over time, the elements wore them back down. Who knows, in another two hundred million years they might be at the bottom of the ocean again.”

  “And science told you all that?”

  The geologist had the same gleam in his eye that Sean had seen in some of the raving street-corner evangelists in the city. “Science,” the geologist said seriously, “tells us everything.”

  The geologist tottered off to collect his things. Sean took one last look at the mountains and let out a relieved sigh. His whole career depended on this place, and now he was certain he’d been right. Some things just couldn’t be filmed on city rooftops, where sets were built to take advantage of the summer sun. That was fine for dramas that took place in small rooms, telling trivial tales of everyday trials. But he had something larger in mind, and it needed a bigger canvas. It needed what he now saw out the window.

  “Hello, beautiful,” he said to himself.

  “Beg your pardon?” Richard said.

  “Nothing. Let’s go get settled and organized for auditions.”

  They quickly disembarked, grateful to be out of the hot car. Ben carried the tripod under his arm, the camera in its case across his back, and a bag containing rolls of raw film in his other hand. “Can someone grab my suitcase? I’m out of hands.”

  “I’ll get it,” Richard said. Beneath his haughty manner he was a decent man, and although he’d never admit it, he liked Sean and Ben immensely. Like him, they saw the future of this new art form called movies, and he’d much rather work with them on an interesting mistake than do yet another profitable but overwrought melodrama onstage.

  Sean led them into the small station, past the shuffling people moving to board the train. He noticed that they all looked tired, with none of the excitement that he usually saw in travelers. Wherever they were going, they weren’t looking forward to it, or they were too tired to care.

  “Excuse me,” Ben asked a well-dressed man checking his pocket watch. “Do you have the time?”

  “Ten to,” the man said without looking up.

  “Ten to what?”

  “Tend to your own damn business,” the man said. He snapped the watch shut and went out the door toward the train.

  Richard turned to Sean. “Is that typical Southern hospitality?”

  “It’s not a good omen,” Ben said.

  “Do you believe in omens?” Richard asked.

  Ben smiled. “Sure. Omens, portents, and signs. Just like Madame Marie over in Asbury Park. She read the cards and told me I’d be taking a long trip with two friends.”

  “Did she say how that trip would end?”

  “Her exact words were ‘in revelation.’” He laughed.

  Sean shook his head and walked over to the ticket window. A tall, rangy man in an ill-fitting shirt and visor cap looked out at him. When he spoke, Sean saw only two teeth, one in each gum. He said, “Can I help you, young man?”

  “We’re looking for Mrs. Delaney’s boardinghouse.”

  He looked them over suspiciously. “You three more company Yankees?”

  “We’re not with the mining company.”

  “Then what’s all that gear?” the old man said, nodding at Ben.

  Sean leaned close. “Can you keep a secret? We’re here to make a motion picture.”

  “A pitcher? Like at the pitcher show?”

  “That’s right. But don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.” He was pretty sure that word of their arrival would now spread like fire through a tenement.

  “Now, the boardinghouse?” Sean asked again.

  He pointed toward the exit. “You see that street out there?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s the only street we have. So turn right, keep going, and look on the left. Three-story white house, tallest one on that end of the street. There’s a big ole oak tree in the yard. If you reach the half-built church, then you’ve gone too far.”

  Outside the station, they stopped and took a moment to orient themselves. Richard looked around and held his handkerchief over his mouth and nose. “And you consider this picturesque?”

  “No, I consider that picturesque.” He gestured at the mountains. “This is just our base of operations.”

  “I might asphyxiate before we start filming.”

  “Then we’ll just prop up your corpse. Wouldn’t make any difference in your performance.”

  Richard threw back his head and roared with laughter, until the fumes sent him into a coughing fit.

  Most people were on foot, and had the battered look of longtime miners. A few horse-drawn wagons made their way through, and at least one Dodge touring car skidded along the muddy thoroughfare, the driver shouting for people to get out of his way.

  “How did that even get here?” Ben asked.

  “On the train, like everything else,” Sean said.

  “The very definition of rustic charm,” Richard observed dryly.

  “Yeah, but look at the faces,” Sean said, watching as the wave of tired miners filed past them. He loved their looks: all hard angles, sunken cheeks, and hollow eyes. They walked with a stooped, defeated air, except for a few who strode with raised chins and confident glances. This was exactly the authenticity he sought, and he felt the thrill of anticipation at getting it all on film. “Look at the history in them. You don’t get that from actors.”

  “Indeed.” Richard sniffed. “As a rule, we practice hygiene.” He pointed up the street, at a building with a large sign proclaiming, THE GREAT SADIE HOTEL. “Why aren’t we staying there?”

  “I thought you’d prefer the personal touch of a boardinghouse,” Sean said.

  “Does ‘personal’ include a young lady’s company?”

  “You’ll have to arrange that on your own. With your own money.”

  As they walked, Ben moved close and said quietly, “I hope this is all worth it, Sean.”

  “It will be,” Sean said with certainty.

  Mrs. Delaney’s boardinghouse was the oldest building in town, and as promised, an enormous ancient oak shaded most of it. A recent paint job could not entirely disguise the way it had been repeatedly enlarged during its existence. It was now three stories high, with a wraparound porch and a kitchen that had once been detached as a fire precaution, but was now connected by a wooden hallway.

  Two old men sat on the porch in rockers, their faces smeared with black coal dust. One sipped from a jug resting on the back of his forearm, his wrist bent to keep his index finger looped through the handle by the spout.

  It was a movement that Sean had never seen before, and he discreetly pointed it out to Ben. “Look at how he’s drinking.”

  “Heavily?”

  “No, with his wrist bent like that.”

  Ben shrugged. “So?”

  Sean shook his head. “That, my friend, is why you’ll never be a filmmaker. You’ve got no eye for detail.”

  “Not when I’m lugging a ton of your stuff. Can we go inside so I can put it down?”

&n
bsp; Instead of answering, Sean went over to the old men. “Hello. Do you live here in the boardinghouse?”

  The nearest one said, “A-yewp.”

  Sean took out a business card and handed it to him. “I’m going to be looking for people to be in a motion picture in the next few days. I’d love to have you.”

  The man passed the card to his friend. His friend shrugged and handed it back. The first man returned it to Sean. “Cain’t neither of us read a lick. But we’ll either be here or up to the mine if you want us.”

  Sean took back the card, which was now smeared with black fingerprints. “Er … thank you. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Bless your heart,” the second man said, and then the two laughed.

  Inside, Ben gratefully put down the tripod and bag of film. The entrance hall opened on a sitting room, filled with oddly opulent furniture. No one appeared to greet them, so Sean called out, “Hello?”

  “I’ll be right there,” a woman said from upstairs.

  “Charming,” Richard said quietly as he looked around. “Decorated in early Old West whorehouse.”

  “Stop it,” Sean said. “We need these people to like us.”

  “Most of them can’t even understand us,” Richard said.

  “Then we have to learn to speak their language.”

  They fell silent when footsteps came down the stairs. A woman in her thirties, large-bosomed and with an impressive coif of dark red hair, stopped at the bottom and smiled. “Well, you must be the three boys from New Jersey. I’m Mrs. Delaney.”

  “I’m Sean, and this is Ben.”

  “And I am Richard Arliss,” he said with a bow. “I am from New York City, unlike these two provincials.”

  She did a little half-curtsy to Richard, then daintily shook hands with Sean and Ben. “It’s a pleasure to meet y’all.”

  “Don’t get many Yankees here, I’ll bet,” Ben said.

  “Actually, we get quite a few. All the company men are Yankees, and this is where they stay.”

  “Not the hotel?”

  “Not if they’re planning to be here a while. We’ve got one young couple who are waiting for their house to be finished. This town can’t grow fast enough to keep up, I’m afraid.”

  “Well,” Sean said, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, and to stay in your fine establishment.”

  “Oh, please,” she said with a laugh. “I got all my furniture from an estate sale at a Kansas City whorehouse.”

  “Told you,” Richard muttered.

  “But,” Mrs. Delaney continued, “I do offer breakfast and dinner, along with clean linens and baths for a quarter. So let’s get you moved in.” She looked at the tripod. “Lordy, what is that gimcrack?”

  “It’s a tripod,” Ben said. “It holds the camera steady when we’re filming.”

  “Is that the camera on your back?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And you can make a whole movie with just those two things?”

  “There’s at least one other essential component,” Richard said. “You need someone to point that camera at.”

  “Are you an actor?”

  “I am,” he said with a proud little mock bow.

  “My daddy always told me that actors were worse than Catholics.”

  “And he was entirely right.”

  They all laughed. Mrs. Delaney turned to Sean. “I don’t know what you expect to find here that’s worth putting in a motion picture. A full set of teeth is scarce, and an honest man is even scarcer.”

  “I’m sure I’ll find what I’m looking for,” Sean said.

  “I hope so,” Mrs. Delaney said. Then she led the three men up the stairs to their rooms.

  10

  The next day, Sean went up and down the street posting the following flyer anywhere he could:

  WANTED:

  Local people with interesting faces

  Men, women, children

  Good pay, potential for more

  Come to Mrs. Delaney’s boardinghouse Tuesday at 9 A.M.

  The man behind the counter at the company dry goods store took the flyer from Sean, looked it over, then said doubtfully, “You taken a good look at the people around here?”

  “I have.”

  “We ain’t pretty.”

  “I don’t know if I’d go that far.”

  “I would. Most of us are so ugly, we have to sneak up on our mirrors to shave.”

  “Well, whether you’re pretty or not, you’re definitely interesting.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You planning to make fun of us, then?”

  “No, not at all. I want to film things that nobody else has seen. To show the rest of the world how beautiful it is here.”

  “What’s so beautiful about it?”

  “The mountains, the sky, the way the mist hangs in the trees in the morning. You may not think about it because you see it all the time, but believe me, the rest of the world doesn’t, and they’ll be amazed.”

  He thought this over. “I reckon you can hang this, then.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You want interesting, you should film yourself some Tufa.”

  “What’s that?”

  He thought some more. “Ah, don’t worry about it. Just stick your sign in the window, and I’ll make sure people see it.”

  “Thank you.”

  * * *

  As Sean continued up one side of the street, Ben made his way down the other. He stepped through the swinging doors of a saloon called the Lignite Lounge. He was a little surprised to find it open, and he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  “Come on over here, son,” a man’s gravelly voice said. “I ain’t gonna bite ya.”

  “Don’t want to trip over anything,” he said as he carefully walked to the bar, where he fumbled his way onto a stool. He looked around, and saw that the rest of the bar was empty.

  “What’s yer poison?” the bartender said, in an accent Ben recognized.

  “Are you from the Bronx?”

  “Ya got a good ear. Most people here can only tell I’m from north of Maryland.”

  “I hear some Irish in there. You from Highbridge?”

  “Goddamn, son, I’m starting to think you’re a mind reader. What about you?”

  “Baychester.”

  “Well, then, the first round’s on the house.”

  He produced a jug identical to the one they’d seen the man on the porch drinking from, and poured a clear liquid into a glass. “They call this Cloud County Paint Thinner. Some say it’ll make you go blind, then get your sight back, then go blind again.”

  Ben took a sip, then shuddered as it burned all the way down. “Holy shit!” he gasped.

  “That’ll put hair on the hairless, won’t it?” the bartender said. “Reckon I should introduce myself. Everybody here calls me Quinn.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” he choked out. “I’m Ben Hubbard.” He indicated the bottle. “Why do you serve that, if you want people to come back?”

  “Because I can get it a lot cheaper than I can real stuff brought in on the train.” He poured himself a shot and downed it. “It gets smoother as you go,” he croaked, and offered Ben another shot.

  Ben shook his head. “I guess alcoholics will drink anything.”

  “Alcoholics? There’s no alcoholics here. Do you know what an alcoholic is? It’s someone you don’t like, who drinks as much as you do. And, since I like everybody, none of my customers are alkies.”

  “How much do I owe you?” Ben asked.

  “Like I said, it’s on the house. I only take company scrip, anyway, and you don’t look like a company man.”

  “Well, then, here’s to the Prudence Company.”

  They tapped their shot glasses.

  “So what brings you down here?” Quinn asked.

  “I’m here with my boss. We’re going to make a motion picture.”

  “A picture? Here?”

  “Yeah. You might not believe it, but picture
s about hillbillies are big business.”

  “Whoa, now, you don’t want to be using that word around here.”

  “Business?”

  “Hillbilly. These people may be from the hills, but they work harder than you or I ever will, and they don’t complain nearly as much as we do. I’ve been down here among them for a year now, and they’ve earned my respect.”

  “Sorry. It’s my first time here.”

  “I understand. And I know what it looks like at first. Blank eyes, dirty skin, slack jaws, old clothes. But these people raise their families and don’t ask anyone for anything. They’re good folks, and I’m proud to serve them.” He paused. “Unless they’re Tufa, that is.”

  “Tufa?”

  “Yeah. There ain’t too many here in Sadieville. Most of ’em live over in Needsville, and don’t have anything to do with us. But the Prudence Company bought the land from one of them, and there’s a few that come here for the work.”

  “What are the ‘Tufa’?”

  “Well, they’re—”

  He was interrupted by a half-dozen men who came loudly into the bar. Most wore overalls, although two wore surprisingly nice pressed shirts. They waved at Quinn and took a table in the darkest corner.

  “Hold on, have to earn my keep,” Quinn said, and left Ben to ponder the strange course of his life that brought two men from the Bronx together here.

  By the time Quinn finished taking orders and delivering drinks, that first jolt of moonshine had settled, and Ben was light-headed. He burped a little as Quinn returned and said, “You know, you were telling me something really interesting, but I’m damned if I can remember what it was.”

  “It was about the Tufa.”

  “That’s right. Who are they?”

  “Like I said, most of them live over in Needsville. That was the only town in the county until Sadieville. Not that you’d find it; I can’t tell you how many people say they’ve gone looking for it and claim it ain’t there.”

  “What’s so special about the Tufa?”

  “They look different. They all have black hair, and kind of dark skin, and every one of them has a perfect set of teeth.”

  “That’s a rarity.”