Red Helmet

by Homer Hickam

  His light went into her eyes and stayed there. “You know how to timber, girl?”

  “Square showed us. Raise the post against the roof, tap shims at the top to wedge it in.”

  Bum’s smile was cold. “Pick up a post and let’s go. We got to move them all before we start.”

  “Can’t we carry one together?”

  Bum didn’t answer, just climbed off the pile and picked up a post, put it under his arm, and waddled off. Song did another yoga maneuver, a forward fold, to stretch her back again, wished at the same time she had some ibuprofen, then put her arms around one of the posts. It was all she could do to lift it, much less carry it. She took a few steps in a contorted posture, but the forward end of the post jammed into the roof, driving her to her knees. “Come on, girl!” Bum yelled from somewhere ahead.

  Song gritted her teeth, picked up the post again, and staggered on. Petroski’s light flashed across her as she disappeared into the darkness.

  Song reverted to crabbing backward, dragging the post with both hands. This resulted in her head slamming into the roof again, knocking her helmet forward with the lip painfully cutting her nose. She felt the trickle of blood. She awkwardly turned and went back to dragging the post beneath her armpit, finally reaching Bum. She dropped the post and leaned over, her hands on her knees, to catch her breath.

  “Well?” Bum growled. “Go get another one.”

  She followed Bum back to the stack of posts. He picked one up and lurched past her. Song also picked up a post and started dragging it. After she had gone back and forth four times, she didn’t see Bum anymore. Still, she kept dragging posts, her jumpsuit soaked with sweat, her head throbbing like something inside it was busting to get out. Finally, she dropped the last post on the pile and sat down to rest. A light flashed over her. It was Petroski. “What are you doing?” he demanded. “You just sitting here? You were supposed to knock out the old posts and put the new ones up.”

  “Well . . . uh . . . you see . . .” Song stammered, trying to form some cogent thought around her monster headache.

  “Look, lady,” Petroski growled, “you can’t expect no favors down here. You got that red cap on to work, and I expect a full day of sweat. You can’t just sit around. Where’s Bum?”

  “I don’t know,” Song replied, her eyes squinted in pain from her headache.

  “It’s your job to keep up with your buddy,” Petroski growled. “If he went off and left you, you should have come to me, not lounge around on this stack of posts.”

  “I wasn’t lounging!” Song protested.

  “You could have fooled me.” His light struck her in the eyes, and her head felt like it was going to explode. He turned and left, called back to the face by flashing lights seeking him out.

  Song looked at her watch. It was getting close to noon. She realized she was starving and thirsty. She hurried to her bucket. When she opened it, she discovered it was empty and the thermos bottle inside smashed. The shuttle car had probably crushed the thermos and then someone had stolen her food. Was it a joke or was she to starve?

  She tossed the bucket aside and started walking, finding some miners tucked away near the now-empty pallet. All their lights flashed toward her. “Somebody stole my sandwich,” she said, “and my thermos got busted.”

  “Sit down here, little lady,” someone said. She sat on the pallet and a plastic water bottle was passed to her.

  “You want one of my sandwiches?” another miner asked. She recognized him as the passenger in the mantrip who had used her shoulder as a pillow.

  “If you don’t mind,” she said.

  He passed over a sandwich, wrapped in wax paper, which looked suspiciously like the one Rhonda had packed for her. She didn’t care. She needed food. It was peanut butter and jelly. She unwrapped it and took a big bite. But it didn’t taste right. In fact, it tasted like grease. She spat it out while the miners roared with laughter. She stared at them, then spied a shovel. She grabbed it, scrambled to her feet, and smashed one of their thermos bottles to bits.

  The grins on their faces quickly evaporated. “What did you do that for?” the owner of the thermos asked.

  “I thought I saw a snake under it.”

  “There ain’t no snakes in the mine, lady.”

  She shrugged. “You could have fooled me.”

  Then the grease that coated her mouth and throat and the gorge in her stomach would not be denied. She dropped to her knees and threw up. There was a stunned silence, then, “We always pull tricks on the red caps, ma’am.”

  “Ain’t just you.”

  “Here’s some water.”

  Song drank and felt better. “I’m still starving,” she confessed. Instantly, sandwiches, apples, and cookies were passed her way. She ate two sandwiches, then a bag of cookies, then an apple, then drank some more water. She looked at her watch.

  “Ain’t no use looking at that watch, ma’am. You ain’t going nowhere until the mantrip comes.”

  Song thought it couldn’t come fast enough. A few minutes later, the miners abruptly rose and moved back to the face. Song had an urgent need to visit the toilet. She found a place, did her business, kicked gob over it, and then, hunched over beneath the roof, went back to the stack of posts. There was still no sign of Bum, but there were two five-pound sledge hammers and a miner named Pennsylvania.

  “Let’s go,” he said brusquely, and used his sledge to knock out the first post. Song backed up. What if the roof caved in?

  “Well?” Pennsylvania demanded, his light resting on her face. “Pick up some shims and a post, and stand it up so I can knock it into place.”

  Song felt in her back pocket for her gloves and discovered she’d lost them. She grabbed a post and a splinter sank into the fleshy palm of her right hand. She cried out and dropped the post on her foot. Luckily, it hit the hardened toe of her boot and rolled off. She sank to her knees.

  “I can’t do this.” She hadn’t meant to speak it aloud.

  “You work the rest of the shift,” Petroski growled, appearing out of nowhere. “Then you can quit at the end of it.”

  “I’m not going to quit,” she hissed.

  “You said you can’t do this.”

  “You heard me wrong. I said, I can do this.”

  “Then I want to see you working.”

  Song took a breath, then grabbed a post. She ignored the sharp pain of the splinter in her hand and her splitting head. She ignored her back, which was sore, and her leg muscles, which were screaming. She even ignored her rational thoughts that kept telling her, in no uncertain terms, to crawl off somewhere until the mantrip came and never, ever do this again.

  Twenty-Three

  Rhonda and Rosita were working as fast as they could go to deliver food to the ravenous miners. Young Henry was even dragged away from his homework to carry heaping platters of chicken fried steak, baked potatoes, biscuits, corn on the cob, plus pitchers of sugar-laden punch and sweet tea to the table. Except for Song, the red caps were ensconced at their own table, devouring everything set before them. When Rhonda asked about Song, they reported the last they’d seen her was when she’d limped off the manlift.

  “She looked pretty beat up to me,” Ford said.

  “I waited around for her,” Chevrolet added, “but she was taking her time in the bathhouse, I guess.”

  Rhonda put her hands on her hips and frowned over the red caps. “If you’d been gentlemen,” she lectured, “all of you would have waited for her, no matter how long it took.”

  Gilberto ducked his head. “Sí. You are right. But I was hungry.” He looked around the table. “We all were.”

  Rhonda shook her head. “You men. There are only two parts of your body you pay attention to. And neither one of them is your brain.”

  Chevrolet gave that some thought. “Okay, our stomachs would be one of them. Not our brains . . .” He shook his head. “Can’t figure out what the other one is.”

  Gilberto watched Rosita sashay by. �
�Ah. My lovely desert flower.”

  The other red caps watched her too, as did every man in the place. “You are one lucky man, Gilberto,” Ford said. “Does she have a sister?”

  Rhonda rolled her eyes and stalked off.

  It was during a brief interlude between servings, when the only sounds were chewing, smacking, grunts, gulps, and belches, that Rhonda heard a thump against the front door. When she opened it, she saw a scratched red helmet resting on the welcome mat. Song was slumped on the porch steps, one arm flung toward the door.

  “Girl, what’s happened to you?” Rhonda gasped.

  “I couldn’t go any farther so I threw my helmet at the door,” Song squeaked.

  Rhonda helped her up. “What hurts?” Rhonda asked.

  Song hung limply in Rhonda’s arms. “Everything.”

  “What happened?”

  “Vietnam Petroski said we mined some good coal today.”

  Young Henry appeared, and Rhonda handed Song off to him.

  “Take her upstairs,” she ordered. “Quick now before these yahoos in the dining room see her and start making fun.”

  Young Henry helped Song up the steps and into her room. She took off her boots, then flopped onto her bed, sighing.

  “What can I do for you, ma’am?” The boy eyed her bloody socks.

  Song showed him her hands. They were also bloody. “I have splinters. Can you get them out?”

  “I’ll call Doctor K.”

  “No. I don’t want to start a lot of gossip. What do you do when you get a splinter?”

  “I usually use a pocket knife to pry it out.” He took a folded knife out of his pocket and showed it to her.

  Song struggled into a sitting position. “Wash it in my sink, then get to work.”

  Young Henry washed the knife, then inspected Song’s hands, whistling at the number of splinters. He got to work while Song gritted her teeth. “Easy, Young Henry,” she begged.

  “I have to go deep to get some of them,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  Rhonda came in with a tray. “I made you a fresh salad with low-cal dressing,” she said, placing the tray on the bedside table.

  Song looked at the bowl of vegetables. “What else do you have?” she asked.

  “Chicken fried steak, potatoes, and biscuits soaked in butter. Sweet tea.”

  “Bring it all. I’m starving.”

  Rhonda scurried out.

  Song yelped when Young Henry dug too deep.

  “Sorry,” he apologized. “But why didn’t you wear your gloves?”

  “Lost them,” she gasped.

  “I’ll get you another pair,” he swore, then sat back, and said, “I got all I could.”

  “Thank you, Young Henry.” She smiled at him. “I couldn’t do without you.”

  Young Henry blushed crimson. “Sure you could, ma’am,” he said.

  “Never turn down a compliment from a pretty woman, Young Henry,” Rhonda said as she arrived with a tray loaded with food. Song dug into it while Rhonda and Young Henry left to allow her some privacy. When they returned, Song had cleaned the plates. “What’s for dessert?” she asked.

  “It’s a really rich pecan pie,” Rhonda said. “Loads of calories.”

  “Bring it on, please, and make it a big slice!”

  Young Henry went off at a run to get the pie while Rhonda helped Song lie back. “What else is wrong?”

  “Blisters on my feet.”

  Rhonda took a look, then whistled. “You have a few nasty ones, all right. Anything else?”

  “I can’t get the coal from around my eyes. I look like Cleopatra on a really, really bad day.”

  “It takes swabs and cold cream to get the coal out of the folds of your eyes.”

  Young Henry burst into the room carrying a plate with a huge slice of pecan pie. “Gimme it!” Song begged.

  Song ate her pie, then there was a tap at the door. The trio of church women, Trudy Carlisle, Billie Petroski, and Dreama Williams, popped their heads in.

  “We heard you were hurt some,” Trudy said, holding up a bottle of clear liquid and barging in. “Take off your clothes. I’m going to rub on some liniment.”

  “And I’m going to get that coal dirt out of your eyes,” Billie said, brandishing cotton swabs and cold cream.

  “I’ll work on your fingernails,” Dreama said. “We’ll get that gunk out from beneath them, have them all pretty again, I swan.”

  Song started to argue, saw it was useless, and gave in. She was too exhausted to fight. Young Henry was banished out into the hall, and, with the women’s help, Song took off all her clothes except her underwear and stretched out on her stomach. Trudy got to work with the liniment. “I have to do this for my mister every so often,” she said, ladling on the foul-smelling liquid and kneading it into Song’s back.

  “Vietnam said you worked for him,” Billie said. “He told me you didn’t do anything but sit around all day. I can see that was a lie.”

  “Didn’t sit once,” Song protested, her voice muffled by the pillows.

  “I know, honey,” Billie said. “It’s what passes for humor with these crazy miners of ours.”

  After the massage came the eye cleansing and the fingernails. “Don’t forget to wear gloves, girl,” Dreama said, as she put the finishing touches with an emery board on Song’s broken nails.

  “I already got you another pair!” Young Henry cried from deep in the hall.

  Doctor K appeared after stomping up the steps and making all kinds of noise and commotion.

  “What’s all this?” she bellowed. “How come I wasn’t called? Oh, my stars, Song, what’s happened to you?”

  Song painfully turned her head to look at Doctor K. “I told Rhonda not to call you. Who did?”

  There was the sound of someone running down the stairs. It was Young Henry. “Well, he always has my best interest at heart, doesn’t he?” Song said. She would have smiled but it hurt too much.

  Doctor K gave her a quick once-over and pronounced her diagnosis. “Dehydrated, bruised, and generally busted like most first-day miners. My initial prescription is water, and lots of it. It’s best to drink it as you work. It’s hard to catch up once you get behind.”

  “I will. I promise.” Song flexed her arms. “It all hurts.”

  “Uh-huh.” Doctor K smiled knowingly. “You’re using muscles you’ve never used much before. I could give you some fancy prescription painkillers, but aspirin or ibuprofen will do for what ails you. What I am going to prescribe is rest. Tomorrow, take the day off.”

  “I can’t do that!”

  Doctor K was not impressed by Song’s objection. “As the company doctor, I can make you stay home. Just one phone call, that’s all it will take.”

  Song clutched Doctor K’s hand. “Please, Doctor K! Don’t do that! If they think I’ve weakened, they’ll be on me like a pack of wolves.”

  Doctor K caught the aroma of the liniment slathered over Song. She wrinkled her nose. “You smell like a Christmas tree in a bucket of vinegar.”

  “My patented recipe,” Billie said proudly.

  “It smells bad enough to work,” Doctor K grumbled. “All right, Song. If you think you can work, go ahead. But try to take it easy tomorrow, okay? You’re pretty beat up.”

  “I will. I swan.”

  “I’m going to work on your foot blisters now, honey,” Rhonda said. “Okay, Doc?”

  Doctor K nodded. “You coal miner’s wives are better at this kind of thing than I am anyway.” She packed up her black bag and went out the door.

  The red caps were in the hall. “How is she?” Justin asked.

  “She’s going to live,” Doctor K reported.

  “Is she going to work tomorrow?” Chevrolet asked.

  “She says she is, so I guess so.”

  “If she says she’s going to do something, she’s gonna do it,” Gilberto said.

  “That’s one tough lady,” Ford put in. He rolled his head and straightened his back, hi
s bones cracking. “Lord knows, my back don’t feel none too good, neither.”

  “You boys better get to bed,” Doctor K advised.

  “What time is it?” Chevrolet asked.

  “You’ve had supper. For a miner, that means bedtime or sleep in front of the TV, take your choice.”

  The red caps made their choice, heading for their rooms and their soft mattresses to snore through the night.

  Song was also sleepy, but there was no dozing while Rhonda worked on her feet, opening the blisters, covering them with salve, and placing protective patches over them. Then, when all the work was done, her blisters repaired, the dirt from around her eyes removed, her fingernails cleaned, her back and legs rubbed, Rhonda saw the little coal miner was asleep. She covered Song up with a blanket, and the women tiptoed from the room. Song did not stir once during the night until her alarm clock rang the next morning. She reached for it, knocked it off the nightstand, and then stared at it until the spring inside ran all the way down. There was a knock on the door, and when Song didn’t answer, it swung open. Young Henry, an anxious look on his face, entered, carrying a package.

  “You okay, ma’am? I got you some new gloves.”

  Song started to crawl out of bed, noticed she was naked, and pulled the covers around her. “I hurt, Young Henry.”

  “I’ll get the doc again!”

  “No. Close the door behind you. I’ll be fine.”

  Reluctantly, Young Henry closed the door behind him, and Song crawled out of bed. Literally. Down the step stool and onto the floor. She then crawled toward the bathroom. When she found her red helmet on the floor, she put it on, an act of defiance, and kept crawling. She was going to work.

  Twenty-Four

  Cable hung up the phone, then sat back on the couch in the governor’s office and gave the conversation he’d just had some thought. Vietnam Petroski had supervised Song on her first day and wanted Cable to know she’d managed to finish the shift, but was battered and bruised.

  “She won’t be back tomorrow, Cable,” Petroski said confidently. “She could barely walk to the bathhouse.”

  Cable tried to judge how he felt about the news. True, it had met his expectations. Song might be tough-minded, but her body was too small and frail for coal mining. Miners required extraordinary upper-body strength and she just didn’t have it. On the other hand, he was impressed that she had managed to complete a full shift. As hard as Petroski worked any man under him, he had no doubt she’d been fully occupied throughout the shift with red cap work, which was typically dirty, hard, and monotonous.