And that crazy Doris Parkey was standing out in the middle of the street just bawling, screaming at the sky that “the day’s finally come! Oh I knew it! Finally come! I ain’t stepping back onto that bedeviled slab no more, not for anything!”
Joe started to run.
Mr. Felix Emmanuel heard the Parkey woman screaming, but made no attempt to move from the big easy chair by the window. These mountain women were all the same—hysterical, worn out hags—hardly women in any sense. Superstitious lot, especially this Doris Parkey. She’d kept him up more than one night with her endless pacing and her whining attempts to get that drunken husband of hers awake and out to inspect that crumbling slab. Horrible, dirty town…
He pulled back the curtain a bit and stared at the old scarecrow—hardly old in years, be thought, probably no more than thirty, but just look at her!—as she wailed at the skies, her skeletal arms upraised, knobby fists clenched. Crazy, crazy lady.
He’d be out of here soon, however; the company had been punishing him for that cave-in in West Virginia, but his cousin Willie in Pittsburgh was taking care of things. He’d be out of this cesspool in no time.
The cave-in hadn’t been his fault, and it bothered Mr. Emmanuel the way some people still looked at him about that. As if he had caused all those deaths. It had been a tragedy, no doubt about that—Mr. Emmanuel hated to see all those lives lost. He himself had two brothers who worked a good fifteen years apiece in the coal mines, one with a gimp leg to show for it, so he knew what it was like. The mines were a lot better than they used to be; used to be some of the small, owner-operated mines were no better than deathtraps. Things were a lot better now with the larger operators, the corporations. He liked to think he had had a small part in making the mines safer.
But you could only do so much before it ceased to be a business, and Mr. Emmanuel knew that was where you had to draw the line. After all, people had to have jobs, they had to eat, and if you closed down every coal shaft that had a minor problem then no one would survive. The miners knew that, and they knew what risks they were taking. So most of them supported the company in what they were trying to do—make the mines safer but still profitable. That was the name of the game, wasn’t it? But there were always a few troublemakers, and Mr. Emmanuel had to admit he’d never cared too much for troublemakers.
The people around here still seemed to blame the coal company for that terrible flood of a few years back. It had been a terrible tragedy—a number of lives were lost, massive property damage—and the company had done all it could to help out afterwards. They considered themselves a part of the community—and dammit, Emmanuel knew most companies wouldn’t have done as much, they’d have said screw those folks—and had sent food supplies, surplus lumber, and two of the company physicians down from Pennsylvania. They’d had their workmen out with bulldozers clearing the debris. They’d done all they could.
Besides, the work on the waste dam had been farmed out to a smaller, locally owned company, one of their own people. If anyone was responsible for the disaster, they were, not the Nole Company.
But despite all Mr. Emmanuel’s careful, reasoned explanations, the people still distrusted him and blamed the company. They just wouldn’t listen. As stubborn as the hills, as their own saying went. It infuriated him.
He pulled on his undershirt and grimaced. Not even a decent laundry anywhere, and the Parkey woman had no aptitude for washing. He could do better himself in some stream steaming with mine acid. He grinned and drew on his pipe.
He could hear the Parkey man growling in his sleep again like an animal. Bright red hair like a great fox. Ugly man. Redneck—he fit the description in every way.
Inez paused outside Hector’s door, her hand clutching the doorknob. She balanced his breakfast tray on the other hand. But she couldn’t go in. He was babbling on again…bloody teeth…bloody teeth…and she couldn’t bear to go in the room while he was carrying on like that.
She glanced at the tray indecisively, removed her hand from the knob, and used it to help support the tray. Then she started back down the stairs; she would try him later.
Something bad had happened in the town; everyone had left the cafe and gathered on the street outside, but Audra Larson couldn’t bring herself to go out there. She stayed behind the counter, as if that counter were a castle wall a hundred feet tall, and polished—polished the fixtures and the counter and the glassware and even the glass on the Coca-Cola wall clock—and after that was done she took out the ammonia and began dabbing with a big yellow sponge at the wall tiles and the switchplates and the woodwork surrounding the doorway to the kitchen. Nothing ever seemed to stay clean around there, no matter how hard she tried. All her brother-in-law could see was that the place was never clean enough, no matter how hard she tried.
When Daddy had given her the cafe to run, she’d thought it was the nicest thing he’d ever done for her. The only nice thing, if truth be told. At one time she’d figured it was because Doris was married, and her father had little hope Audra would ever get married. Too plain. After years of believing that, she’d finally come to realize that her washed-out skin and long light brown hair were at least pleasant to look at, and she did have a nice smile. She wasn’t married, but she just hadn’t met the right man. She was different, always had been, and she had learned that sometimes made it harder.
She should’ve known there’d be strings attached; her daddy never did anything for anybody without strings. This time the string was Doris’s husband Jake as part-owner, since her father would never give ownership to Doris because he was convinced she didn’t have a brain in her head. At least Audra has been to college, as he was so fond of saying.
For all the good it had done her. Maybe her father had a point about majoring in history. Certainly no jobs there. But it was something she wanted, and she worked her way through so he had no right to complain. She shouldn’t have come home…that was the mistake. But she let herself go back, where things were easier. She’d needed the time to think, to “get herself together,” as they used to say in college.
Everybody was still out there; no one had come back into the cafe. She finally stopped cleaning and, puzzled, sat on a tall stool behind the counter. Nothing ever went wrong here, at least nothing new went wrong.
She wanted to go ask somebody what was going on, but she couldn’t bring herself to walk out in front of that counter.
By the time Inez Pierce had mustered enough nerve to enter her brother’s room it was almost noon. Reed Taylor was boarding a train in Louisville that would eventually take him to the Big Andy and the town of Simpson Creeks. And some of the men of the Creeks had gathered in Charlie Simpson’s store to discuss the death of Buck, Charlie’s old hound dog.
“…not like a bear to do such a thing,” Joe Manors said. “Bears are pretty cowardly; they won’t attack you unless they’re cornered. Can’t see how a bear could’a’ done such a thing.”
“Well, it was a bear…no doubt about that. You know it was a bear, Joe.” Jake Parkey leaned forward and belched, then chugged another beer.
“He’s right, Joe.” Ben Taylor stretched his long legs out before the stove, putting his hands in back of his sandy-colored hair as he studied his old worn shoes. With all the excitement, he’d forgotten to put on the ones he usually wore in the store. The other men looked at the shoes. Jake Parkey nodded at their significance. “Nothing else could maul an animal that way. But the way it happened don’t make much sense, I admit. Hasn’t been a bear in the area in over twenty years, and I never knew one to come into a town like this.”
“I’ve seen it before,” Charlie Simpson said quietly, as if to himself. “I’ve seen this bear.”
No one said anything for several minutes. Then Jake Parkey moved his chair around boldly, facing Charlie with his long, greasy red hair falling down in his eyes. He didn’t bother to push it back. “Where, Charlie, where? Why didn’t you tell us this before?”
“I’m not sure…guess I wa
s still thinking on it…”
“Thinking on it? Charlie, this is important! This is the biggest…”
“Hold it, Jake.” Ben Taylor pulled his own chair around and placed it beside Charlie’s. Jake scooted back a little, so he wasn’t facing the two men so directly. Ben turned his head slightly to Charlie, his eyes still examining his old boots. He started to say something, then stopped himself. He pulled out a pocketknife and began cutting at a loose piece of leather hanging out from the heel of his shoe. “Where’d you see this bear, Charlie?”
“Out by your brother’s old place, Ben. And crossing the road, I think. At least it might have been the bear crossing the road in front of my truck. I know for sure it was a bear out near your brother’s land.”
Ben continued to stare at his feet, but there seemed to be an unusual movement to his eyes—looking sidelong at Charlie Simpson, then at other places on the creosoted floorboards. “Big one, Charlie?”
“Three hundred, I’d say.”
Jake Parkey whistled. “That’s a lot of meat!”
Ben looked up and stared at Jake. “This ain’t sport, Jake. Pretty serious business, I’d say.” Joe Manors nodded his head silently.
“Pretty serious business when a bear starts attacking dogs on its own accord,” Charlie said.
No one replied.
Inez was sweeping out the third-floor hallway when she heard the rocking noises coming from Hector’s room. She stepped quietly to the door and stood there awhile, listening. It was a soft sound, almost as if the breeze were moving the old antique rocker their father had brought up from Knoxville so many years ago. It had always been Hector’s favorite piece of furniture.
But she knew the window was shut. There could be no breeze.
She turned the knob, holding it stiffly to keep it from rattling in its collar, and pushed open the door. A shadow was moving slowly back and forth on the red and blue braided rug.
Hector’s thin gray hair floated over the back of the rocker like dandelion silk. His head seemed still and lifeless as a melon. At first she couldn’t tell how the rocker was moving; she could perceive no movement of hand, arm, or leg. Then she realized it was his muscles tensing, then releasing, that moved the old rocker back and forth.
She edged around the end of the bed and stood beside him. His eyes were closed. “Hector…” she whispered.
His left eye opened a crack. His slack mouth opened about a quarter inch. He hissed.
“Hector?”
A tear rolled down his left cheek and he began to speak, so softly she could not make out the words. She bent closer.
“Mama…” he said, “I’m so scared.”
She put her arms around him and cried quietly to herself. His hand raised weakly and touched her elbow.
Charlie Simpson was standing behind the counter adjusting the items on the shelves when Mr. Emmanuel came into the store. The Nole Company man looked around at the other men gathered about the old stove, nodded briefly to Joe Manors, then turned to speak to Charlie Simpson.
But the appearance of the storekeeper stopped him. The man was usually a virtual fountain of friendly energy. Today he looked as if half his family had just died. “Pipe tobacco, Mr. Simpson. And matches,” Mr. Emmanuel said, with some hesitation.
Charlie Simpson pulled the two items off the shelf and gave them to the man. “No charge for the matches,” he said. Mr. Emmanuel felt as if he should say something in reply to that, but was suddenly at a loss for words.
Joe Manors looked around at the men gathered there, nervously, looking at his feet now and then before meeting a face. Then he looked up at Willard Marx, an elderly man from the upper part of the valley who’d come in to do his monthly shopping. “That boy of yours still with you, Willard?”
Willard looked up quickly with surprised eyes, a white shock of hair flopping down over the bridge of his nose. He swept it back with a trembling hand, then smiled quickly, as if relieved at the sudden change in subject. “No. He’s in Indianapolis, doin’ fine though. We got a letter last week tellin’ about all the weldin’ he’s doing now and the good money he’s been makin’.”
“Not many younguns left in the valley,” Nigel Jacobs said. “Don’t have enough to go round anymore, I reckon. Shame.”
Victor Strunk waved his hands grotesquely in the air. The little man had some sort of muscular problem—he hadn’t told anybody yet what it was and nobody thought it’d be right to ask directly. “Ben Taylor’s got some fine younguns home still, and the Wilsons’ two little girls and Bobby Kramer’s teenage boy…Jimmy, ain’t it?”
Ben Taylor smiled broadly. “Kramer’s boy is Jerry…and fine one he is. I let him help out at the store when he needs some extra money, could use a lot more like him around, sure could. Reminds me a lot of…” Ben lapsed into an awkward silence.
“Reed’ll be back one of these days,” Charlie Simpson said from behind the counter. “He’s gonna want to see his uncle…you were a good man to him, Ben.”
Ben looked over his shoulder at Charlie and nodded. “Hope so, Charlie. Me and Martha both. And he’s never seen Lannie or Tim; they weren’t even born yet when he left.”
The screen door banged behind him and he turned his head slightly to see old Amos Nickles, the lumberman, entering the room in full hunter’s regalia: red-checkered CPO jacket and flop-eared cap, a shotgun under one arm. Amos Nickles was probably the richest man in the area, a good deal of that wealth obtained via timber deals with the mines and railroads. Mr. Emmanuel had long known that not all of that wood was prime material, to say the least. He figured at least one cave-in at a small local mine was in part due to Nickles’ timbers. And these people considered him their friend.
“Hear there’s a bear round here needs huntin’.”
Jake was up immediately. “Sure is, Mr. Nickles! Killed ole Buck, Charlie’s dog!”
Nickles spat. “Dog weren’t worth much, I guess.”
Ben Taylor looked up with a scowl. Everyone else was careful not to look at Charlie.
“Some of us…well, I was, I guess…” Jake was speaking with more animation than Mr. Emmanuel could remember ever seeing in the man before. He found himself listening in with a surprising degree of interest. “I was hoping you’d agree to bringing those fine blueticks and Walker hounds you got up your place and going out with us to hunt the damn thing.”
“Well, I was figuring I could help. Haven’t been bear huntin’ in some time.”
“Damn!” Jake slapped his leg. “I just remembered I lent my cousin my rifle two weeks ago.”
“Why, son, you don’t need a rifle to fight a bear with!” Amos turned slightly to Charlie Simpson and winked.
Jake laughed. “So what do I use instead?”
“Why, a bear attacked me once and I didn’t have nary a weapon!” Amos gazed around at the men with a solemn face. “Before I knew what was what this big black bear was right on me, mouth stretched wider than that old cave on Jim Turner’s land.”
“What did you do, Mr. Nickles?” Jake asked.
“Not much I could do, Jake. Just stuck my arm down the bear’s throat all the way to where his tail joined his body and grabbed a hold there. Then I yanked hard as I could and turned the damn thing inside out! White as a sheet, it was! Damn bear had to go north and be a polar bear!”
The men roared with laughter. Jake finally stopped tittering and said, “‘Fraid I wouldn’t be as skillful with my hands in that situation as you were, Mr. Nickles.”
“I’ll lend you a gun, Jake,” Nickles said. “Providin’ you take care with it.”
“Oh, I sure will, Mr. Nickles! I dearly ‘preciate it.”
Joe Manors sat up on the edge of his chair. “I’m not so sure that’s such a smart thing, fellas. That bear sounds like he’s gone crazy.”
“I’m afraid Jake and Mr. Nickles have the right idea this time, Joe,” Ben Taylor said. “If that animal has gone crazy, we’ve got to get rid of it quick.”
“I have to agree
,” Charlie Simpson said quietly. And the decision was made.
By the time the sun set the men were on their way up the Big Andy. At about that same time Inez Pierce fell asleep on the floor beside her brother’s rocker.
Hector’s eyes were wide open. He was suddenly intensely aware of that fact, and that something seemed odd about the window. It was glowing.
He climbed effortlessly out of the rocker and approached the window. He touched the cool, glowing pane.
Then he opened it and climbed out.
Chapter 11
The train laid over in Four Corners for two and a half hours. It gave Reed more than ample time to walk around the town, have a bite to eat, and remember. Four Corners was the last “big” town—almost a thousand people—before the long trek up the ridges toward Simpson Creeks. It had two groceries, a drugstore, restaurants, hardware store, even two full-fledged department stores. When anyone in the Creeks or the surrounding area needed to buy something really major—usually once a year—they made the trip down to Four Corners. The round trip with shopping usually meant a full day’s excursion.
As he walked through the streets, it seemed the dust was getting to him rapidly—his eyes burning, throat parched, nose and nasal passages filled to discomfort. He was suffocating. And his body tense, like a caged tiger. He was burning to do something, anything. As he passed parked cars, he had the disturbing urge to smash windows.
Occasionally he would glance up at the surrounding hills, and they would look uncomfortably like the Big Andy Mountain. At any moment he expected to see people he hadn’t seen in ten years, crossing the street or turning a corner. Most of those people were dead.
Dead. It was hard to believe. As a child they’d all seemed immortal. His mother’s sensual magic, her power over his father. She didn’t always use it, didn’t always stop the rage, and that had made Reed resent her. Uncle Ben’s knowledge of the woods. His sister’s quiet magic—the magic of all young children, he supposed, with that imagined world they lived in. His father’s magic of rage that cast a spell on everything around him.
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