When the flowers opened, the nights would be gentler. Then Bitty would go. At first it seemed as if March would never shift from lion to lamb. But before Bitty crossed the last day off the calendar in his head, the weather changed. The crocuses bloomed yellow and purple. Jamie oiled his baseball glove, and Mrs. Campbell hummed more often.
“Cleaning day,” she announced one morning. Usually she waited until the birds were gone to begin her chores, but this day, she snatched the rag rug next to Jamie’s bed so she could take it outside to shake it. Like the rug in the main room, it was braided with strips of colored fabric, which made it harder to notice the coal dust.
“Gee, it’s too bad I have school,” Jamie coughed under the covers.
“Plenty for you to do when you get home,” Mrs. Campbell said cheerfully. Jamie got up and she yanked the sheets off his bed.
That night, Bitty felt the wind, more of it than usual, pouring through the gap beneath the window. The sash was a full three inches high: the perfect height.
“This is it,” Bitty announced. “My last night in a cage.”
“Oh, dear. What would your mother say?” Aunt Lou asked.
Bitty rolled his inky-black eyes. “I told you, Aunt Lou: I’ve got to make it to Charleston before something else goes wrong.” That was the way Aunt Lou always put it herself: his father had gone into the mine and something went wrong. Four canaries were supposed to hatch but something went wrong. Well, Bitty was going to go pay a visit to those legislators before something went wrong with him. He’d let them know—he’d let everyone know—how unfair it all was. If he could help the miners, they would help the canaries. It was his mission and he was assigning it to himself, even if it wasn’t officially endorsed by Uncle Aubrey.
“This is crazy talk,” Uncle Aubrey said. “Think, son. You don’t up and quit a job in the middle of a depression! Once a miner bird, always a miner bird.”
Aunt Lou’s arguments weren’t as loud, but they were still fiery. “We could organize! ‘Birds of a feather, fight together!’ ”
But a union wasn’t for birds; it was for free men in better times. People had died trying to build up the union in West Virginia. Those miners who hadn’t surrendered at Blair Mountain? It wasn’t gas that killed them; it was guns. No canary could have saved them. And tensions still ran high.
Uncle Aubrey made one final speech. “Canaries aren’t quitters,” he said. “Three times I’ve been knocked out in that mine, but I didn’t quit.”
“I’m not saying it’s not good work,” Bitty said (though he was thinking it).
“No respect for history,” Uncle Aubrey said. “Miner bird. Now, there’s a title that means something.”
“I respect history; I just don’t want to be history. I’m going to make things better. You’ll see.” As Bitty said it, he couldn’t help thinking of everyone—the union men, his own father—who had tried to make things better but had ended up the worse for it.
“Do you think you’ll be warm enough?” Aunt Lou asked. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “And Bitty, do be careful of that hawk. She’s crazy as a bedbug. There’s something about her that’s not quite right.”
“Don’t worry,” Bitty said. He outlined his plan again. Aunt Lou listened. So did the other birds, though they kept their distance, as if he had canary pox. Uncle Aubrey pretended to be stone deaf, but the feathers around his neck stuck out like spikes.
“I could hold off a day, if someone wanted to come along,” Bitty finished. He looked up at the perch where Alice and Chester were swinging.
“That’s enough, mister,” Alice’s mother snapped. “That someone isn’t going anywhere!”
“Likewise,” said Chester’s mother. “My boy knows where he belongs. He’s not above his raising.”
“I didn’t mean . . . ,” Bitty said. But it was no use. You didn’t have to have a mother to know you couldn’t argue with one. He walked to a quiet corner of the cage and turned his back until he heard the flutter of wings.
“You’re pretty brave,” Alice said.
“I’m pretty scared, if you want to know the truth.”
“Bitty, I wish . . .” But she didn’t finish, and he looked away.
It was better not to talk. He took Chester’s advice and pretended to sleep. Finally, he heard Alice flit back to her mother. He opened his eyes again to look at Jamie, asleep for real in his narrow bed. The boy was thirteen times taller than he was, but because he was sleeping, Bitty felt protective. “I’ll miss you,” he said. “All of you.” His beak didn’t move when he spoke. His voice was so soft, it could have been a breeze.
Chapter 6
At last, it was morning. The heavy rap on the door of Jamie’s bedroom started Bitty’s heart pounding.
“Come in!” Jamie covered up a yawn as the Gap-Toothed Man approached the cage.
“Think I smelled some of your ma’s oatmeal out in the kitchen,” the miner said. “Now, if that don’t get you moving, I don’t know what will.”
“Eggs,” said Jamie. The canaries shuddered, just hearing the word, as the boy continued: “Bacon. Toast. Sausage. Apple pie.”
“Okay, now, who’s ready for work?” the Gap-Toothed Man asked. He sprinkled some birdseed at the back of the cage. It was the trick he always used to get them away from the door, but it was good seed so most of the time the canaries played along. The fingers came through the door next, and there was the usual fluttering as the birds tried to avoid them. But this time, Bitty didn’t duck. He darted into the miner’s open hand.
“Eager one this morning,” the Gap-Toothed Man said. “Hey, Jamie. You hear about the miner from Beckley?”
“Is this a joke, Mr. Hurley, or a true story?”
If Bitty was lucky, he could escape before he was ever stuffed into the carrying cage—maybe even before Mr. Hurley delivered his punchline. The canary opened his mouth wide, but the miner tightened his grip. Bitty couldn’t move. He’d have to switch to plan B.
“So this miner from Beckley falls down a shaft,” the Gap-Toothed Man continued. “And his boss yells down after him: ‘You break anything?’ And the miner says ‘Nope. Ain’t nothing down here to break.’ ”
The Gap-Toothed Man laughed and stuffed Bitty into the carrier. When he withdrew his hand, Bitty breathed in huge gulps of air.
“Bet they tell it different in Beckley,” Jamie said.
“Bet they do, at that,” the Gap-Toothed Man said. He turned and clomped off in his heavy boots, the carrier dangling from his hand like an apple on a tree. The Big House was quiet another moment. Then it sprang to life.
“Beak up, son,” Uncle Aubrey called through the open window.
“We love you, Bitty,” Aunt Lou said. “Enjoy the world!”
And then, from Alice: “Be brave.”
“Good-bye,” Bitty called, hoping the wind would carry his voice back to the house. “Good-bye!”
For the first time on the walk to the No. 7 mine, Bitty wasn’t afraid. Down went the elevator. Up went his stomach, somewhere into his throat. Bitty listened to the sound of Mr. Hurley’s breathing, and to the dripping noises deep in the mine. He held his own breath, felt the swelling of his chest. And then? He breathed, regular and safe, in the darkness.
Now it was time for action.
As the Gap-Toothed Man started his loop, Bitty dropped to the floor of the cage, closed his eyes and pointed his feet—which were small, like the rest of him—straight up in the air.
He held his breath again as the Gap-Toothed Man lifted the bamboo cage so he could study the condition of the canary inside.
“Vents!” the Gap-Toothed Man hollered, even though he was the only one in the mine. He thundered toward the elevator and pulled the switch. “Vents!” The elevator went up. The Gap-Toothed Man pushed open the gate, and Bitty felt the fresh, clean air of the outside. “Somebody turn on those fans!” The workers who had been standing outside grumbled—if they didn’t work they didn’t get paid, and there would be no work fo
r a couple of hours, at least. A canary was dead. There was gas in the mine.
The Gap-Toothed Man walked over to Clayton Campbell, who was already packing the rest of the canaries into his red wagon.
“Can’t leave them out in the cold all morning,” Mr. Campbell explained. “They’ll catch their death. You let me know when it’s clear.”
“Will do,” said the Gap-Toothed Man. “Leave me one of them live birds, would you? You can have this one.” He handed Mr. Campbell the cage with Bitty inside. Wait, this wasn’t the way it was supposed to work. The Gap-Toothed Man was supposed to open the cage and take Bitty out so that Bitty could nick him on the hand and soar into the springtime. Plan C, then? Bitty kept his eyes closed. He felt himself swing in Mr. Campbell’s hand. He heard Alice say “Is he really . . . ?”
“Easy,” Chester said. “He’s faking it. I think.”
Bitty wanted to answer, but he didn’t dare. He listened to Mr. Campbell’s footsteps, the bump of the wagon and the opening and closing of a door. He felt the warmth of the Campbells’ house.
“Clay?” Mrs. Campbell said. “What’s wrong?”
“Bad air,” Mr. Campbell told her. “Jamie left for school yet?”
“He’s still in his room.”
Bitty felt himself carried a few more feet, and then he heard Mr. Campbell’s funeral knock on Jamie’s bedroom door.
“Come in,” Jamie called.
Mr. Campbell held out the carrier with Bitty inside. “Sorry, son.”
“It’s Big Yellow,” Jamie said, a hitch in his voice.
“Special, was he?”
“He was . . . my favorite.”
“You’re not supposed to get attached,” Mr. Campbell said. “But I guess that’s like telling a dog not to eat.”
In the carrier, Bitty worked hard to keep still. The cage door opened and he felt Jamie’s hand, so much gentler than the Gap-Toothed Man’s, pull him out. The hand held him loosely and carefully. Bitty opened his left eye. Jamie’s other hand held a matchbox coffin.
“Easy now,” Jamie said.
Bitty opened his right eye. This wasn’t the way he’d planned it, but he had no choice. Sorry, Jamie, he said inside his head. I’m really, really sorry. Then he opened his beak and chomped down hard on the pocket of flesh between the thumb and first finger of Jamie’s right hand.
Chapter 7
“Hey!” Jamie said, jerking his hand back. “For crying out . . . Ouch!”
He dropped Bitty and sent him tumbling toward the ground. Quickly, the canary flapped his wings and righted himself, then zoomed forward in flight, away from Jamie’s hand, away from the coffin. It was a small room, and Bitty couldn’t have been more than five feet from the open window. Still, it was the farthest stretch he had ever flown. The window loomed in front of him like an open mouth. Everything looked bigger, now that the bars of the cage weren’t breaking his view into small chunks.
The other birds cheered as Bitty got closer to the window. He recognized Chester’s war whoop and a “Mercy!” from Aunt Lou. He wondered if she was twitching her tail feathers the way she always did when she got excited, but he didn’t have time to check. “Right foolishness, that’s what this is; his father was like that,” Uncle Aubrey said to nobody in particular.
“What in the world?” Jamie’s mother heard the noise from the kitchen. By the time she got to Jamie’s bedroom, Bitty was slipping through the open window and out of the house.
Once he reached the cool, bracing air, Bitty scanned the sky and trees for signs of the Cooper’s hawk. All was clear. Only then did he dare to look back. He saw his family and friends watching through a grid of bars and glass. Jamie was watching, too, smiling a little as he shook his sore hand. The way he was shaking it, he appeared to be waving good-bye. Bitty wanted to wave back. He wanted to apologize, out loud instead of in his head. But he didn’t stop.
Free!
Bitty stretched his wings as far as they could go, and for once, he touched not Chester, not some dangling perch or metal bar, but pure spring air. He tried out one of Chester’s war whoops. “Whooooo-eeee!” Then he threw in some extra whoops of his own. Pumping his wings as quickly as he could, he circled the house and tried to find a rhythm for his flight. The wind slid over his feathers, and under them. He looked down.
The Campbells lived in a company house, which meant it had been built—quickly and cheaply—by the mining company. Rent came straight from Mr. Campbell’s paycheck, when there was one. The cost was reasonable enough, but the house didn’t come with “modern conveniences,” and the lease had a list of rules a mile long. There was just enough room for Jamie’s family—though last summer, during the drought, the Campbells had “let out” Jamie’s room to two bachelor miners, and Jamie and the birds had taken over a corner in the main room near the radio.
The Campbells’ house was nearly identical to all of the other houses that were lined up like ducks on the narrow strip of land between the train tracks and the mountain. It was small and boxlike, with a sharp roof so the snow would slide off. Like the neighbors’ houses, it was more gray than white. But when Bitty looked carefully, he found things that made Jamie’s house different. All those crocuses in the yard, for one thing, and a dogwood tree in the back, with a trunk that twisted and turned as if it couldn’t decide which way to grow. Bitty took note of everything: of the twisted tree, of the door Jamie’s mother had painted blue, a strike against dull, gray February. (She’d promised the coal company that she’d paint it white again when the Campbells moved on.)
Bitty repeated the address to himself four times: 212 Slusser Road, Coalbank Hollow, West Virginia. He wasn’t sure which way he needed to go to get to Charleston, but Uncle Aubrey had told him once: “If you don’t know where you’re going, at least make sure you know where you’ve been.” Now he knew.
He angled himself downward and snatched a purple crocus from the yard, holding it tight in his beak. Before he went anywhere, he had a stop to make: the hill where Jamie buried the birds who didn’t survive. Bitty had heard Jamie speak of the burial hill, but he had never seen it. That must be it, next to the creek. Small sticks, rising from the ground like fingers, marked each grave as if to say “Here I am.” One of those sticks must mark his mother’s grave, and one his father’s, but it was impossible to tell which. And there was one stick greener than the rest. Boggs. Bitty flew over the markers and let the crocus drop. It landed nearly upright. From the sky, it looked as if it were growing there.
“Every one of those birds did important work,” Uncle Aubrey always said. Bitty had some important work to do, too. It was time to start.
He followed the train tracks and headed north, pausing when he reached the mine’s dark entrance. That was the part he recognized. But he’d never seen the tipple, used to load coal into rail cars, standing tall against the greening mountain. It looked like a roller coaster from one of Jamie’s picture postcards.
All was quiet at the tipple and at the mine. The men were drinking their coffee, activity suspended for the morning because they thought Bitty was dead. He flew on before they noticed him, abandoning the tracks for Coalbank Hollow’s Main Street. There was the company store, where his birdseed, Mr. Campbell’s boots, the mail, the beans and almost everything else in the house came from, all costing dearly, as if the people who shopped there were Rockefellers instead of coal miners. Mr. Campbell was paid in scrip, special coins that were issued by the mine instead of cash; this was the only place he could spend his earnings. Bitty had seen some scrip in Jamie’s room. It had the name of the coal company stamped on the front, with a hole punched in the middle, as if someone had punched the value right out of it.
Still, Mr. Weymouth, who ran the store, looked like a grandfather, not the sort of person who tried to pinch people, which was how Mrs. Campbell described him. The window was freshly cleaned, and Bitty hovered for a moment, staring through it. Everything in the coal camp seemed new, and that kept Bitty’s wings pumping strongly for a
while. Flying—really flying—was everything he and Chester had imagined it would be. But when the farthest you’re used to going is a few feet in a cage, one mile can feel like ten. Bitty’s wings hurt. The air stung his throat. He found a tree and rested, watching the limbs above him for hawks. For a moment, he dared to close his eyes, enjoying the feel of the smooth bark beneath his feet. But with his eyes closed, he saw the faces of his friends.
He blinked them away. “I’m not going to be homesick for a cage,” he told himself. “Not yet.” He started flying again and made it as far as the next large oak. He should have done some training. All those boring hours in the mine? He could have been flapping his wings, building up muscle. Now it was too late.
He looked around at the endless trees, the waves of mountains and the steady stitches of train track. The train! Maybe he could find a seat on a coal car! Then he could ride to the city in style. Because it wasn’t just his aching wings he was worried about. The sun, though it was shining now, would disappear like a lemon drop. The night would be cold, and the hawk would be stalking her dinner. And then there was his own food to think about. He’d talked a good game about corn and wildflowers, but he didn’t know where to find either one, especially not in late March. He hadn’t even made a flight plan. Until now, freedom itself had seemed like his destination.
Taking the train sounded like a proper strategy, at least, so he returned to the tracks and followed them to the freight station near the mine. The only trains there now were on sidetracks, broken down and headed nowhere.
Bitty stamped his foot. Now that he’d found the station, he didn’t want to wait; he wanted to move. He paced up and down along the gutter above the depot. What if the train didn’t come for hours? What if it didn’t come for days? He’d often heard the whistle and seen the train as it rumbled by Jamie’s bedroom. But he hadn’t ever known where the train was going. What if it didn’t hit Charleston at all but went east into Virginia?
Canary in the Coal Mine Page 3