by Homer Hickam
But now Song was through, and that was good. Cable supposed Song would be back with her father by the time he returned to Highcoal. That meant, he realized, there was every chance he’d never see her again. He took a sip of the gin and tonic Michelle had mixed for him when he’d arrived at her office.
He took another drink. I’ll never see Song again. The prospect was disheartening. But, come on, Cable, he thought. It was just as well, both for him and for her. They were never meant to be together. Why on God’s green earth he had thought they were, he now could not imagine.
One thing he did know for sure, he was glad to be back in West Virginia after visiting New York. The visit to Atlas headquarters had been rough. He thought he was there for some routine meetings, but instead he’d been raked over the coals, the metallurgical bituminous coals, as it were. In the conference room, Helen Duvalle, Atlas’s chief financial officer, had shown a series of viewgraphs detailing the Highcoal operation’s tonnage targets. The numbers were all green at the bottom of her graphs and columns except for one, the most important one according to her, the special high-grade metallurgical coal desperately needed by the Indian steel mill that had contracted with Atlas. She pointed at that number and reminded Cable of his failure.
Cable had protested the implications. “Look, we’re not missing it by much. A few hundred tons over six months is nothing.”
“It may be nothing to you, but our Indian buyers are screaming. If we don’t deliver precisely what they order, they’ll find someone else who will.”
Bob Hernandez, president of Atlas, leaned over and asked, “So, Cable. What are we going to do?”
Cable told them he was working on it. It all took time, and he needed more of it. Duvalle and Hernandez had traded glances. Cable knew very well he was being set up to be fired, whether he produced enough metallurgical coal or not. He was out of favor and they wanted a new man. He wondered now if Joe Hawkins was behind the scenes, pulling their strings. He recklessly asked them about it.
“I heard Atlas got bought,” he said.
The expression on their faces told Cable that Hernandez and Duvalle were unaware of the change.
“That’s ridiculous,” Hernandez said. “We’re part of the Taurus group, and have been for years.”
“Guess my sources are wrong,” Cable allowed.
“They certainly are,” Duvalle snapped.
Hernandez and Duvalle moved on to review Cable’s requests for new equipment, all of which were denied. Among them was a purchase order for electronic identification tags, designed to pinpoint where a miner was in the mine at all times.
“They’ve been mandated by the West Virginia legislature,” Cable pointed out. “During the Sago rescue, nobody could figure out where the trapped miners were.”
“How many other mines have them?” Duvalle asked.
“Only a few.”
“Do they work?”
“So far, not reliably. We need to test them.”
“We’ll let somebody else test them,” Hernandez concluded.
Hernandez next brought up drilling for natural gas on the Highcoal property. “Now, there’s a successful operation, Cable. You should take a lesson from it. Bashful Puckett makes us a solid profit.”
Cable nodded his agreement. “Yes, sir. Bashful punches a lot of holes. It’s hard to miss all the natural gas that’s in the area. But he’s made a lot of problems for me. He’s hated in Highcoal and needs to come under my control.”
“Your control, Cable?” Duvalle demanded, his eyebrows rising in dismay. “I don’t think so. We’ll keep managing the gas drilling operations from here. That way, we know it will stay profitable.”
Cable took a patient breath. “Bashful knocks down fences and tears up the forest.”
“I’m sure he only goes where we own mineral rights.”
“That’s most of Highcoal and the surrounding mountains. Look, Bob, Helen, I’m not saying we shouldn’t drill. It’s just that it can be done without tearing up half the county.”
Hernandez folded his hands atop the table, a signal he had made up his mind. The meeting was over. Hernandez and Duvalle strode out, leaving Cable to fume.
Now, sitting in the governor’s office waiting for Michelle, he tried to shake off the memory of the meeting. Finally, Michelle swept in, dressed in a silver-sequined evening dress. They were on their way to the Charleston Symphony. She had just stopped in to sign some new laws. Cable put down his empty glass, stood, and admired her.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, and it was the truth.
The governor regarded him, a twinkle in her eyes. “You’re not bad yourself, handsome man.” She kissed him, a light peck on the lips. “Look what I’ve done. I’ve left a little bit of me on you.”
Cable used his handkerchief to blot away her lipstick. Then he held her hands. “You are such a good friend, Michelle.”
Her eyes reflected hurt. “Maybe we should be more than just good friends.”
“Maybe. But I’m not the kind of man who can lose his marriage, then just start up with someone else right away. Even someone as wonderful as you.”
“Have you signed the annulment papers?”
“Not yet.”
She pulled away and pouted. “You are the most exasperating man I’ve ever known.” She sighed, made a tsking sound with her gorgeous lips, then provided an understanding smile. “Take me to the symphony, my dear friend. Take me there and hold my hand while my heart beats just for you. Then send me home alone while you return to Highcoal.”
“You make me sound heartless.”
“Heartless? You, Cable? Nonsense. You have more heart than a dozen men. A hundred!”
Then, with a determined flip of her hair, the governor took Cable’s hand and drew him along behind her.
Twenty-Five
Song stood in the crowd of miners waiting at the manlift gate. Petroski came over. “I’m surprised to see you back.” He appeared to be studying her—for signs of weakness, she supposed.
Song was fully outfitted. Her lamp was attached to her helmet, her miner’s belt was loaded down with an SCSR and a battery, her jumpsuit was still dirty from the day before, and she was wearing leather gloves. Except for the color of her helmet, she was the picture of a small but veteran coal miner. She gave her foreman a determined grin.
“I got up this morning and couldn’t wait to get to work.” The truth was every muscle in her body hurt, but Petroski didn’t need to know that.
“Well, one thing you can count on in a coal mine, little lady, is work,” Petroski said. “And a dang sight lot of it.”
“I can’t wait.” She kept smiling, ignoring the ache in her back.
Petroski touched the bill of his helmet to her, then walked off to join the other white helmets.
“Good morning, Song,” someone said. Song was surprised when it proved to be Preacher. He was in work clothes and a black helmet. “Bossman called me in to work today. You and I will be working together.”
“That’s wonderful,” she said, and meant it.
“How was your first day at work?”
“I’m beat up,” she confessed. She looked around and put a finger to her lips. “Don’t tell anybody.”
“I’ll pray for your joints and bones.”
“Pray for my head too. It hurts.”
“Let me see your helmet.”
Song handed it over, and Preacher fiddled with it. “I think it was too tight. Try it now.”
Song did, and the helmet felt better. The four ibuprofen she’d taken that morning along with about a quart of water was helping too. “Just the ticket, Preacher. Thanks!”
He chuckled. “We try to be helpful to everyone in our congregation. Even,” he added, “agnostics. But it don’t matter whether you believe in God or not, just as long as He believes in you.”
She puzzled over that. “What does that mean?”
“I have no idea,” he confessed, just as the manlift bell rang.
&nbs
p; The gang of white caps, black caps, red caps, Song, and Preacher stepped aboard. “Turn your lights on, you red caps,” somebody growled. Sheepishly, they did.
“Good to see you here today, Preacher,” a black cap said. “Guess I don’t have to worry about the roof falling on top of me.”
Preacher shined his light on the man. “Harvey,” he said, “I don’t recall you at services last Sunday. You’d best stand under a roof bolt all day. Otherwise, the Lord might let His presence be known.”
“Don’t say that, Preacher!” Harvey cried. “It’s bad luck.”
Preacher raised his hand. “I beseech thee, dear Lord Jesus Christ, to spare this poor sinner who I’m sure had important work to do, his oxen in a ditch or something.”
“He went hunting,” another black cap reported.
“You went with me,” Harvey snapped.
“Bless all of us sinners on this manlift cage,” Preacher intoned, “and let us see us, everyone, in Your house this Sunday, Lord, and maybe Wednesday night too.”
“Amen!” all on the manlift said, including Song, and Preacher was happy. He considered much of his real work for the day already accomplished.
AT THE SIX West face, Petroski peered at the trio he’d split off from the others. “Song, Preacher, and Bum, you’ll timber this morning. After you’re done, shovel out the gob back at the entry. It’s starting to get real deep back there. I want every bit of it gone before the day’s out.”
After Petroski was gone, Song asked Bum, “Where did you go yesterday? I had to drag and stack all these posts by myself.”
Bum leered at her. “Why do you ask? Did you want to get me off in the gob somewheres, maybe lie down beside old Bum?”
“I would sooner lie down with a flea-bitten dog,” she assured him while Preacher chuckled.
“Don’t you laugh at me, you hypocrite,” Bum raged at Preacher.
“It was funny the way she said it, that’s all,” Preacher replied amiably. “I apologize if I’ve offended you.”
“Yeah? Well, here’s something really funny.” Bum smacked the preacher on the side of his head, knocking his helmet off. Then, when Preacher bent over to pick up his helmet, Bum put his boot on Preacher’s backside and shoved him down. “One word about this,” Bum snarled, his light flashing from Preacher to Song, “and I’ll kill you. You hear me, girl?”
“Bum, don’t talk like that,” Preacher said from the gob. “We’re not going to turn you in. Let’s just forget it and go to work.”
Bum’s gap-toothed attempt to grin split his evil face. “Shut up, Preacher. You know what, girl? The day is coming when you and me, we’re going to lay down together because you want to.” He gave his privates a squeeze with both hands.
“You have to feel around for those little things to make sure they’re there, Bum?” Song asked sweetly.
“You got a smart mouth, lady.”
“And you’ve got a dirty one. Did you ever consider brushing the few nasty teeth you’ve got left in it?” She turned away from him and helped Preacher up. “Are you all right?”
“Better than all right,” he said. “Please, children. Let’s go to work.”
“Please, children. Let’s go to work,” Bum mocked. “You two go ahead. I’m gonna take a crap first.” He moved off into the darkness.
Song and Preacher, relieved that Bum was gone and hoping he wouldn’t come back, started putting in the new posts. “I don’t understand why Cable doesn’t fire that fool,” Song said.
“They were born about the same time and raised up in Highcoal,” Preacher said. “I was a little younger, and the truth is both Cable and Bum were my heroes. They kind of ruled the roost of boys. Later on, they were on the high school football team together, both linebackers. Bum’s daddy was killed in the mine and it made him bitter. Cable’s dad was killed in the mine and it made him determined to make something of himself, and come back here to keep miners safe. That’s the difference between them. I think Cable hopes to save Bum from himself somehow. That’s why he keeps giving him another chance.”
Preacher stopped and wiped the sweat from his brow with a red bandana. “But some men can’t be changed. They harden their hearts. The Bible says he who sows iniquity will reap sorrow and the rod of his anger will fail.”
Song laughed. “I bet you have a Bible quote for everything.”
“It is a fount of incredible wisdom.”
“Maybe, but you have to know it was written by a bunch of desert nomads to explain things they didn’t know, things that our scientists and psychiatrists have now fully explained.”
Preacher lifted a post and placed it on the stone floor. “What was mysterious to those desert nomads thousands of years ago is still mysterious to us today, no matter what the scientists and psychiatrists may discover. The human heart is filled with contradictions—that is the struggle between evil and good. We are a universe unto ourselves, where each of us are charged by something we will never understand. It is our sacred duty to fight evil, and the Bible is our guide on how to do it.”
“I didn’t mean to start an argument, Preacher,” Song said. She used the butt end of an ax to pound the shim in until the post was tight between the roof and the floor. “Forgive me?”
Preacher’s light flashed across her face. “Oh, a friendly discussion helps pass the time,” he said. “But now, let’s work as hard as we can. Somebody once said there is no water holier than the sweat off a man’s brow.”
“Or a woman’s,” Song said, and with her sore muscles starting to loosen up, set about proving it.
BUM NEVER RETURNED that morning, and Preacher and Song still managed to install the new posts, have lunch, and then set about shoveling gob at the entry. Petroski passed by an hour before quitting time.
“I’d a thought you’d loaded more gob than this,” he said. “Where’s Bum?”
“Taking a break,” Preacher answered.
“Where’s his shovel?”
“Probably with him.”
Petroski shook his head. “I can’t believe a preacher would lie to protect the likes of Bum.”
“He didn’t lie, he just left some things out,” Song said. “We haven’t seen Bum all day.”
“That lazy fool,” Petroski growled. “You two keep shoveling.” He crabbed off toward the face.
Shoveling gob required them to be bent over beneath the roof, push their shovel into the thick slurry of rock dust and coal on the floor, then toss the result into a mine car without hitting the roof with the shovel. This resulted in a contorted posture with a lot of the gob blowing back into their faces. When they took a short water break, Song discovered that if she spread her feet apart far enough, she could actually straighten her back with her helmet just touching the roof. A couple of yoga twists and her back felt a lot better.
It also felt good to remove the chafing paper mask from her face. She slapped it against her leg and marveled at the dust imbedded in it. “This could be in my lungs.”
“That’s why a lot of miners chew tobacco,” Preacher said. “They say it catches the dust.”
“And gives them cancer of the mouth. Great trade-off.”
“They trust in the Lord.”
“Then it’s a misplaced trust.”
Preacher shone his light at her, then away. “You don’t want to hear a sermon, do you?”
Song shook her head. “I told Cable I was a Yogist. He couldn’t believe it. The truth is I’m pretty certain there’s some benevolent force in the universe. I just don’t know if organized religion has properly defined that force.”
“Faith defies definition,” Preacher said. “But I’m not going to try to proselytize you, Song. You’re smart enough to make up your own mind. But you sure are welcome in my church. I know God likes having you there too.”
“Did He say so?”
“Well, let me put it this way. He sure seems to have steered you to it, hasn’t He?”
Song gave that some thought. Preacher had a point.
Bum chose that moment to return. He had a shovel with him. Without a word, he began to toss gob into the car.
“Petroski was just looking for you,” Song said.
“He found me. I was looking for my shovel.”
“Sorry it took all day.”
“You just shut up, girl. Don’t you open your mouth at me neither, Preacher.”
Bum kept shoveling. One thing about him, Song noticed, he was a strong worker when he tried. Soon the car was full. They pushed it away and pushed an empty one to take its place. Not too long after that, they heard the equipment at the face fall silent. The day was done. Song retrieved her dented lunch bucket—Young Henry had banged it back into shape—then walked with the other miners toward the manlift pickup point on the main line. Everyone was quiet, subdued. It had been a hard day but good coal was mined, Petroski announced. Song felt proud, even though technically she had not mined a single lump.
On the manlift up to the surface, she realized she had done nothing yet toward figuring out why Cable wasn’t meeting his quota. She suspected it wasn’t miners like Bum who crawled off and slacked off all day. If there were any more like that big lug, the foremen probably knew who they were, and put them on cleanup duties and not on anything that would directly affect production by much. When she and Preacher had taken a late lunch, they’d carried their lunch buckets to the face and watched the action. Song had seen nothing in how the coal was being mined, loaded, and moved to the main line that would account for any shortfall. Quite the contrary. It was an efficient operation.
Then what was the problem?
As the week wore on, Song was moved to other foremen, other sections, and other duties. Although she was still sore at the end of each day, gradually she could feel her strength increasing, especially with the help of Rhonda’s nourishing meals and her yoga exercises, which she sometimes did inside the mine, to the amusement and astonishment of the black caps. At Four West, she was stationed at a conveyor belt and told to shovel back any coal that fell off it. There was a surprisingly large amount. Later, when she was sitting with the other miners in a lunch hole, the foreman, Duck Mallard, came by.