Miss Post’s high-pitched voice cut through the chaos. “What is going on?”
Principal Slaughter was quickly in the middle of the mess and grabbed Buster by the collar. “You’re coming with me.”
I offered Sonny my hand. “You okay?” He glanced at me with one hand covering his eye. It was already turning purple and swelling underneath.
“Yeah, thanks.” He reached out as his chin quivered like he was about to cry.
“Don’t listen to Buster,” I said. “He’s just sore because of his dad. He knows the layoffs weren’t your fault.”
“Maybe. But like he said, he doesn’t care,” Sonny muttered.
Miss Post put her arm around him. “Let’s get you to the nurse,” she said and smiled a thank-you back at me.
I watched them walk away. Sonny wasn’t a completely bad guy. He was always around when you needed him to play shortstop or fill in on a math team. We just didn’t want to need him. Like it or not, for us he stood for the Company. He reminded us how much we counted on the mine and how little choice we had about it.
Some people thought I did the right thing, helping Sonny out like that. They patted my back and grinned at me with nods. But some didn’t. They bumped me hard when they walked by me in the hall or frowned before looking away.
“What were you thinking this mornin’, huh, cuz? What about supporting your family?” Buster asked me that night when he called to chew me out. He’d been sent home early, so I hadn’t seen him the rest of the school day.
“You would’ve killed him,” I said.
“So?”
“Sonny’s a pain in the butt, but he can’t help who his parents are. And you don’t need anything else on your record anyhow.”
“So you were watchin’ out for me, then?”
“In a way,” I said. “I suppose.”
There was a long silence. Finally, Buster said, “Well, all right then. We good?”
“Yeah, Buster, we’re good.”
I heard Aunt Livvy hollering at him in the background.
“I gotta go,” Buster said. “I’m supposed to be grounded.”
Mr. Rust pulled Sonny out of school the next day. Word was, they shipped him off to some private school in Chattanooga. I never saw him again.
Buster got three days’ suspension, which wasn’t much considerin’. I think the principal was quietly on his side. A lot of people wanted to beat the crap out of the Rusts. Buster just got there first.
Chapter 8
Slag Dump
My class shrank over the next two weeks from everybody’s fathers who got laid off having to move their families somewhere else to find jobs. It seemed like every time I went to school somebody else was gone: Mathew Rymer, who played third base; Junior Meeks, who was sort of annoying but who I missed anyway; Lee Anne Rush, who was almost as pretty as Hannah—almost.
Miss Post tried to act like everything was normal, ignoring the empty chairs left in class, but nobody could pay attention.
I wondered about the places my friends were moving to. What would their new worlds look like? How green would they be? Would they have trees there? A guilty part of me felt a little bit jealous.
Then, one Friday on our way out of school, we saw that familiar glow coming from the Company.
“Slag dump!” Piran hollered.
Buster, Piran, and I took off runnin’ for Tater Hill, stopping once for Piran to catch his breath. Our favorite rock ledge offered the best view of the train parked precariously close to the cliff edge as it tipped giant iron crucibles and let the hot molten rock flow down the cliff’s side. The glowing lava spit sparks into the air and lit up the sky—our own private fireworks show—the color of Hannah’s hair with the sunlight behind it. I couldn’t stop gaping.
They’d been dumpin’ slag for so many years that the Company actually sat on a small mountain of the cement-like stuff. Even so, I never got over watching a slag dump.
“Probably the last time I’ll ever see this,” Buster said.
Uncle Bubba had gotten a job at a chicken farm in Lumpkin.
“When yu’uns leaving?” Piran asked.
“Sunday after church,” Buster said.
“Stan’s moving too,” Piran said. “His dad got a job in Cleveland.”
“I heard Greg’s family moved in with his aunt up in Murphy,” I said.
“Damn, he was our best hitter,” Piran replied. “We’re running out of players.”
“At least you’ll be here to play,” Buster grumbled.
At least you’ll have trees, I almost said but bit my tongue. I was supposed to be feeling lucky for our lives not being upended like the lives of our friends who were havin’ to move away.
We watched the lava turn black as it cooled.
“What about your house?” Piran asked. “You selling it?”
“Company house, we were just rentin’ it. So all we gotta do is pack up and leave.”
Miners switched houses like dominoes. Every time somebody got promoted, they’d move uphill, setting off a chain reaction as everybody below moved up a house too. The only reason we hadn’t moved in a while was because Smelter Hill was as high as you could get. Except for the manager’s house across town on Tater Hill where the Rusts lived—and no miner would ever live there.
So I was used to folks moving, just not away from Coppertown. They were like rats fleeing a sinking ship—except they weren’t rats, they were my friends, and I didn’t want to think of my home as a sinking anything.
Chapter 9
Tailings Pond
Next morning, Mom checked the weather in the backyard. She licked her finger and stuck it in the air to see how fast it dried. “Hmm… I think I can do laundry today.”
“Where’s Dad?” I asked.
“Down at Livvy and Bubba’s helping load the truck,” she said. “I’m heading over in a bit with some sandwiches and iced tea.”
“I’m going to Piran’s,” I said.
“You ought to see if Buster wants to join you today, being his last day and all. I’m sure Livvy would appreciate him being out from underfoot. But yu’uns stay out of trouble, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tell that to Buster, I thought. Buster was okay when he was calm, but I was tired of being his keeper when he wasn’t, which was most of the time. It’s why I wasn’t too upset he was moving, though I’d miss Aunt Livvy and Uncle Bubba. Like Grandpa sometimes said, “You can pick yer friends, but you can’t pick yer family.”
It was a nice walk down Killer Hill—a little windy, but the sun was out so it wasn’t too cold. The sky was a sharp blue against the orange hills and the river flashed shades of amber and brown as it rolled by me.
Wisps of fog were still burning off when I got down to the Quinns’ house. It was always cooler at their place, being so close to the river. I got goose bumps as I walked to their front door, which was still in shadow. But it was warm inside.
“C’mon in, Jack,” Mrs. Quinn hollered. I squeezed into their small kitchen as she yelled down the hall, “Piran, Jack’s here.” She returned to feeding something mushy and green to Piran’s new little sister, Emily. Mom called her their “happy little accident.”
Mr. Quinn pressed past me. “Morning, Jack. How are your parents holding up?”
“Morning, Mr. Quinn. Fine, I suppose.”
Truth was, my parents didn’t say much about the layoffs, not in front of me anyhow. Not that they had the time. Mom had been down at Aunt Livvy’s helping her pack, and Dad was working a lot of overtime since the rest of his crew was gone.
“Should be a quiet day at the post office, honey. I won’t be late.” He kissed Mrs. Quinn on the cheek and Emily on the head before he left.
Emily started squalling just as Piran entered the kitchen, and the twins ran by in a blur, playing superheroes and chasing each ot
her from room to room.
“Hey, Jack.”
“God!” Hannah yelled from down the hall. “Can’t anybody get some sleep around here?”
I looked to see if she was comin’ out, but no such luck. The twins ran by again, shouting, “I killed you!” and “No you didn’t!”
“Shut up already!” Hannah screamed.
“Watch your tongue, young lady,” Mrs. Quinn hollered back.
“Emily cried all night.” Piran rolled his eyes. “Let’s get outta here before I get stuck babysitting. See ya later, Ma.”
“Don’t forget your inhaler!” she called behind us.
“What you want to do?” Piran asked as we walked back toward the bridge.
“I promised my mom we’d go get Buster,” I said. Piran scrunched up his face.
“He can’t possibly start a fight on his last day in town,” I said.
“He better not.”
We headed up Killer Hill and cut south on Poplar Trail.
“Have you ever noticed how roads are always named after whatever they cut down or chased off to put the road in?” I asked. “I mean, do you see any poplar trees? And our house is on Bear Ridge. What a joke.”
“Yeah, but our house is on Lick Skillet Road, from when folks got so hungry during the Depression that they’d lick a hot skillet clean,” Piran said. “That don’t seem so funny to me.”
I nodded and looked away. I got a lot of stomachaches, but never from hunger.
A long orange rental truck sat in front of Buster’s house. Dad and Uncle Bubba were carrying a large trunk up the ramp.
“Livvy, what you got in this thing?” Uncle Bubba grunted.
“It’s full of family heirlooms and they’re breakable. Be careful,” she said.
“Watch it there, Bubba,” Dad called out from the depths of the truck bed. “You’re about to crush me. Agh!”
“Oops, sorry, Ray.”
Buster stood at the bottom of the ramp waiting with a box in his arms. His bottom lip stuck out like a little kid’s.
“Aunt Livvy, you think you could do without Buster for a while?” I asked.
Buster looked at her with eyes big as dinner plates.
“Oh, go on,” she said. “You’ve done plenty for today.”
He smiled and dropped the box he was holding.
“Careful with that!” Aunt Livvy shouted. Her normally calm smile hid behind a deep frown.
Piran and I had to run to catch up with him at the end of the road.
“I didn’t want to give her a chance to change her mind,” he said. “Where we goin’?”
“Where do you want to go?” I asked. “Bein’ yer last day and all.”
“The tailings pond, the dry one, Old Number Two,” Buster said.
Of course he would want to go where we weren’t allowed on his last day here.
Piran and I looked at each other and shrugged. How could we say no?
We followed the railroad tracks out of town. My arm itched like wildfire as we passed the trestle bridge, though luckily Eli and his friends weren’t around.
“Dare you to cross!” Buster laughed loudly at his own lame joke.
“Not funny,” I groaned. Piran shook his head.
The only thing that was supposed to keep people out of the Old Number 2 Tailings Pond was a faded DANGER sign on the gate that blocked the dirt road leading in. We followed the well-worn path that hooked around it to the right and walked to the edge of the pond. I stared at the expanse of wasteland with its out-of-this-world look. So much of our world was out of whack lately that it seemed a fittin’ place to be.
Buster hoisted an imaginary machine gun and danced across the pond. “Pow, pow, pow, pow, pow. Enemy fire incomin’!”
Piran and I blasted back with our laser guns.
“Silly human, you don’t stand a chance against our advanced weaponry. Pew, pew, pew!”
Suddenly, an engine roared and a shiny new yellow Jeep with enormous bumpy tires lunged into view.
“Duck!” Piran yelled.
We dove behind a large rock to hide and watched the Jeep do doughnuts around the tailings pond, kicking up clouds of the fine silicone dirt. Given the direction the wind was blowin’, the dirt would be coating our parents’ cars back home before it settled down.
It might even coat the moving van as a going-away present.
The Jeep’s back tires sank deep into the ground once, but it pulled out before it sank farther. The ground wasn’t stable—which is why the DANGER sign was there, and why we weren’t supposed to be there, as far as our parents were concerned. And yet, here were a bunch of whoopin’ idiots riding around in a big, heavy vehicle.
“I don’t believe our bad luck!” Piran shouted over the noise. “Eli Munroe! How’s he got the money to buy that brand-new Jeep?”
“Don’t know. Dad said the mine wouldn’t hire him…before the layoffs,” I said. “And I saw him get fired from the gas station.” I hadn’t heard of him working anywhere else either.
“Why are we hiding?” Buster said. “You ain’t scared of him because of what happened at the trestle bridge, is ya? We were here first. We could try to run ’em off.”
“I swear, Buster, keepin’ you out of trouble is a full-time job,” I said. “Just keep down, y’hear?”
Buster’s face clouded over. “Don’t worry. I won’t be your job for much longer.”
“That’s not what I meant…” I started to say, but his attention was already back on Eli.
I couldn’t help but compare the two. Was Eli like Buster, all brash and no common sense? Or was he just a guy whose dream had been ripped away? Eli wanted to be a miner—he’d even quit school to become a miner—but they wouldn’t hire him. Now he seemed to have nothing to do—or at least nothing good.
Without the mine, was I going to turn out like Eli? Was that my future too?
As soon as church let out the next day, we headed over to Aunt Livvy and Uncle Bubba’s house again. The truck was full to the top but Uncle Bubba managed to squeeze in one last box anyway. The chairs and tables that used to decorate their home looked sad wedged together like a bunch of unimportant clutter—the oak dining table where they’d spent a lifetime of meals, the chair with the chipped corner from when Buster broke his tooth on it as a kid, the plaid couch where they took their Christmas photo last year.
Could our entire life fit into one truck like that?
Buster leaned against his family’s station wagon, slamming a ball into his glove again and again.
“Hey,” I said as I leaned against the car next to him.
“Hey,” he mumbled, his lip sticking out again.
Uncle Bubba pulled down the cargo door of the truck and brushed off his hands. “I guess that’s it, then.”
Aunt Livvy and Mom hugged and burst into tears.
“Women,” Buster and I said at the same time.
I looked at him sideways. “Good luck, Buster. Really. And try to stay out of trouble, will ya?” I smiled.
“Yeah, okay.” An expression passed over his face that I’d never seen before—something different from his usual rock-hard scowl. His chin started shaking and… Was he trying not to cry? I shifted my feet and looked the other way.
“Let me know what happens with the Union,” Uncle Bubba said to Dad.
“Will do,” Dad said.
They shook hands goodbye, so Buster and I did too. But our mothers insisted on hugging everybody and soaked our shirts with their tears. “We’ll see yu’uns at Thanksgiving,” they both sobbed.
Uncle Bubba climbed into the truck and Aunt Livvy and Buster loaded into their station wagon. Mom, Dad, and I waved as they drove off down Poplar Trail. Mom kept wipin’ her eyes.
“Grace, they’re only going to be an hour-and-a-half drive away,” Dad said. “It’s n
ot like you won’t ever see your sister again.”
“I know,” she said. “But it won’t be the same.”
I agreed. And somehow, I was feeling left behind.
Chapter 10
Halloween
A cold snap snuck in as Halloween drew closer. The sky turned a brilliant blue, making the orange landscape stand out even more. Along with the sulfur, the smell of fireplace smoke drifted through the air.
Mom and Dad weren’t saying much to each other, and the air in our house felt thick as mud with all the silence. Not that they had much chance to talk if they’d wanted to. Between Dad workin’ so much overtime and all the Union meetings, I barely saw him anymore. So I was surprised when early one Saturday he woke me up and said, “Let’s go get us a pumpkin, Jack.”
That meant going to the Spencer farm outside of Coppertown!
We drove west through the Tohachee River Gorge along the winding road that was cut into the cliff and ran dangerously close to the water’s edge. Semitrucks passed us from time to time, nearly pushin’ us against the rock wall. Dad said it was the only road running east to west through the mountains, so the trucks had to use it—there was no other way through.
When trucks weren’t blocking our view, I watched the river. It broke into foamy rapids over enormous boulders as it rushed through the gorge. The slope on the far side was covered in tall trees whose leaves had turned all different colors. It looked like a giant bowl of Fruity Pebbles cereal—even the rapids looked like milk runnin’ through the middle.
I kept turning my head this way and that—I didn’t want to miss a thing.
Classic country music spilled out of the radio—June and Anita Carter, Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline. Mom sang along to all of it. Dad reached for her hand and I leaned back in my seat, enjoying the break from the tension that had been growing in our house.
When we got to the Spencer farm, yellow, red, and purple leaves skittered across the parking lot like small animals. I chased after them, collecting a handful of perfect specimens, and showed ’em to Mom. She’d spent her summers as a little girl with her grandparents up on Beech Mountain in North Carolina, so she knew a thing or two about plants—even if her garden never did very well.
A Bird on Water Street Page 5