by Homer Hickam
Thirteen
Cable returned just before eight p.m. Song had called Mole on the mine phone and asked him to let her know when her husband left the mine. Mole suggested twenty dollars ought to do it, and Song agreed to his extortion.
The dining room table was set with fine china, wildflowers in a vase, candles, and food from Rhonda’s basket. This time it was fried chicken, hush puppies, baked beans, and coleslaw. Not exactly romantic dinner fare and laden with carbs, but Song put aside her misgivings and treated it like it was a meal from the finest restaurant in New York. She’d also opened the bottle of fumé blanc.
“What’s this—” Cable began, dropping his hat on the banister post.
Song put her finger on his lips, then kissed him. “My way of apologizing for what happened yesterday,” she said.
He wrapped his arms around her and sank his nose into her hair. “Mmm . . . you smell good.”
She laughed. “You didn’t like my perfume yesterday, eau de cow poo?”
“You are the only woman I know who could make even cow poo smell good.” He touched her hair. “So soft,” he marveled.
“Old Roy installed a water softener and a hot water heater today. I’m in business in the bathroom. And Preacher’s wife sent me some Mary Kay.”
Cable took her in his arms and kissed her again, delicately at first, then with passion. She responded, running her hands across his back, pulling him into her before stepping back. “I’m as hungry for you as you are for me, Cable,” she said. “But first, let’s eat, drink, and talk.”
“Talk,” he said. “All right.”
“It won’t be bad, I swan,” she promised as they sat down.
Cable was pensive during the meal, no matter the topics Song brought up, such as a discussion of the crystal stemware Rhonda had purchased for the house, which were exquisite and obviously handmade.
“They have glassblowers at Tamarack,” Cable said. “That’s where she got them, probably.” He fell into silence, then looked at her. “Are you really going back to New York Wednesday?”
“I have to, Cable.”
“I’m sorry about nearly everything.”
“I know. So am I. It’s all right.”
“This is a good place to live,” he said fervently. “Won’t you give it a chance?”
“I have given it a chance, Cable. Mostly alone.”
Cable looked away and shook his head. “I won’t make excuses. I had a choice all week. Be with you or do my job. I chose to do my job. It’s part of who I am.”
Song reached across the table and took his hand. “I heard about the orders you can’t meet. Tell Atlas Energy to go to blazes, Cable. We can live in New York. You can go to work for Hawkins-Song. We can have a wonderful life.”
“I can’t leave my miners. They depend on me.”
“You’ll leave them if they fire you.”
He pulled his hands away. “They’re not going to fire me because I’m going to deliver that coal.”
“And in the process, you’re going to wear yourself out.”
“No, I won’t.” He closed his eyes and took a breath. “I will confess I’m tired. It’s been a tough month.”
Song stood and walked around the table. She made him turn his chair around, then crawled into his lap and wrapped her arms around him. “I love you with all my heart and soul,” she said simply. “That’s the truth.”
He kissed her hard, then swept her into his arms and carried her upstairs. He gently placed her on the bed and began to undress her. She stopped him with a hand on his chest.
“I thought you were tired,” she said.
“Not for this,” he said, and proved it.
Afterward, she curled into his arms and wept tears of confusion. He turned her face to his and gently kissed her. “I love you so much.”
“What are we to do, Cable? Tell me. What?”
“All I know is I can’t live without you.”
She held him as tightly as she could. They kissed, then made love again. Later while Cable slept, Song looked up into the darkness and wondered what had just happened.
Fourteen
Her luggage finally arrived, and for the church service, Song chose a gold silk shantung ensemble she’d brought in case she might be attending a party. How idiotic that was, she now realized. There were no swanky parties in Highcoal, only work and church. Still, she knew she would look dazzling in it.
But when Cable saw her, he frowned. “A bit fancy for Highcoal. Preacher’s eyes will pop out of his head during the sermon, I can tell you that.”
“Are you saying I should change?”
“Not at all. Come on or we’ll be late.”
In the church, the pews were packed, and men swiveled their heads as she walked arm in arm with Cable down the aisle to the front. The women looked too, and then they looked around the church to catch each other’s eyes. Rhonda was in a back pew with Young Henry.
“Gol-lee,” Young Henry said, loud enough to be heard three pews away. “She is hot !”
“You’re in enough trouble as it is, Young Henry,” Rhonda growled. “Don’t push it.”
“Why? What did I do?”
“Let’s see. You wrecked Cable’s car, you got Mrs. Jordan drunk, and you stole my truck.”
“It was Omar who got Mrs. Jordan drunk,” Young Henry pointed out.
Rhonda pinched his arm. “Don’t argue with me, boy.”
Omar and his wife were sitting nearby. “I was only trying to steady her nerves,” he defended himself while his eyes were riveted on Song. “I must say. That is a most wonderful dress Mrs. Jordan is wearing this morning.”
“Take care, husband,” his wife said, “that it is only the dress you are admiring.”
“All you husbands best put your eyeballs back in your heads,” a woman growled low, but audible enough that most of the church assembly could hear her. A hundred or more female heads vigorously nodded in agreement.
The choir, dressed in maroon robes, regally marched down the aisle, and then Bossman entered the pulpit and offered a prayer. A spirited hymn by the choir followed. Everyone swayed to the music, while the piano player in front, a woman in a big red hat, banged away. Song stood close to Cable, feeling out of place, holding the hymnal but not joining in with the boisterous joy that seemed to fill the church. There was another hymn, another prayer from Bossman, and then Preacher entered in grand fashion. He was dressed in a maroon and gold robe, and armed with a big black Bible and his sermon.
Preacher’s message proved to be on the responsibilities of marriage, and Song had little doubt it was aimed like an arrow directly at her.
“My text today comes from First John, chapter three, verse eighteen,” he intoned. “‘Let us not love in word, neither in tongue; but in deed and in truth.’ Husbands, wives, how often have you said to your spouse, ‘I love you,’ without any thought other than to fill a lapse in your conversation, or as a temporary farewell, or sometimes—don’t say it’s never happened!—to avoid having to talk about something you’d just as soon not talk about?”
Preacher smiled down at his wife and six children, the oldest ten years old. The children were squirmy but attentive. His wife, a plump young woman who wore carefully applied makeup, was a beam of sunshine. Song envied her role within a happy family.
Preacher went on. “Oh, Lordy. If there’s one of you married folks here today who has never strayed, either in thought or deed, in your marriage, who has never said words of love to your partner simply out of habit, you have my permission to stand up and walk out right this second, and God be with you.”
There was a murmur from the congregation, but no one walked out. Preacher tapped his Bible. “There’s a lot of trouble in the Good Book—God doesn’t shy from it—so marriage is naturally included. Proverbs says a virtuous woman is a crown to her husband, but she that shames him is as rottenness in his bones. Now, ladies, you know what that means. When you go out while your man is in the mine, and you’re dres
sed like you belong in the Bunny House in Beckley, even though you’re only going to Omar’s or even the Wal-Mart, why he’ll hear about it and it’s going to make him ashamed in front of his buddies. There’s no reason to do that. Take a look at Mrs. Jordan here. That’s what you should aim for. Elegance, not looking like trash.”
“Amen, Preacher!” a man cried out, followed by a rumble of masculine approval leavened by a few hissed words of feminine objection. Song smiled, unaware of the gender gap she had created by her appearance that morning.
Preacher’s sermon went on, the subject still marriage, and his delivery became ever more passionate. “Women, honor your husbands with your chasteness. Men, honor your wives with your devotion. God has sanctified marriage from heaven. It is His institution, all part of His plan for your salvation. Marriage is holy!”
Preacher continued in that vein, receiving numerous amens and yes sirs and uh-huhs for his trouble, mostly from the men. The women remained subdued. When he was finished, Preacher smiled and said, “Well, that’s my two cents worth on marriage this Sunday. Nobody’s perfect is the bottom line. God doesn’t expect you to be. He just expects you to keep trying. Amen to that, amen to you all. I’ll turn it over to you now, Cable.”
Cable stood up. Song thought he was going to affirm to Preacher what a fine sermon he’d just delivered, or perhaps even give a prayer or maybe add his praise of marriage, but instead he looked around the assembly and tapped his watch. “Time to go, boys.” Then, to Song’s astonishment, he bent down and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll see you later.”
“Where are you going?”
He looked at her with a perplexed expression, then leaned in close to her ear. “Didn’t I tell you? The mine’s starting a half shift at noon, then we’re all going to double back to do an evening shift. I’ve got a hoot-owl shift coming in too. I’m going to meet those orders.”
“Cable, I can’t believe this. You’re really going to work on a Sunday? And leaving me alone again?” She tried to keep her voice low, but it came out a bit higher than she intended.
“I have to. All the other men are going to work. I can’t take the day off.”
“Even for us? What about that sermon Preacher just gave?”
Cable took her hands. “It was a good sermon. But this isn’t a matter of choosing between you and my work.”
“Yes, Cable. Yes, it is!”
Preacher was still in the pulpit. “There’s men here who have to get their oxen out of the ditch, folks. God bless all you miners. Go dig yourself some good coal even if it’s on Sunday. Amen!”
Bossman stood up. “Thank you, Preacher. We’ll do it, I swan!”
The congregation started to applaud. Song wouldn’t let go of Cable’s hands. “How am I supposed to get home?”
“I lined up the constable to drive you. Look over there. See? He’s waving.”
“Cable, you can’t spring something like this on me! I’m supposed to be part of your life!”
“I was going to tell you,” he said sheepishly. “But then last night, it was so good to hold you again, I didn’t want to spoil it. But, honey, listen to me. I’ve solved our problem.”
Song stopped herself from saying the harsh words already in her mouth. “I’m all ears,” she said dubiously.
“Let’s have a baby. Then another one. Up to three, I think. Hillcrest would be such a great place to raise children. What do you say?”
Song opened her mouth but was momentarily at a loss for words. She sorted through a number of responses, including picking up one of the hymnals and hitting her husband over the head with it. After a few seconds of cooling down, she said, “Cable, pay attention to me very carefully.” Her next words were enunciated one after the other. “We are not going to have children anytime soon, if ever, especially because you think they will solve our problems.”
“Well, I just thought . . .”
“No. You didn’t think. You’re just trying to take the easy way out. Didn’t I tell you there is nothing easy?”
“But, honey, it would be so much fun getting there.” He whispered into her ear. “We would be in bed all the time.”
“I’m not your slut, Cable!” Song erupted. “I’m your wife!”
As luck would have it, there was a pause in the congregation’s excited buzz just in time for Song’s words to ring loud and clear throughout the church. Song thought she even detected an echo. One and all turned to stare at her. She blushed and Cable mumbled, “I have to go.”
Cable and his miners marched out of the church to cheers and tears like soldiers going off to war. Women waved, and little children chased after them. Shaken and angry, Song trailed along behind. Young Henry came up to her. “You all right, ma’am?”
“No, I’m not. But I don’t want to talk about it.”
Young Henry crept off and Constable Petrie stepped up beside her. He was in his constable uniform, his hat in his hands. “I’m your ride, ma’am. Anytime you’re ready.”
Song watched Cable and his miners trooping down the street toward the mine. “I don’t know what to do,” she confessed. “Should I follow after Cable and see him go below?”
“The tipple grounds are no place for that fancy suit, ma’am, nor those pretty pumps.”
Song sighed. “No, I guess not.”
The three women Song had met behind the church—Mrs. Carlisle, Mrs. Petroski, and Mrs. Williams—formed a phalanx between her and the constable’s car.
“Mrs. Jordan, a word, please,” Mrs. Carlisle said. “Not you, please, Constable. Girl talk.”
The constable took a step aside.
“This is difficult for us, dear,” Mrs. Carlisle began.
“You mean all the miners going off to work on Sunday?” Song asked.
“Of course not!” Mrs. Williams waved it away. “They have a job to do. No, someone must say something to you. As much as it hurts us to do it.”
“You look wonderful in your fine outfit, Mrs. Jordan,” Mrs. Petroski added. “But, I mean, really. What were you thinking wearing it to church?”
“You see, Mrs. Jordan,” Mrs. Carlisle said, “there’s a fine line around here between being well dressed and . . .”
“Overdoing it!” Mrs. Petroski blurted.
“Putting on airs,” Mrs. Williams filled in.
“Being puffed up,” Mrs. Carlisle completed. “Do you understand what we’re getting at?”
“All the men think you’re beautiful,” Mrs. Petroski noted. “But all the women think you’re trying to make the rest of us look bad. You must dress down, dear.”
The constable stepped back in. “You ladies are out of line. Mrs. Jordan’s ensemble is quite tasteful.”
“Shut up, Constable,” Mrs. Carlisle said. “This is between us women.”
The constable looked straight at Song, who had been stricken into silence. “You ready to go home, ma’am?”
Song looked into the constable’s cool, brown eyes and found her voice. “I don’t belong here, Constable,” she said.
“No, ma’am. Not with these hypocrites, that’s for sure.”
He tipped his hat to the trio of women and offered Song his arm. Song took it and numbly walked beside him to his car. She stopped and looked back at the women, then at the miners trooping off to work and their families heading in all directions, and the ugly black tower of the mine.
She squared her shoulders. “Take me back to Hillcrest, Constable,” she said, and he did.
WHEN CABLE CAME home near midnight, he went straight upstairs to their bedroom. He pushed the door open and peeked inside, then switched on the light. The bed was neatly made and on the nightstand was an envelope with his name written in Song’s handwriting. He opened the envelope and read the note inside:
Cable. I’ve gone back to New York. Don’t call. Don’t write. Don’t follow. We needtime apart. A lot of time. I have so much to think about, and so do you.
—Song
P.S. Whoever bet on four days wins. Wedne
sday was a half day and so was Sunday.
Cable sat down on the bed, holding the note. Then he let it drop to the floor. He lowered his head and put a hand over his eyes.
Don’t call. Don’t write. Don’t follow. There had been nothing said of love, or affection, or even anger. Cable took a breath.
What have I done? He sat quietly for a time and thought about many things, rationalized them all, and allowed his heart to harden against the woman he had loved so much he had honored her with a marriage. I’ve done only what I had todo, he concluded.
After mulling it all over some more, Cable said aloud—just so he could hear the words and make them real, “She can just stay in New York. It’s for the best. She doesn’t belong here, and she was never going to fit in.”
Then Cable reached over and turned out the light in the bedroom and in his heart. It was not an easy thing, but he pretended it was.
PART 2
THE RED HELMET
To wear your heart on your sleeve
isn’t a very good plan;
you should wear it inside,
where it functions best.
—Margaret Thatcher
Fifteen
The party thrown by Charles and Miranda Delgossi at their New York apartment was at that stage when its host and hostess—and everyone present—knew they had yet another grand success on their hands. Charles and Miranda were inveterate party-pitchers, willing to throw one for nearly any excuse. To receive an invitation to a Delgossi party was to be handed a ticket to fun, to be seen by the in-crowd of the city, and perhaps to be considered part of the in-crowd yourself. The Delgossis knew a successful party depended on who was on the invitation list. Tonight, the attendees were clearly compatible, the hum of conversation at just the right pitch, and the laughter breaking out at perfect intervals. The hors d’oeuvres were disappearing at an appropriate rate, and the wine had received compliments by two of the most pompous connoisseurs de vino among them. It was a party certain to make the Times.