Cole shook his head. “He’ll never last if he goes in the nursing home.”
“He’s not supposed to last forever.”
They each lit a cigarette, then Kay rested her head on his shoulder. “Cole, you ever wonder where your mom is?”
“No, not anymore. Why?”
“I don’t know, I just wondered.” She hesitated. “When I was little, I used to wish I had a mom like that. It seemed cool, her being out there, traveling.”
“Better to have one that sticks around.”
Cole’s mother was sixteen when she got pregnant and ran off. She came back only once. He was ten years old and she blew into town for a week and showered him with junky gifts. Sea monkeys, candy cigarettes, baseball cards, Shrinky Dinks, and cheap T-shirts that were too small, as if she’d picked them out for a four-year-old. But Cole didn’t care. He stretched the shirts over his chest and arms, making them fit and wearing them until his grandfather threw them away.
“You ought to get out,” Kay said. “Like she did.”
“What do you expect me to do out there?”
“What you’ve been talking about.”
“What’s that?”
“Be a nurse.”
“Shit.”
“Why not? Get away from all this. You could come up to college with me.”
“Don’t you think I’m a little old?”
“This is something you want.”
He stood up and brushed off the seat of his jeans. He thought of his grandmother accusing him of running around. Did she really think that the money he gave her came from working at a nursing home?
“It’s all talk,” he said. “I couldn’t never get in.”
“You don’t know.”
“Oh, yes I do know. I know.”
Cole walked over to the land where his aunts and uncles had once lived. The air was still heavy with dust. It smelled of chemicals. He coughed, spat. The aunts’ houses used to be hidden from each other by towering oaks and hemlocks, but Heritage had burned the trees and demolished the houses, leaving behind a mess of upturned earth and monstrous bulldozer tracks with pools of black, brackish water collecting in the ruts. The gardens were torn out. The henhouse was gone too, so was the barn that had once housed the milk cow and goats. It was hard to remember the way the land used to look. A valley, a little stream. Gone, buried.
Most of the mining land had already been swindled from the people more than a hundred years ago, but the coal companies always wanted more. After Heritage pressured the widow Shirley Scott, who lived at the head of the holler, into selling, then it was easy enough to get rid of everyone else, either by buying them out or making their lives hell. The first thing they did was clear-cut the forests. Bulldoze the trees, burn them. Oaks, hickories, everything. Then they drilled giant holes into the earth and filled them with explosives, and after they blasted, they dumped the rocks and rubble into the valleys. One day, not long after Heritage got its first permit, Cole was driving to town, and as he crested a hill he looked over and saw the felled trees covering the hillside like graves and he knew then that what was coming was too big to stop.
He walked through the tall weeds over to the path that they’d always called Church Lane. A black slickness rose up in certain places where he stepped, and he went carefully as if the land was rigged with mines. Wasteland. The church was still standing, but barely. Last year a flash flood had rushed down from the barren hillside and smashed into it. Cole had helped his grandmother fill out FEMA forms, and they collected about half of what they needed, using the money for bills instead of rebuilding. Up behind the church was a little family cemetery on a half acre that the coal company wanted but would never get. Cole thought about the little cemeteries all over the mountains and hollows, protected by law from the coal companies. Maybe in the end it would be the dead that saved the land.
The church was once a sturdy, box-shaped building without stained glass or a fancy altar, nothing like the churches on TV, or the ones his aunts now went to. This was just a bare room with aisles big enough for the ladies to fall down into fits of passion. Until he was seventeen, Cole went to church every Sunday, and usually Monday and Wednesday nights as well. His grandfather had preached his last service two years ago. Cole was not there, but his grandmother told him that his granddaddy had grabbed the sides of the pulpit as if he was afraid of falling, and, confused, had asked, “Who are you?”
Cole pushed a pile of branches out of the way and walked through the vine-strangled doorway. The roof was partly caved in, the walls warped and stained yellow, the windows shattered. The church had been stripped of its pictures of the Last Supper and of Jesus on the cross. Even the mismatched folding chairs, which they had used instead of pews, were gone. Squirrels scurried along the rafters. He walked to the front, his boots crunching shards of glass and twigs. The pulpit was still in its place. Cole stood behind it and faced an invisible congregation.
When his grandfather preached, he often went on for hours. He talked more fire and brimstone than most Holiness preachers, and his strict, dour ways, combined with his quick temper, also set him apart from the more joyous types. Cole had once overheard a churchgoer describe his grandfather as Holiness with a strong dose of Baptist. He was the old-timey gaspy kind of preacher, sucking in and spouting out air, ending practically every line with an inflection. “It’s a glorious day-ah for those who have felt the Holy Ghost-ah, I’m saying the Holy Ghost-ah.” On special occasions, snakes were kept next to the pulpit. Sometimes they were quiet; sometimes they rattled their cages. The scripture they followed was a simple verse: They shall take up serpents. Bites were rare, but his grandfather’s wrist had been grazed, and Uncle Larry had lost a couple of fingertips. The rattlers would kill.
His grandfather never touched a snake unless he was anointed, which meant that God was moving through him. Then he could do anything. He would reach into the hissing, slithering pile as if in a trance and hold a snake above his head and shout. At first, the congregation would hush, a quivering silence falling over them, and then a collective rush of sound would follow—gasps, praises to God. Some would go forward and pass the serpents hand to hand. Cole had seen them draped around a person’s neck like jewelry. People shouted, wept, danced. Once he watched an old man drink strychnine and never blink.
“Your mama used to handle serpents,” his grandfather told him. “Before she turned into a harlot.”
What Cole knew of his mother was a mix of his grandmother’s soft words and his grandfather’s judgments. A few stories from his aunts, a single faded photograph. Mostly he learned about her from the family silence, the quiet that was wrapped around her name. His grandfather said she was a whore who turned her back on God, but there was another time, a time when he had adored her. Ruby had started preaching at eleven years old. She went to baptisms and revivals, and at school, she proselytized. Unlike her own child, Ruby had no trouble speaking, and people loved to hear her, her little-girl voice puncturing something deep and frozen within them.
One time, when he was a little kid, Cole had looked up at the pulpit to see his grandfather glaring down on him, a copperhead in his hands, and before he could stop it, a prayer rushed through him. Bite him, he’d thought, the words wild and fevered. The snake had opened its mouth, revealing its set of fangs, but then his grandfather smiled, a victorious, gloating smile, and dropped the snake back in its cage. His grandfather was waiting for the day that Cole would rise to the challenge, the way years ago his youngest daughter, who had never been afraid, lifted a serpent and gave herself to God. “What happened to my little girl?” he would ask, tears in his eyes. “How did she get so poisoned, what was it, Lord, that took her away?”
Cole looked around at the dirt and dust and torn-up walls. He gave the pulpit a gentle kick, and it clanged against the floor and a part of the top broke off. He flicked his lighter. It would all burn so easily. The sun was setting and shadows loomed across the shell of a building. The wood squeaked, settl
ed. Chills tickled the back of his neck. He didn’t want to be here anymore. He shoved the lighter in his pocket and quickly walked away, his eyes not lifting from the path in front of him.
Chapter 4
The engine wouldn’t turn over.
“Damn it,” Cole muttered.
Charlotte rested her motorcycle boots on the dash. “Why do you drive this piece of shit?”
“I like it.”
“I bet you’ve got money to buy a new one.”
“I ain’t gonna spend all my money on a truck.”
“Why not?”
“You must think I’m a millionaire.”
“You got more than I do, that’s for sure.”
“Have you ever thought I don’t want to draw attention to myself? ’Course, you’ve already told just about everybody about what I do.”
Cole tried again, pumping the gas. What was between them now felt different. Charlotte still talked about leaving, but did not say anything about him going with her. They did not see much of each other anymore. It was the beginning of summer. A lightness filled the air.
On the fourth try the engine started. He took the curves fast, and Charlotte leaned out the window and yelled. He smiled, watching her. He still liked how wild she was, how unhinged.
The lot at the Eagle was full, so he parked along the dirt road. From the dark woods, a chorus of tree frogs called out steadily, a familiar hum that for a second made him feel strangely homesick.
“How about we party?” Charlotte said.
“I just feel like getting drunk.”
“I wish once you’d get high with me.”
“Seems to me like you want me to be somebody else altogether.”
He gave her twenty milligrams, but she wanted more. He searched the bottles and found a forty, and she crushed the tablet on her compact and leaned her face to it and then opened her eyes wide. The moonlight shone over her; she looked pretty and fearless. She wore a little midriff shirt and hip-hugging jeans; her hair was pushed up and spiked out.
“I can’t go in just yet,” she said, lighting a cigarette.
They sat on the bed of the pickup. Two women they’d gone to school with walked by and said hey, voices loud with drink. After they were far enough away, Charlotte said, “Nobody ever leaves this place.”
“That ain’t true.”
“People around here don’t know how to think big,” she said. “Me and Terry were talking about it. That’s why he left in the first place. Nobody around here has any dreams.”
Cole rolled his eyes. “Terry Rose went to Kentucky. And now he works at Walmart. Is that thinking big?”
“He’s not planning on doing that forever.”
“Then why don’t you take him up there with you to New York.”
“You don’t think I’ll really go,” she said in a small voice.
“I don’t know what you’ll do.”
The Eagle was one big room, with the bar at the front, and a small dance floor and pool tables in the back. It was smoky and crowded, and he trailed behind Charlotte, who pushed her way through, all elbows, not caring whose feet she stepped on. While she was in the bathroom, Cole waited at the bar. The bartender stood at the cash register, her back to him, and when she turned around, they both smiled. It was the waitress from the Wigwam. Lacy Cooper.
“I didn’t know you worked here,” he said.
“Just started last week.”
“You quit the Wigwam?”
“Working both places.” She asked him what he wanted, and he ordered two beers. “So,” she said, “I finally figured out who you are.”
“Oh yeah? Who?”
“You’re one of the preacher’s grandsons. Rockcamp.”
“That’s me.”
“I grew up on Thorny Creek,” she said. “Right above you.”
She told him that her mother had gone to his grandfather’s church a few times before she got too sick. “Too fat, actually.”
“Oh yeah? I think I remember her.”
She laughed. “She was always trying to get me to go, but I didn’t want any part of that fire, brimstone crap. I bet it wasn’t easy growing up with him, was it?”
“No, not what I would call easy.”
“Y’all really mess with snakes?”
Before he could answer, Charlotte came back and threw her arms around him. “Whoo,” she yelled. Attempting to steady her, Cole gave Lacy a little smile.
“Looks like you got your hands full.”
“I better go find her a place to sit down.”
“Yeah, you better.”
They took a table near the dance floor. A few women were line dancing, laughing and turning in unison, while the men stood around watching them and drinking beer. Cole kept an eye out for customers. Another dealer, Dave D., a heavyset guy with a stiff crew cut and a soul patch, stood in the far corner. Dave D. dealt weed and dabbled in pills. He usually didn’t come into the Eagle, which Cole thought of as his territory. When Dave D. nodded in his direction, Cole barely raised his chin.
Then Charlotte called out, “Yo, brothers.”
The three brothers, big and mulish, were moving toward them in a pack. “Try to act sober, would you?” Cole said, but her face was lit up, shining, and they noticed right away: “Char, you on something?” She laughed, slid farther down the chair. They looked at Cole. “What the fuck did you give her?”
He was afraid of talking, the words bunching up in his mouth. Almost every weekend a fight broke out in the Eagle. Busted bottles, tipped-over tables. Cole had not been in a fight since high school, when some guys went after Terry Rose for sleeping with one of their girls. Cole came out of it with a bloody mouth and an aching jaw, but also feeling like he was a part of something.
He looked around, wondering how he could escape. Then he saw his twin cousins. He lifted his hand, and they headed over.
“Hey, blondie,” said Dell, still just as bucktoothed as he’d been as a kid. “How’s that old Chevy running?”
“All right.”
“Didn’t I tell you?”
Charlotte’s brothers glanced at each other. Although his cousins had pounded on him when he was a kid, when it came to fighting, a person could usually count on kin. Cole was not sure what would happen next. He clenched his hand into a fist. But then Lyle suddenly let out a coyote-yelp, startling everyone; seconds later, a slow song came on the jukebox. The men stood there, all glaring at each other. Then one of the brothers said he was going to play pool, and the other two trailed after him. The twins looked at each other and laughed.
When they were kids, Cole had tried to stay clear of them. “Spit it out, retard,” Dell would say, thumping him on the head, while his brother laughed wildly. Lyle was borderline crazy; even his grandmother said he was a little bit touched. Tonight, they had washed the motor grease from their hands and faces, and wore clean jeans and button-down shirts. “Y’all clean up good.”
“We’re celebrating a week of work,” Dell said. “Justin got us on at that new site. He’s up there at the bar.”
“What are y’all drinking?”
“Whatever you want to buy.” Dell laughed.
Cole still felt pumped with adrenaline. Jumpy. He watched Lacy pour out four shots. “How old are you, Cole?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Oh, you’re just a baby. I’m an old woman compared to you.”
“You ain’t old.”
“Thirty-six,” she said. “And I got an eleven-year-old kid. What do you think of that?”
He carefully balanced the shot glasses. “That ain’t old,” he said again.
Back at the table, Cole and his cousins and Charlotte downed their shots in unison. Justin had joined them. He wore a camouflaged cap backward, and his gigantic T-shirt and jeans hung loosely from his linebacker frame. All of his cousins, the men anyway, were taller and stronger than Cole. It had always been this way.
“Cole, you should’ve applied for a job at that new site in Bucks Cou
nty,” Justin slurred. “I could’ve gotten you on. I got the twins on.”
“I already got a job.”
“You could be making double what you earn now.” Justin shook his head. “I don’t know how you stand to be around those stinking old folks all day.”
“You get used to it.” But Cole knew what they thought of his job. The men in the family, of those who were actually employed, worked in the mines or construction, jobs like that. He’d never wanted to work for the coal companies; he couldn’t gut the mountains the way they were doing and feel right about himself.
Charlotte’s face was shiny with sweat. She grabbed Cole’s hand. “Dance with me.”
“You know I ain’t one for dancing.”
She moved her hips seductively. “Come on.”
“No, I said.”
“This is what I’m saying,” she accused. “You’re happy just sitting there doing nothing.” Cole stared through her, lit a cigarette. “I guess I’ll have to find someone else,” she said, and turned to the twins, tugging on their meaty arms, but they just laughed. Charlotte finally gave up. She flipped all of them off and walked away, disappearing in the dark.
After a while, Justin complained he had the spins, and stumbled out of the Eagle. The twins said they better go after him. “All right,” Cole said, but they just stood there, like they were thinking hard. “There’s something else—,” Dell started, but then Lyle, who rarely spoke, interrupted: “Cole, you got any Ritalin?”
“What?”
“Some guys at the site were asking,” Dell explained. “I told them I could probably get it.”
Cole shook his head. He didn’t know how much his cousins knew about what he did. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Ritalin, Adderall, whatever. Something to keep us up, you know. It would be a nice chunk of change for you.”
Cole hesitated, and the twins looked at him eagerly. But he’d always promised himself that he would not sell to family. Family complicated things.
“No, I don’t have anything.”
Dell and Lyle looked at each other. “All right, that’s cool,” Dell finally said. “If you hear of anyone—”
The Evening Hour Page 5