Redemption Mountain

by FitzGerald, Gerry

  At that moment, the front door swung open and an elderly woman backed through, carrying a tray covered with a red-checked cloth. Carefully, she made her way down the short flight of steps, placed the tray in the middle of the table, and stood up stiffly. “Bud’ll be down in a minute,” she said, looking toward the cornfield. “I’ll bring out the coffee.”

  “Fellows, this is our hostess for today,” said Yarbrough grandly, “Mrs. Agnes DeWitt.” The men said hello and took turns shaking hands with and introducing themselves to the woman, who said nothing. She hesitated for a moment, as if she had something to say, then turned and went slowly up the steps and into the house.

  Mulrooney stepped forward, pulled back the cloth covering the tray, and helped himself to a chicken salad sandwich. “Imagine living way the fuck up here,” he said, as he stuffed half a sandwich into his mouth. “Have to go nuts after a while, wouldn’tcha think?”

  Before anyone could offer an opinion, a green tractor came into view, churning up a cloud of dust. Bud DeWitt parked the tractor next to the barn and walked over to a wooden bucket and washed his hands and face. He dried himself with a small white towel as he walked toward the picnic table.

  Charlie recognized him from the picture in the folder. Medium height, a weathered face creased by years of squinting into the sun, and a thin, wiry build. Except for his stiff-jointed gait, he looked younger than seventy-two. DeWitt was wearing the same Peterbilt hat that he wore in the picture. “Mr. Yarbrough,” he said as he got closer.

  “Nice to see you again, sir,” replied Yarbrough. “We appreciate your lettin’ us come up here, and I think we’re prepared to close this deal today. And we do appreciate this fine lunch that your lovely wife has put out for us.”

  Bud DeWitt sat down at the picnic table and reached for a sandwich. “Got only a half hour,” said DeWitt, as he poured himself some ice water. “Better get started.”

  Yarbrough introduced Mulrooney, the head of Ackerly Coal, and then Mr. Charlie Burden, down from New York, the head of the power-plant construction project. Charlie reached across the table and shook hands with DeWitt. The farmer had a naturally strong grip and clear gray eyes. As they shook hands, he studied Charlie’s face, as if trying to discern what part he might play in the negotiations. Summers sat at the end of the picnic table. Mulrooney remained standing, rather than risk trying to squeeze onto the bench, from which he might not be able to extricate himself.

  “Looks like you got yourself a bumper crop of corn coming in,” Yarbrough said, as he gazed up the hill to the field of corn. “Bet that’s some real sweet-tasting corn up there.”

  DeWitt poured himself another glass of ice water. “Hogs like it,” he replied. He looked up to see Charlie smiling. The farmer gave him a quick wink.

  Yarbrough reached for a napkin and wiped his mouth, signaling that he was ready to get down to business. “Now, Mr. DeWitt, you know why we’re here. Last time we came up, we offered you a hundred thousand dollars for your farm, a more-than-fair price, as you well know.”

  The farmer stared back at Yarbrough, knowing it wasn’t his turn to speak.

  “But, today, sir, and today only, I am authorized to extend to you one more offer. And I’m sure you’ll agree that it is pretty astounding. What would you say if I told you that the amount I’m authorized to offer you today is two hundred fifty thousand—that’s a quarter of a million dollars, for this little farm.” Yarbrough leaned back from the table with a triumphant smile on his face. “What would you say to that, sir?”

  Bud DeWitt stared at the ground and drummed his fingers on the table. It appeared that he was mulling over the offer, so Yarbrough tried to speed the process along. “But I have to remind you that an offer of this magnitude can stay on the table for today only. After that, we—”

  “I understand, Mr. Yarbrough,” said DeWitt, holding up his hand to interrupt the lawyer. “You don’t have to play that game, ’cause it don’t matter. Like I told you on the phone, the farm ain’t for sale, for any price.”

  Yarbrough stared at the farmer for a moment, then slapped his palm down on the picnic table. “Goddammit, man, that’s a lot of money! Do you know what you could do with that kind of money?”

  DeWitt didn’t flinch at the outburst. “It ain’t the money, Mr. Yarbrough,” he said in a slow, strong voice. “I know you gentlemen will never understand it, but this has been my home for seventy-two years. I was born on this mountain. I grew up here. Raised my family here. My parents and grandparents are buried up there,” he gestured up the mountain, “along with my two oldest boys. My granddaughter, too. This is the only home I ever known. It ain’t for sale. Now, fellas, I got to get back to work.”

  It was Mulrooney’s turn to explode. “Just what the fuck is wrong with you, DeWitt? You’re going to turn down a quarter of a million bucks so you can go on living in this shit-hole pigsty? I don’t get it. I don’t get this game you’re playing. What’s your price? Stop fucking around with us!” Mulrooney’s face was beet red, and spit flew with every word.

  Charlie scrambled to his feet. “Mulrooney, knock it off! What’s the matter with you?” Charlie moved quickly to get the large man away from the farmer.

  “Kevin, sit in the truck for a while and let me handle this,” said Yarbrough.

  Mulrooney glared. He wasn’t done. Suddenly he wheeled around, shaking Yarbrough’s hand off his arm, and approached the farmer. “Listen good, you fucking hillbilly. We’re going to take this farm one way or the other. There’s coal up here, and we’re going to get it. Like we always do. Don’t you know who you’re dealing with here?” Finally he got in the car.

  DeWitt was walking back toward his tractor. “Mr. DeWitt,” Charlie called out to him. “I’m sorry. I apologize for the rudeness of my colleague.”

  DeWitt held up his hand and shook his head. “Wasn’t rudeness, Mr. Burden. It was a history lesson.”

  Yarbrough strode toward Charlie, holding his index finger up to the farmer. “Just hold one second, sir. I’ve got one more thing I need to discuss.” Then he murmured to Charlie, “Burden, I’m going to take a walk with our friend and up the ante to five hundred grand—see if I can close this deal. Why don’t you go in the house and work on the old lady a little. See if you can get her on board at that number, okay?”

  Before Charlie could respond, Yarbrough swung an arm around the farmer’s shoulders and ushered him slowly up the road. Charlie had no intention of working on the old lady. Yarbrough and Mulrooney would have to get it done without his help. But he needed something to do. Charlie picked up the tray of uneaten sandwiches and carried it into the house.

  The front door opened into a narrow hallway. To the left was a small dining room. Diagonally across from it was a doorway that led to the kitchen, where Charlie assumed he would find Mrs. DeWitt. As he entered the dining room to bring the tray into the kitchen, Charlie noticed that the walls of the room were covered with photographs.

  What drew Charlie’s attention were the sepia-toned formal portraits of what must have been DeWitt’s ancestors, taken at a time when everyone dressed like the Astors in the photographer’s studio. There were several prints of stern-faced couples—the men with mustaches and bowler hats, the women in uncomfortable-looking woolen dresses—in ornate metal frames. As he moved closer to the kitchen, the photos were more recent and the formal poses disappeared along with the fancy frames. Charlie examined a photo of DeWitt and his wife on the front porch with three boys standing in front of them. The last two pictures were color photographs of handsome young men in military uniforms. Charlie glanced back at the teenagers in the family photo to confirm that the soldiers were the boys in the picture.

  “Can I take that from you, Mr. Burden?”

  Charlie almost dropped the tray at the sound of the woman’s voice. “Oh, jeez,” he stammered, then laughed when he saw who it was.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Burden,” she said with a thin smile. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “N
o, that’s okay. I was just bringing in the tray, when I noticed the pictures. I hope you don’t mind.”

  She looked at the photos thoughtfully before answering. “No, it’s fine. They’re nice pictures, aren’t they?”

  “Yes they are,” said Charlie. “Are these your sons here, Mrs. DeWitt?”

  “Please, call me Alice,” the woman replied.

  “What? I’m sorry.”

  “It’s Alice. My name is Alice.”

  “But I thought Mr. Yarbrough said your name was Agnes.”

  “Well, he’s pretty much of a horse’s ass, isn’t he?” said Mrs. DeWitt, with a twinkle in her eye.

  Surprised, Charlie let out a hearty laugh and nodded his head. “He sure is, Alice. He sure is.”

  Alice DeWitt looked at the two photos of the men in uniform and the smile left her face. She reached out a hand and made a subtle adjustment to one of the frames. “Yes, these are my boys, Mr. Burden. This is Tommy, my oldest. And that’s Earl,” she said, touching the next picture. “Earl was a Marine. He was killed in Vietnam.” She looked back at the other picture. “Tommy went to Vietnam, too. But he came home. Then he died in a coal mine, up north. He was twenty-eight.” Alice took the tray from Charlie’s hands.

  “God, that’s got to be hard to take,” Charlie said. “Losing two sons.”

  She gazed at the pictures with vacant eyes and a thin smile that said she’d long ago come to terms with the loss of her boys. She started toward the kitchen. “There’s a lot of heartache in these mountains, Mr. Burden,” she said, and went through the doorway.

  As Charlie turned toward the other wall of pictures, it hit him at once. The old woman’s words were ringing in his ears: “There’s a lot of heartache in these mountains.” That’s what my grandma Alice always says. And there she was, in a small color snapshot when she was a child—probably ten or eleven—but unmistakably her, skinny as a rail, the same bony shoulders and thin neck, and the delicate face with the ice-blue eyes and the full, soft mouth. Her blond hair was much lighter and cropped short like a boy’s. But Charlie recognized Natty immediately.

  Standing next to her in the picture was the woman from the DeWitt file that Tuthill had given him in New York—Sarah Carlson DeWitt. Natty’s mother looked much older than the picture in the file. Charlie quickly scanned the other pictures on the wall, trying to sort through the implications of Natty and the Pie Man being so intimately connected to the Redemption Mountain issue. Yes, there he was, in several pictures—Pie with his grandparents; with his sister, Cat, up on the green tractor.

  A group of more-recent photos included another picture of Natty with her mother; this one must have been taken within the year. Natty had her arm around her mother, pulling her close and making her laugh. Charlie couldn’t help staring at the young woman in the picture. His heart beat faster as he leaned in close. Natty was wearing her ever-present faded blue jeans and a loose-fitting blue sweater. Her hair hung like a dried mop, down to her shoulders. Only Natty could care so little about her appearance and still look so great, thought Charlie. It was the face of innocence, so unconcerned with herself, so unaware of how attractive she was. His concentration was broken by a sound in the kitchen.

  Charlie left the dining room quietly and went out the front door. Summers leaned against the Navigator, talking to Mulrooney, who smoked a cigarette in the backseat. Yarbrough and DeWitt were nowhere in sight. Rather than join the men at the truck, Charlie wandered across the road to better enjoy the view.

  Then a movement at the back of the house caught his eye, and Charlie strolled in that direction. As he came around the corner of the house, he found Sarah DeWitt, a bundle of weeds in each hand. She smiled politely and looked at him with the same sparkling blue eyes he’d seen in her high school picture—Natty’s eyes—but she didn’t speak. Charlie offered his hand, though she still clung to the weeds. “Hello, Sarah,” he said. “I’m Charlie Burden.”

  She turned away and dropped the weeds into a small wicker basket, then wiped her hands on the side of her gray smock. She offered her hand. “You know my name,” she said quietly.

  “I’ve met your daughter, Natty,” Charlie replied, not wanting to tell her that he also knew her name from a private investigator’s file. “And Pie and Cat, too,” he added. Sarah smiled at the mention of her grandchildren and nodded as she digested what he’d said. She had a dreamy, introspective quality about her, as if she were having difficulty focusing.

  “You must be one of the coal men,” she said.

  “Actually, no, I’m here to build the—” Charlie was cut off by the Navigator’s horn, repeated three times in quick succession. Yarbrough must have returned, anxious to get going. “To build the power plant,” he continued. “Up in Red Bone.”

  Sarah smiled. “Looks like your friends are ready to go, Mr. Burden.” She thrust her hands into her pockets.

  “Sounds like it,” said Charlie. “It was nice meeting you, Sarah,” he offered, but she just nodded in response.

  Charlie had nearly rounded the corner of the house when she spoke again. “Mr. Burden?” she called out.

  “Yes, Mrs. Dewitt?”

  “Are you going to take our farm?”

  “Well, I think that…” The words were right on the tip of his tongue, the pat answer about how it would be good for everyone, how it was inevitable, and the best thing the DeWitts could do was to take the money and stop fighting a losing battle. But something made him stop. He stared at the ground, unable to speak. Charlie didn’t want to give the answer, because it wasn’t his answer. It was the answer the rich gave to the poor. The answer the corporations spun to the media. It was the answer that he’d grown so sick of over the last few years.

  He looked up past Sarah at the green meadows behind the farm. He listened to the music of the birds and the rustle of the trees in the breeze. God! No wonder DeWitt doesn’t want to leave this place. Seventy-two years. His entire life. The horn blared again, and Charlie thought about the people he was with: Yarbrough and Mulrooney, scheming, filled with greed, rude and vulgar; Summers, following in their footsteps. Then he looked at Sarah DeWitt as she watched him struggle with her simple question. He thought about Bud and Alice and Sarah, such likable, genuine people—like Eve Brewster and Hank—people he respected and enjoyed being with. And then he thought about Natty, the woman he couldn’t get out of his mind. The woman he realized he was rapidly falling in love with. This was her home, too. How did he get on the opposite side of these people? The kind of people he’d been searching for—unconcerned with status and ego and the accumulation of wealth. And here he was, as always, on the side of the big money trying to get bigger by taking this little farm away from the only people on earth who could truly appreciate its beauty and its legacy.

  “Mr. Burden, are you okay?” Sarah DeWitt took a step closer.

  Charlie nodded as he reached some internal decision. “Sarah, I don’t know if you’re going to lose your farm or not.” He saw the Navigator pull up to the edge of the road, clearly waiting for him. “But I’m going to do whatever I can to prevent it. I don’t know if I can stop it, but I’ll try.” He took a step toward Sarah and offered his hand. “But this has to be our secret, okay?”

  “I understand,” she said, as they shook hands once more. Then she added, “Thank you, Mr. Burden.”

  Charlie walked slowly back to the Navigator and climbed in next to Mulrooney. Yarbrough twisted around to look at him. “So, any luck with the old lady?”

  Charlie shook his head. “No, she’s just like her husband. No interest in selling. And her name’s Alice.”

  “Huh?”

  “DeWitt’s wife. Her name is Alice, not Agnes,” Charlie said a little louder.

  Yarbrough turned forward. “Whatever. We gave ’em a chance. Can’t say we didn’t make ’em a fair offer. Seven-fifty, I went to with the farmer. Seven hundred and fifty thousand bucks that boy turned down.” Yarbrough laughed and shook his head in disbelief. “I’ll be back, Mr
. DeWitt,” Yarbrough said, more to himself than to the other passengers. “I’ll be back real soon.”

  CHAPTER 15

  The first soccer practice of the season was an event that Natty anticipated with mixed emotions. She was anxious to see the kids again and looked forward to the excitement of the games and to the additional time she got to spend with Pie. But soccer had become the dividing line between summer and fall, and there was a sadness attached to the passing of another season. The sun would remain hot for another month even as the air became cooler, but it wasn’t summer anymore after soccer started.

  Walking down the cracked cement steps from the library, the large mesh bag of soccer balls over her shoulder, Natty watched Pie carrying shovelsful of dirt from a pile in back of the goal to fill in the holes in the field. Next week, the kids would go back to school, and Natty would return to her second job as a teacher’s aide for three hours each morning. She wasn’t looking forward to rescheduling many of her home nursing clients to the afternoon and early evening, but the $120 a week was important, especially now that she had another good-size bill for her car.

  Natty dropped the bag of balls on the grass and set up the blackboard in front of the bleachers. Most of the kids wouldn’t show up until around 9:15 for the 9:00 A.M. practice. That’s the way it had always been, and there wasn’t much Natty could do about it. She absentmindedly took another look up the hill toward Old Red Bone, to the back porch on the fourth floor of the Barney’s building, as she had several times already that morning.

  She had to squint into the sun, but she could see that the porch was unoccupied. Of course, she didn’t expect to see him there. Charlie had told her he was going back to New York for at least a week. Natty knew he was still gone because Pie came home every day with a long face and told her, Charlie gone away. Gone to New York. My friend Charlie go home.