Red Helmet

by Homer Hickam

  Song was beneath a soft cotton comforter, but it gave her little comfort. She felt out of place. She rose and crossed to the window and looked down on Main Street, lit by a single light post. She drew up a chair. A block away sat the church on its little hillock, a faint glow in one of its back windows. Song wondered if Preacher was in there writing a sermon. She supposed he’d heard that she was in the red cap class. Surely everyone in Highcoal knew it! Cable had probably let everybody know what he thought about it too.

  Not that she cared what Cable thought. “Sign the papers,” she whispered to him, wherever he was. At Hillcrest, she supposed, and maybe with Michelle Godfrey. She gritted her teeth.

  Her mind was filled with contradictions on how she felt, and why she was in the red cap class. No matter. When it was all done, however it turned out, she’d leave Highcoal and not look back, though she hoped Young Henry might some day visit her in New York. She would enjoy showing him her city, and perhaps even finding him a job with Hawkins-Song. The others, even Doctor K, she couldn’t imagine outside of Highcoal. They were as much a part of it as it was of them. She realized at that moment she envied them, their sense of place, and knowing where they belonged. I’m pathetic, she told herself, then climbed back in bed and pulled the comforter over her head and finally fell asleep.

  BREAKFAST AT THE Cardinal was served at five a.m. Song dressed in jeans, a long-sleeve T-shirt, and running shoes, and carrying her shiny red helmet, headed downstairs. She was the first of her classmates to arrive in the dining room although there were a few day-shift black-cap miners already there. They glanced at her, nodded, and went back to eating. They knew who she was, but had nothing to say about it. That was a good thing. Song didn’t want to fight with anyone.

  Rhonda came through the swinging kitchen door with a stack of pancakes, Young Henry behind her, balancing a dish of scrambled eggs, a platter of ham slices, and another with a pyramid of sizzling bacon. Rosita followed with trays of biscuits, toast, and homemade muffins with plenty of butter and jam. Coffee was self-serve from a big chrome urn. A stack of real coffee mugs was beside it. No Styrofoam cups were ever in evidence in the dining room of the Cardinal.

  Song felt out of place, just as she had been the first time she came to Highcoal. She inspected the serving table, mentally adding up the calories in the buttered biscuits and muffins, and rejected them along with the ham, bacon, and eggs. All that was left was cold cereal and skim milk, a slice of plain toast (which was, unhappily, white bread), and the robust, flavorful coffee. She had just sat down with her meager food when the Harper boys, their eyes squinting against the overhead lights, strolled into the dining room. Rhonda took a look at them and hooted. “I heard you boys come in about two o’clock. You can’t stay out all hours and mine coal.”

  They ignored her and made for the coffee urn, then the food. With their plates piled high with something from every serving tray, they sat down at Song’s table and began to stuff themselves. Justin came in next, silently served himself, and sat beside Chevrolet.

  “Good morning, fellow coal miners,” Song finally said.

  Justin and the Harpers morosely glanced up at her, then without pause went back to eating. Chevrolet had a swollen eye, and Ford a bruise on his cheek.

  “Were you two in a fight?” she asked.

  “They called Gilberto a name after class last night,” Justin said.

  Chevrolet shrugged. “I seen it on TV. They called this Mexican a taco-head. So I called Gilberto that to see what he’d do.”

  Song smiled. “I see he didn’t like it. Good for him.”

  “Gilberto didn’t do this. Ford did.”

  Ford piped up. “We’re all part of the same team now, right? Gotta be nice to each other and all that. Chevrolet needed to be hit.”

  “You got me good, brother.”

  “You got me good back,” Ford replied, with honest admiration.

  Gilberto strolled in looking sleepy, gathered up his food and coffee, and sat down after kissing Rosita.

  “I see you’ve met Rosita,” Song said.

  “Sí. Naturalmente. She is my wife.” He looked at the Harper brothers, who were pretending they were in another universe. “You boys hokay?”

  The brothers sheepishly acknowledged his question. “We’re good. You?” Chevrolet asked.

  “I’m good.” Then he chuckled. “Taco-head. That is so idiota.”

  “Well, hell, we don’t know no good words for Mexicans,” Chevrolet complained. “Tell us one, Gilberto, and we’ll call you that. You got to have a nickname if you’re going to work in the mine.”

  “But you don’t have a nickname,” Gilberto pointed out.

  The brothers were startled by the accusation. Ford rallied first. “Our names are already kinda nicknames. Now, come on, Gilberto, give us something to work with. A Mexican skunk or something.”

  “Hokay,” Gilberto said. “Call me gran hombre. It’s mofa, how do you say it? You make fun of me with such a name.”

  Chevrolet and Ford squinted in suspicion, then Ford said, “Okay, your nickname is Granny.”

  “No, no! Gran hombre! ”

  “Granny, Granny, Granny,” the brothers chanted, knowing they had struck pay dirt.

  Gilberto hung his head. “You have filled me with disgrace.”

  “We sure have and proud of it too,” Ford said. “Hey, Rhonda, Gilberto’s name is Granny!”

  “Shut up, Ford,” Rhonda growled, as she set more plates of food on the dining table. “His name is Gilberto. You call him anything else, you answer to me. Now, all of you hurry up and eat. Square won’t like it if you’re late.”

  Song ate her bowl of cereal while the other red caps at the table wolfed down yet another heaping plate of food. She thought about saying something to them about their meals. They were surely going to get fat on Rhonda’s food. But, upon reflection, Song said nothing. They were all adults. If they wanted to be obese, that was their problem.

  THE RED CAPS gathered in the classroom, all wearing their red helmets except Gilberto, who had given his to Song. Square handed Gilberto a helmet.

  “All right, boys—and, uh, girl . . .”

  “I’m just one of the boys, Mr. Block,” Song interrupted. “You don’t have to keep making allowances for me.”

  Square nodded to her gratefully, then said, “All right, boys, here’s what we’re going to do. You can’t go inside unless you at least look like a coal miner. You Harper boys, them fatigue shirts and tight jeans ain’t gonna do. Justin, them slouchy pants ain’t gonna cut it, with your drawers showing when your shirt ain’t hanging over it all. That’s the weirdest way to dress I ever seen. Any one of you boys care to explain how looking like that came about?”

  When Justin and the brothers didn’t say anything, Song raised her hand and advised, “I read where the fashion came from prisons. Pulling down your pants so your drawers could be seen is a signal you’re available for homosexual relations. The shirt pulled over it was to fool the guards.”

  Justin climbed quickly out of his chair and hitched up his pants, which simply sagged down again. Blushing furiously, he sat down, careful to avoid eye contact, while the Harper boys laughed.

  Square couldn’t help but chuckle himself. “Gilberto, your khaki pants and shirt are okay, but you’ll need some steel toe boots.”

  “His name is Granny, Mr. Block,” Ford said.

  “No, it’s not,” Gilberto retorted.

  Square pondered the Mexican, then shook his head. “Naw. That nickname don’t feel right. We’ll stick with Gilberto until something better comes along.”

  “What about giving Song a nickname?” Chevrolet asked.

  “Song is already a nickname,” she defended herself. “Like you say Ford and Chevrolet are.”

  Square held up his hands. “Look, boys, a miner’s nickname has to come about more or less natural. Understand? Like your daddy was called Squirrel, for instance. I was there the day he got that name. We was just kids together.
He came to school with a squirrel sandwich your grandmother made for him. We all liked to busted a gut laughing. He fought everyone of us, but it didn’t keep us from calling him Squirrel for the rest of his life. He liked it, I think.”

  Ford and Chevrolet looked at one another, then shrugged.

  Song was next in Square’s clothing appraisal. “You look right fetching, of course, ma’am, but you’ll likely split them tight jeans when you start duckwalking under a low roof. And running shoes ain’t particularly good footwear in a mine. If you should accidentally drop a sledgehammer on your toes, why, it’s liable to hurt. So, what we got to do is get over to Omar’s and buy you some decent mining clothes and boots. That goes for everybody.”

  “I don’t have any money, Square,” Justin advised.

  “Not to worry, son,” Square answered gently. “When you’re hired on with the mine, you have an automatic line of credit with Omar.”

  “Can we drink some of his ouzo?” Ford asked.

  “No, you cannot,” Square answered. “That stuff can kill you.”

  “Amen to that,” Song said with emphasis.

  Square looked at her appraisingly, then smiled and nodded. “All right, gents. Let’s go to Omar’s.”

  THE FIRST THING Song noticed at Omar’s was that the displays in the windows were the same as when she’d arrived in Highcoal months before. There was still a plastic pink flamingo in one window, a mannequin dressed like a miner in the other. The red caps went inside where Omar waited for them with an expectant expression. Beside him stood a trim middle-aged woman with large black eyes and black hair pulled back into a bun. She had gold rings on nearly all her fingers, many golden bracelets jangling from her wrists, and was wearing a gray pantsuit. Square introduced his class. Song noticed that Justin was staring at the couple with an odd expression. Then he lowered his head and didn’t look at them anymore.

  “My name is Omar, just as you say, Mr. Block,” Omar responded with a slight inclination of his head and a familiar nod to Song. He glanced at Justin, then away. “Welcome to my establishment, gentlemen and gentle lady. My wife, Marla, and I will be pleased to outfit you according to your needs. May I be so bold as to ask if any one of you has worked in a coal mine before? No? It is just as well. We will start with a clean sheet of paper. Or a clean set of working clothes, as it may be.”

  Marla also made a slight bow. “Mrs. Jordan, how nice to see you,” she said. “That was a lovely silk suit you wore in church that day last summer.”

  “Thank you,” Song responded gratefully.

  “I heard what the church women said. It was most spitful of them.”

  “Spitful?”

  “Spiteful,” Omar translated.

  “They’ve since apologized,” Song replied.

  “Good. And well they should.”

  Marla reached under the counter and withdrew a pair of bib coveralls, a pair of khaki pants, a khaki shirt, and a full-bodied jumpsuit. She placed them all on the counter. “These are your choices,” she said. “The jumpsuits are most popular for women these days, the bib overalls somewhat out of favor for men, the khaki pants and shirt a fine combination for either.”

  Omar produced a pair of boots, which he also placed on the counter. “Full grain leather, hard-toe mining boots. They will last many years in the roughest of conditions.”

  Square said, “You can’t go wrong, boys, if you’ll let Omar and Marla lead you.”

  Omar took the male red caps off to a corner to try on their clothes, while Marla led Song to a rack of jumpsuits on the other side of the store. “Something in a pastel, I am thinking,” she said. “Such as Governor Godfrey favors.” She slyly looked at Song out of the corners of her eyes.

  “No pastels, please, Mrs. Kedra,” Song replied. “Just a basic color. The navy blue is nice.”

  “Indeed, it is. And it shan’t show the dirt. An excellent choice. And call me Marla, please.”

  “Yes, all right, Marla. Tell me something. Do you know Justin?”

  Marla looked a little embarrassed. “Oh, yes. We are foster parents for his son, Tommy. When he and his wife were sent to jail, and then his wife died by her own hand, the court judged that he could not raise the child. He is a very nice boy, Tommy is, and a healthy four years old. Omar and I love him very much. Of course, we hope Justin is able to turn his life around. A son belongs with his father.”

  Song nodded agreement.

  “And a wife with her husband,” Marla added significantly.

  “Don’t start on me, Marla,” Song replied when she realized where the woman was heading. “I did my best with Cable.”

  Marla dropped her voice so low Song had to strain to hear it. “Please, Mrs. Jordan, tell me true because everyone in town will ask me when they know we’ve had a moment alone. Why are you doing this thing, this going into the mine?”

  “It’s what I do. I consult. The owner of Atlas hired me to study this mine. It is only a coincidence that Cable is its supervisor.”

  Marla frowned. “Is this so? It sounds very much made up.”

  Song looked into the woman’s clear eyes, so guileless and honest that it made her feel ashamed to tell the lie. “It isn’t exactly so,” she confessed, “but I can’t tell you everything. It’s not for me to get back with Cable, but it is to help him.”

  “I see. Thank you for telling me that much, Mrs. Jordan.”

  “Please. It’s Song.”

  “All right, Song. Would you like to try the navy blue jumpsuit on?”

  Song did. It fit perfectly. “I’ll take two,” she said.

  “Now, the boots,” Marla said.

  “I’m sure you won’t have anything small enough. I wear a size five.”

  “Here you are,” Marla said after an excursion to the back of the store. “Size five, with steel toes and waterproofing. They are also insulated against electrical hazards. They will feel quite stiff at first, but I believe you’ll break them in over time. You will also need these.” She was holding a pair of soft, gray socks. “It gets cold in the mine sometimes, or so I am told.”

  Song tried the boots and socks on. They fit perfectly, although the boots were indeed stiff. “Why do you have boots in such a small size?” she asked as she walked in them.

  “Ordinarily we would not carry such tiny boots. But these were a special order for another woman. She did not work at the Highcoal mine but another, the Fox Run mine, twenty miles away.”

  “Why doesn’t she want her boots?”

  “Oh, she doesn’t want anything now. She died, run over by a shuttle car, so we were told.”

  Song was not particularly pleased to be wearing a dead woman’s boots, but there was nothing that could be done. She took another practice turn around the room. The boots felt like wearing concrete blocks. She worried about blisters. “I am told talcum powder helps,” Marla said. “But the only thing that can truly help is to spend as much time in them as possible to break them in.”

  “I don’t know how much I’ll be walking in them,” Song confessed. “I don’t know much of anything I’ll be doing in the mine.”

  “Then it is good that you are with Square,” Marla replied with certainty. “For he is a good man and will look after you.”

  Marla strapped a wide black belt around Song’s waist. “For your lamp battery and safety gear,” she said.

  Fully outfitted, Song looked at herself in the mirror, from her shiny red helmet down to her heavy black boots, with the wide belt cinched at her waist over the navy blue jumpsuit. “I look like Batwoman,” she said.

  “With a red helmet,” Marla added, giggling.

  “What a woman has to do sometimes . . .”

  “For love?” Marla asked.

  Song frowned at the woman. “For work,” she firmly corrected her.

  SQUARE APPRAISED EACH red cap in turn, approving the choices Song had made. Gilberto elected to stay in khakis, with Square’s approval, but the brothers in their bib overalls were sent back.

&nbs
p; “Our granddaddy wore a pair just like this in the mine!” Ford said.

  “Because he couldn’t find anything better,” Square replied. “Those things will get stiff as a board when they get coated with gob and then get wet, either by you sweating in them or the water that’s everywhere in the mine. What you want is material that’s strong and light. I suggest you take a look at the khakis or the jumpsuits.”

  Justin walked out of the dressing alcove. He was dressed in a crisp, bone white jumpsuit. “Go back,” Square ordered. “The coal mine is not a place for an Elvis impersonation.”

  It took a couple of hours, but finally Omar had the red caps dressed to Square’s satisfaction. The Harper boys and Justin had settled on brown jump-suits. “I want you to wear your work boots from here on everywhere you go,” Square told them. “Everywhere, you hear?”

  “In bed too?” Chevrolet asked sincerely.

  Square couldn’t resist. “Yes,” he said. “And in the shower too.”

  Chevrolet and Ford looked at one another, then at Justin. Justin laughed. “He’s yanking your chains,” he said.

  Omar stepped in. “Mr. Block, you forgot your lunch buckets.”

  “Why, so I did,” Square said, slapping his forehead. “Bring ’em out for the boys to see. There they are. Just plain old lunch buckets with a place for a thermos. Not like the round ones your daddies carried in the old days, boys. Those are antiques now, but they served, they surely did. The bottom was filled with water, the top held the food. We’re a bit fancier now. There’s plastic bottles of water down there when you want it. That’s something Mr. Cable started. When you get back to the Cardinal, sign up for Rhonda to pack your lunch every day. Just give her your buckets and she’ll take care of everything. I swan she makes the best sandwiches anywhere. And, trust me, you’re going to get hungry in the mine, and when you get home, you’re still going to be hungry. You’ll burn a lot of calories down there.”