by Chris Cander
Here was the knot in the creek where Gabriel liked to drop his line. And here was the old rabbit warren at the base of the red maple he always stopped and peered into, even though they saw a rabbit go into it only once, years before. And here was the stump where they’d carved their initials one summer afternoon, on their way home with a wicker creel full of fish, all of them: L + D + G = LOVE.
A familiar scud of smoke billowed above Alta’s cabin, a thread rising from her hearth and into the sky that struck Lidia now as a reliable connection between earth and Heaven.
“You look like you’ve been working since the crack of dawn. I heard you coming, put the kettle on.” Alta stepped aside to let them in, and Lidia took a deep breath of the embedded scent of soup and tea and linseed oil. “Come in, come in.”
“I’m afraid if I do I’ll never want to leave.”
Alta reached out and took Lidia’s hand and squeezed it, then pulled her close, and they stood like that for a while next to Gabriel and the sealed-up box, both of them fighting tears and clinging to each other as though to make up for the next loss. Finally, Alta pulled away and held Lidia at arms’ length with both hands and looked fiercely at her and said, “I’m so proud of you.” She shook her head. “So proud.” Then she crouched down and took Gabriel by the hands. “And you. Look at you. So strong! Your granddaddy took good care of you, didn’t he? You’ll be running all through New York City before you know it.” She hugged him until he squirmed away.
“I don’t want to say goodbye,” he said.
“You’ll come visit,” she said, then quickly turned. “I’ll get our tea.” Lidia could hear the muffled sound of her crying in the kitchen.
Alta lay awake in the dark all that night, listening to the sounds that she’d long grown accustomed to: the prattle and rush of the creek, animals on the hunt or on the run crashing through the foliage, insects and owls, the whistle of the train. She looked around at the paintings that had covered the walls for more than twenty years; she hadn’t changed a thing. Even the new sheets she’d bought for the bed she’d shared with John were now old and worn. With Lidia and Gabriel, she’d had a reprieve from loneliness for the past couple of years, and now, secluded in the Hollow wood, her substitute family spending their last night in Verra, she felt the stealthy approach of isolation once again.
But the next morning, after making breakfast for one and cleaning up afterward, she stared at the lonesome-looking bowl drying upside down beside the sink, the single coffee cup, and an idea seized her. An unfamiliar sense of adventure overtook her and she laughed out loud. Why not? she thought. Why the hell not? She found the suitcase that had been John’s and threw in a week’s worth of clothes, nothing fashionable but she didn’t care — she’d buy new ones. Underwear and an extra pair of shoes and her toothbrush. Her paints and a pad of paper. What else? She looked around, wondering if she should take any of the paintings, anything of John’s. No, she decided. If she tried to choose from among the relics, where would she stop? Then she realized she didn’t need them anymore. She’d been saying goodbye for two decades, hoarding and polishing the treasures inside her sarcophagus. It was time to let them go.
She bathed, put on her nicest dress and shoes, withdrew the cash she kept inside a lockbox in the closet. Then she shut the suitcase and nearly jogged to the door. With her hand on the knob, she took a long look again at the cabin before closing and locking it, leaving the past inside.
Following dappled sunlight all the way to the cemetery, she stopped once to pick a thick bouquet of wild buttercups and daisies. She wanted to say goodbye one last time. But after she entered through the eastern gate, she came upon a familiar shrouded figure kneeling beside a grave under the shade of a sugar maple tree.
Alta was ten feet away; she could tiptoe past Myrthen without being heard, her footsteps masked by the goldfinches singing in their tabernacle above the trees, pay her respects, and go. Yet the sight of Myrthen compelled her to creep forward. Six weeks before, when she’d hauled her from the edge of earth above the mine and taken her to Father Timothy, Myrthen had still been pretty, her dark hair thick beneath her veil. Now she looked shrunken. Her hair had thinned, pronouncing the grays, and she had lost so much weight she seemed ill. Her hands looked gnarled in their prayer knot, the bones of her wrists jutting out. Her back curled as though from a dowager’s hump, and she was as still as the headstone beside her. The only thing that indicated life inside of her was a low murmur, a prayer. Alta moved closer until she could hear it: Talitha koum. Talitha koum. Talitha koum.
She hesitated just behind her, listening to her mourning. If Myrthen knew she was there, she didn’t indicate it. Alta reached out her hand, hovering it above her shoulder to — what? Offer her some comfort? What could she say that she hadn’t said already? Though only inches away, Myrthen was unreachable, lost as she was inside private grief or guilt or shame. So Alta withdrew her hand and, instead, placed the flowers she’d picked on top of Ruth Bergmann’s grave, rearranging them so that they all faced the same direction. A small thing, but still, it was something.
“Goodbye, Myrthen,” she whispered. But Myrthen didn’t hear.
Then Alta closed her eyes and sent her love to Abel and Walter and John. She didn’t need to touch their graves to do so. Wherever she was — in the cemetery or in the cabin or in New York City — her memories of them rested safe inside her. They would understand that she was ready, finally, to go. They would understand that she didn’t want to end up like Myrthen, miserable and shriveling next to their graves.
Alta looked up and saw the kite of steam rising into the sky above the valley, a thread of train-made clouds signaling that the passenger engine was coming. Was it already almost noon?
As she started back down the path toward Verra, a smile spread across her face. Her pace quickened to match the trail of steam puffs coming around the mountain and soon, she laughed out loud and ran hard, her feet flaring unskillfully out to the sides. When she reached the bottom of the trail, she crossed the wooden bridge that arched over New Creek and connected Whisper Hollow to Verra, then made it to the station house with just enough time to climb the few steps to the platform and catch her heaving breath before the train pulled in.
Standing under the noon-struck clock, Alta scanned the crowd. There they were, huddled together at the far end of the platform, Danny clutching their tickets, Lidia holding Gabriel’s hand, Gabriel watching the sky.
“Lidia!” she called. “Gabriel! Danny!” All at once, they turned.
Alta, jubilant, lifted her suitcase toward them.
“I’m going with you!”
Acknowledgments
Alta came to me, unbidden, asking me to tell her story, but I could not have done so without the help of a great many people.
I am grateful to my mother-in-law, Geraldine Cander, for sharing her memories of growing up in a coal-mining community populated by first- and second-generation immigrants. Her perspective on the duties and talents of the Polish women in her family was invaluable. Homer Hickham called me “a brave soul to write about a West Virginia coal town without having lived there and then,” and patiently answered many questions so that I could try. Thanks go to Bill Richardson for driving me around West Virginia’s southern counties for two days and providing essential information on the impact of geology, industry, immigration, and religion on coal-mining communities in the twentieth century. Sonny Schumann led a tour I took of the Beckley, West Virginia, Exhibition Coal Mine, and afterward answered my many questions, drew a hypothetical underground map, and, in a continued exchange via e-mail over the course of several months, helped me plan the catastrophic event that divides the book into its two parts. I was so grateful for his assistance that I named a character after him.
Many thanks to Brother Luke Stone, Third Order Regular of Church of the Assumption in Keyser, West Virginia, for our many conversations that helped me imagine the complex relationships my characters had with God, the Church, and each other
. May he rest in peace. I am grateful to Sister Timothy Marie of Carmel for her guidance and wisdom regarding the Carmelite charism and stages of candidacy, as well as the language used during Myrthen’s meeting with the Mother Prioress. Thanks to the Reverend Anthony Cekada for his counsel on the intricacies of ecclesiastical authority and the Code of Canon law, as well as his assistance with the fictional letter sent to Myrthen from the Tribunal of the Diocese.
I would also like to thank Dr. Crista Miller, organist at Co-Cathedral of the Sacred Heart, for the demonstration and for answering the kinds of questions only a nonmusical person would ask. Jim Kosnik, music professor at Old Dominion University, graciously explained the tradition of organ music within the Mass context.
I owe a debt of gratitude to my agent, Jane Gelfman, for her faith in me. Her memorable reaction to an early draft was an indispensable gift throughout the book’s evolution. I wish to thank Judith Gurewich and everyone at Other Press for believing in this book, and for making important contributions to its final iteration.
I am indebted to my dear friends and early readers for their love, support, and encouragement: Charlie Baxter, Sarah Blutt, Sabrina Brannen, Lucy Chambers, David Eagleman, Stephanie Flagg, Tobey Forney, John Garber, Lee Ann Grimes, Pamela Hicks, Simmi Jaggi, Karen Johnson, Jon Kooker, Andrew Lienhard, Emma Lyders, Marla Majewski, Anissa Paddock, Theresa Paradise, Kerry Shamblin, Katherine Tramonte, and Holly Wimberley.
I am grateful to my sister, Sara Huffman, who always makes time and never lets me give in to despair; and to my parents, Cindy and John Slator, and Larry and Brenda Pullen, for their unconditional love. I thank my sweet babies, Sasha and Joshua, for permitting me the necessary quiet during the writing of the manuscript. My love and gratitude go to my husband, Harris Cander, who abides the countless hours I spend at my desk, sustains me through the ups and downs, and always makes me laugh.
And lastly, I am grateful to the characters themselves. After living — clearly, insistently — for so long in my imagination, they will live ever after in my heart.
CHRIS CANDER is a novelist, children’s book author, freelance writer, and teacher for Houston-based Writers in the Schools. Her novel 11 Stories, published by a small press in Houston, was included in Kirkus’s Best Indie General Fiction of 2013. Find more of her work at www.chriscander.com