Red Helmet

by Homer Hickam

Fall was when the big books came out and the art and theater scene turned interesting. The Delgossi autumnal party was a herald for that special season and there was always a clamor to get on the invitee list. Many called and begged to come to the party, but few were chosen.

  Among those chosen this year was Song. She suspected she was of interest to the Delgossis not only because she was the daughter of Joe Hawkins, or even for her rather remarkable achievements in the business and financial world, but because party-team Delgossi was aware of her surprise marriage to a coal miner and her subsequent dreadful experiences in deepest Appalachia. Such a story, if teased out of her, could by itself raise their party to another level. It was so deliciously amusing, the moneyed half-Chinese daughter of Joe Hawkins going gaga over a backwoods, moonshine-swilling mountaineer. She’d gotten exactly what she deserved, of course, and scooted home after only four days. That made the fun all the better.

  Song was grateful for the diversion despite the fact that she was part of the entertainment. She had just sustained a period of astonishing creativity and productivity. She had convinced her father to acquire two companies, one holding an obscure patent for a lithium ion/polymer battery, the other holding patents for electronic polyswitches, thermistors, and connectors. Song had overseen the merger of the two companies and the subsequent production of the smartest little batteries ever known, and at a competitive price too. The orders had rolled in from nearly every electronics manufacturer in the world, with bids to buy the company in the general area of two billion dollars. Once again, Song’s photo was scheduled to appear on the cover of Fortune. The title of the article was “Daring to Dream Small—How Song Hawkins Changed Our World.” She was on a roll.

  But for all her success since she had come back from West Virginia, Song was not happy. She had never quit anything in her life, yet she had run from Highcoal. It gnawed at her. Although she had buried herself in her work, she kept going over the events of her short stay in the hills. It was as if she was stuck in some awful repetitive memory loop: getting sick during the drive over the mountains, Bossman and his chewing tobacco, Hillcrest, the dirty water, the fatty food, Doctor K, and the dreary gossip. Then there was the idiot well-digger who’d tried to drill in Squirrel’s front yard. She’d resolved that situation—the one thing she was proud about—but then there was the day she’d gone to the store to buy makeup. She’d been wrecked by a twelve-year-old, sat in cow poo, and snockered by the hardest liquor she’d ever drunk, given to her by a Lebanese so-called Christian! Then she’d embarrassed herself in front of Cable’s foremen, his supervisors, and the governor of the entire state who, oh, by the way, was a former lover of her erstwhile dear husband. After that, Song had done everything she could to get her marriage back on track, including seducing Cable and then going to church with him, only to be abandoned again and graded by the local church ladies as improperly dressed. Was it any wonder she’d given up and decamped for New York City?

  Yes? No? Song wasn’t certain. All she knew was that she had been left unsettled by the experience. Somehow she needed to come to terms with it.

  But never mind, she was at the Delgossis’ party and determined to enjoy herself. She was dressed smartly in her most flattering black New York dress, set off with red stilettos and ruby jewelry (a gift to herself ), which coincidentally matched the rather large glass of red wine she was holding. Her hair was shiny and swinging free rather than pinned up as she wore it at work. She knew she looked good and was irritated when she found herself wondering what Cable would think if he saw her. A picture of her soon-to-be-annulled-forever husband formed in her mind. He was wearing his ridiculous hat. Go away, Cable. She drank more wine.

  Song looked around the room, filled with her fellow New Yorkers and a few out-of-town guests. When she had occasionally listened in, she was aware that the partygoers were all abuzz over the number one best-selling memoir titled It Takesa Prison, written by an unfairly jailed, rights-deprived man named Shazmaz Caliph, who incidentally also happened to be a murderer, serial rapist, child abuser, wife beater, drug dealer, and homegrown terrorist with a rap sheet that stretched for miles. Prison described in graphic profanity Shazmaz’s life in a federal lockup, which was, according to his account, operated by fanatical Christians. Song made a mental note to purchase the book.

  Song idly wondered if Omar would carry Caliph’s book in his store, or if anyone in Highcoal would order it off the Internet, and she had to smile to herself and shake her head. The ravings of a lunatic professional criminal might be of interest to these sophisticated New Yorkers, but not to the mining families in Highcoal. Except perhaps the constable. In the short time she’d spent with him, it seemed to Song that Constable Petrie had a powerful intellect combined with a great deal of common sense. She considered what her fellow partygoers would make of the constable. Likely, they’d put him down as a hillbilly cop not worth their time or interest. Yet there they were, fascinated by the opinions of a lowlife loser and believing everything he had to say! Now that she’d given it more thought, Song decided she wouldn’t buy the book. She was thinking she might like to read a history of the coalfields of Appalachia instead.

  She was thinking about Highcoal again! Just stop it. It’s in the past. You’ll nevergo back there. What’s done is done. She swore to herself that she would not read about the coalfields.

  Kitty Franks, author of a best-selling novel titled The President Sucks, about a vampire who sucked the blood from a president, then became president himself, pressed into Song’s hands the advance reading copy of her newest, The LastChristians (Thank God).

  “You’ll love it, Song,” she said, “especially considering your recent experience.”

  “What experience would that be?” Song asked.

  “I’m sorry, dear, but your recent foray into Appalachia is very much part of the conversation in this room. How horrible was it?”

  Before Song could reply, Franks went on. “I can just imagine how crushing it must have been in a place rife with ignorance and right-wing religious zealotry. My novel takes place in those same hills where you were almost trapped. It’s about the religious screwballs who live there.”

  “Did you go there to research it?” Song asked.

  “Go to that nasty place? No, I have better things to do with my time.”

  “I see.” Song looked at the cover of the book, which showed a bullet-riddled wooden cross lying in a pool of blood.

  “To summarize the plot,” Franks went on, “the hillbilly children rise up and murder their parents.”

  “They do what?”

  Frank’s smile diminished, then widened. “Good. I’ve shocked you. Shock guarantees sales. The story begins with a schoolteacher from New York who finds herself assigned to a nasty, run-down school in Appalachia. She meets a man, a Latino, who is supporting himself as a carpenter. His backstory is that he was a hero of the revolution from Cuba who defected, but now after seeing the atrocious life of people in the United States, has come to regret it. He and the teacher become lovers. At her invitation, he instructs her students on the glorious lessons of Cuban socialism. Inspired, the children rebel against their parents, using their own guns against them. The parents are all slaughtered, then the repressive federal government comes in and kills all the children. It’s a metaphor. I know you will identify with the teacher, dear,” she said, then flitted off to collar another partygoer with her books.

  Deliberately and with a great sense of satisfaction, Song dropped the novel behind a potted plant. She wondered what Preacher would say about the novel. Probably, she thought, he’d only shrug and go about his business. Novels were novels, and life was real, and Preacher had real work to do. Song allowed herself to recall Preacher for a moment. She’d liked the man, and thought she might have liked his wife and children as well, if she’d taken the time to get to know them. But now it was too late. She would never see any of them again, of that she was certain, and that realization made her sad. It also made her think
of Cable. Again.

  After Song had left Highcoal, she hadn’t heard from her temporary husband for three long and miserable weeks. Sure, her note had ordered him not to contact her, but she never thought he’d take it so literally! That demonstrated more than anything else how he didn’t really care about her. When his letter came, its contents, so cold and distant, were a shock:

  Dear Song,

  I’ve been thinking about what I did or we did, however you want to put it. It wasall my fault from the get-go, getting married down in St. John and then bringingyou to Highcoal and expecting you to want to stay here and have kids and all that.I grew up in this town and I love it, but how could I expect a New Yorker like youto like it? It was just plain foolish. I know that now and I’m sorry. I can’t blameyou for leaving because. Maybe I’m hardwired or something, but I have to stay hereand do my job as long as they’ll let me. Anyway, the long and the short of it is ifyou want to take care of the paperwork, I guess I’m saying you can send it on.

  With honest and true respect,

  Cable

  P.S. The constable told me what the church women said about your clothes. Thatwasn’t fair. I got on their case and they said they were sorry.

  Song had read the letter dozens of times, putting every word under her feminine mental microscope. She keyed in on the crossed-out word because. Becausewhat, Cable? She had probably spent more hours worrying over Cable’s missive than the acquisition of the two battery companies. At once enraged and heartbroken, she had called Saul Tollberg, the family attorney, and told him to get cracking with an annulment. Saul had asked her what she wanted the grounds to be, and then gave her a list of possibilities. She’d picked fraud, just like Chesney and Zellwegger, but told him to put her down as at fault.

  “That’s not wise, Song,” Saul replied, but she told him to do it anyway. She knew Cable well enough to know he’d never sign anything that said he was dishonest. She’d take the hit, just to get the thing done.

  How she hated that man! But then, when she least expected it, during a meeting, when she was on the phone, or walking down the street, she would recall him again, and that sweet dimple in his cheek. Who was seeing his dimple now? The divine Governor Michelle Godfrey? She took another drink, not even bothering to taste the wine, just getting it down her throat. She wished it was Omar’s ouzo.

  “A penny for your thoughts.” Song looked up to find none other than Michael Carr, the man who had been her love interest before Cable, the man who’d stopped calling her, the man who’d thrown her out of his life like a dead mouse.

  “A penny would be too much,” she answered as she forced the image of Cable out of her mind—poof—like vapor.

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” Michael asked, in his smooth, dulcet tone, so unlike Cable’s twang.

  Michael steered her onto the balcony where the city lay beneath their feet. “I’ve missed you,” he said.

  “Then I suppose you should have returned my calls,” came her clipped reply. “Or maybe you shouldn’t have left the voice mail you finally did.”

  He took away her empty glass, then took her hands. Her immediate thought was that Michael’s hands were weak and cool, not strong and warm like Cable’s. She berated herself for making the comparison. Michael was here and now; Cable was there and yesterday.

  “You can’t know how much I regret that call,” Michael said, his eyes turned puppy dog. “I was overwhelmed with work and was nearly out of my mind. It was all so oppressive, and I was angry at the world and lashed out at you. It was the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. Please let me make it up to you.”

  “You can start by getting me another glass of wine,” she said, to buy time while she thought about where this was likely heading. Cable’s face flashed in her mind again, his big dumb face. That stupid dimple. That crooked smile. Goaway, you dumb coal miner!

  “Hello? Song?” Michael was back with two glasses of wine. He peered quizzically at her. “Are you all right? You were far, far away.”

  She smiled. “I’m sorry, Michael. Lately I’ve been having trouble focusing. It’s nothing, really.” She accepted the glass of wine he was holding out to her. “Thank you.”

  “A delightful Sancerre,” he said. “The Delgossis do not stint.”

  It was indeed good wine, and she appreciated it. Cable didn’t have the slightest concept of what good wine tasted like. He just tended to toss whatever was in his glass down his stupid throat. Stupid man. Stupid, stupid man!

  “Hello?” Michael said. “I think you were slipping away again.”

  She blinked back. “No, I’m here. How have you been, Michael?”

  Michael clinked their glasses together. “A little lonely, I’ll confess. But, no matter, here’s to us, darling.”

  “Us?” she asked. “Is there an us?”

  He produced his sad little-boy smile, which she had once thought was so endearing. That was before she’d seen Cable’s smile. “Tell me everything,” Michael said. “I’ve heard all the gossip, of course, and believed little of it. I’m on your side, Song. I always have been, even when you thought I wasn’t. Tell me what happened to you in that awful hog wallow of a place and let me be your strong shoulder.”

  She started to deny him the pleasure, considering how he’d jilted her, but then she took a healthy swallow of wine and told him some of it—of the mine and the miners, of Doctor K and Squirrel Harper, and also about Young Henry, Rhonda, and Preacher. She was feeling just a little unsteady on her feet now. Toomuch wine, girl, she told herself. You’re vulnerable. Take it easy.

  Michael’s response was, “If I may say so, it sounds like the makings of an excellent memoir. It has everything—pathos, humor, hillbilly rustics, and you, a bright city-fish dunked into dark coal country water.”

  Song giggled. “Michael, I’m just telling you about the people I met, not pitching a book.”

  He lowered his head in pretentious modesty. “You’ll have to pardon me. As senior editor of Variant Press, everyone is always suggesting a book to me. My heartfelt apologies. Still, it would be a funny, clever book in the right hands, similar to the novels of Garrison Keillor where he slyly puts down country folk while pretending to praise them.”

  “I’m not a writer,” she said firmly. “And I don’t want to be one.”

  He looked at her through his soft brown eyes, so unlike Cable’s hard blue orbs that could look right through you.

  “What are you, Song?” Michael’s eyes bored into hers. “Besides being drop-dead gorgeous, of course, and impossibly intelligent.”

  She looked out over the city. “I’m just me. You ought to know; we spent a lot of time together. Maybe you’ve forgotten.”

  “I haven’t forgotten. I know I grossly underestimated you.”

  “Most men do.”

  “You’re marvelous. What more can I say?”

  Song had once lived for Michael’s praise. “Thank you, sir, for your good opinion,” she said. She felt as if she had climbed onto some kind of emotional roller coaster. Cable had never praised her, not like that. He probably saved all his praise for one of his mining machines. Or perhaps the governor!

  “When I heard you had married that bumpkin,” Michael continued, his voice going low, “I knew it wouldn’t work. Trailer trash is not my Song’s style. I told everybody that. For a penny, I would go to West Virginia and soundly berate that man even now.”

  Song imagined Cable being “berated” by the pompous editor. She also imagined Michael flying through the air after Cable tossed him like a human glider. It was imagination enough to make her smile. Michael, uncertain what her smile meant, frowned, then put down his glass, took her glass away from her, and slipped his arms around her. His cologne had a musky aroma. Cable never wore cologne, but he still had an intoxicating scent. It was, Song had decided, pure man.

  But it wasn’t Cable here with her, no. It was Michael Carr, her ex-boyfriend who’d dropped her like she was something nasty and distasteful,
and not so long ago. Yet here he was, kissing her, his lips so gentle, with nothing of Cable’s eagerness.

  Song kissed Michael back, her needs propelling her.

  “Mmmm,” she said, as their lips parted. “Wow.”

  Michael instantly moved his hand to cup her breast, and she felt a thrill travel up her spine at his familiar touch. He whispered into her ear, “Why don’t we go back to my place and use each other like we used to do? No strings attached. I sense you want that, and so do I.”

  She looked at Michael, and it all came back to her, the heartsick days waiting for him to call, and how she’d felt when she’d gone for a walk in Central Park and seen him arm in arm with another woman she recognized as a young, blonde intern at Michael’s publishing house. They could scarcely keep their hands off one another, and she assumed they were headed to an afternoon tryst.

  Then she thought of Cable and that first night they’d made love beneath the stars of St. John. Could anything ever top that? No. Nothing. Never.

  Before Cable, she might have simply laughed Michael’s tawdry suggestion off, or maybe even gone along just for the pure physical pleasure of it. But now, equating sex with utility was repellant. Cable, she realized with an arc of joy, had changed her and her expectations of the physical act of love, even including how it was described. She and Cable had soared, flowed, merged, even morphed in the arms of one another, but never had she felt used.

  Song peeled Michael’s hand from her breast and stepped out of his arms, allowing her anger to build until it was exactly where she wanted it. No matter the wine, she was completely in control.

  “I have a better idea, Michael,” she said carefully. “Why don’t you go back to your place and do whatever you like with the person you love the most? Yourself .”

  SONG WAS RETRIEVING her coat from the closet when she heard a familiar voice.

  “Hello, darling. How good it is to see you again!”

  She turned around and there was none other than the glorious governor of West Virginia, Michelle Godfrey, spilling out the top of a form-fitting red dress. Diamonds sparkled around her throat and on her fingers, and her platinum blonde hair was coiffed in a poufy style reminiscent of Marie Antoinette.