Erma's Attic

by Deanna Edens

  Erma recalled the fate of those living in a mining town, and from her own life experiences knew perfectly well there was always a lack of fresh fruit available in company-owned stores. “You’re gonna love it.” She offered a wink. She demonstrated how to peel the orange and the little girl sat down beside her on the blanket. “Poor child,” Erma thought, “is gonna be without a father – just like I was.”

  “What’s your name?” Erma asked.

  “Cathy,” the little girl responded as she shoved a slice of the citrus treat into her mouth.

  “Is your daddy in there?” Erma pointed toward the mine.

  “Yep,” she grinned, “but he’s gonna come out any minute.”

  Erma gently patted the child’s arm. “I do hope so,” she said encouragingly, as she smoothed at the wrinkles that were forming on her forehead.

  “He will,” the child nodded her head confidently, “the angel told me so.”

  “The angel?” Erma’s eyes widened.

  “Yep,” Cathy pointed toward the top of the mountain. “She said, ‘don’t be afraid.’”

  Erma’s gaze followed the direction of the child’s pointed finger. She froze and stared. “Sure enough,” Erma gulped, “it looks like an angel hovering above the mine over there. Nah, it couldn’t be.” She squinted her eyes in an effort to get a better look, “Could it be?”

  Erma twisted around to face the child, “Did ya talk back to her?”

  “Sure,” she tilted her head slightly, “I said thank ya.”

  “Of course,” Erma replied, as the child suddenly dropped her orange to the ground and took off running toward the mine. A man stumbled out from the bowels of the dark pit, coughing up the black dust that had tainted his lungs, and the little girl threw her arms around his waist.

  Erma gazed at the top of the mountain again, only to witness the apparition vanish in front of her eyes. “It must be residue from the coal dust plume that forms after a mine explodes,” she reasoned, as she thought it all through. She looked up toward heaven only to spy a tiny glimmer of sunshine peeping through a vertical slit in the clouds. “Or an angel,” she reconsidered.

  She watched as Cathy’s daddy wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and the little girl, who talks to angels, turned to wave back at Erma as she disappeared – seemed to sink – below the rippling grass at the brow of the meadow.

  Erma and Ida stood outside the mine, long after candles had burnt down to stubs and the fog had settled in, and when it was confirmed that seven were dead, they wept and prayed.

  Erma divided up the money Mr. Geary had generously donated earlier in the day, and gave it to each of the grieving widows, knowing firsthand that they might have to leave the coal town in a hurry.

  “Thank ya, Ma’am,” one widow intoned deeply as she wrung her hands together despairingly, “you’re an angel.”

  “I’m not worthy of such a glorious appraisal,” Erma thought as she dredged up the bitter memory of her own mama’s fate. “This money ain’t gonna help her for long, ‘cause when you’re livin’ in a company-owned house, somebody’s gotta be working in order for the family to keep stayin’ there.” She glanced down at the three small children whose arms were clutched around the woman’s legs.

  Then underneath the crescent moon they sorrowfully wept and ardently prayed some more.

  Sissonville, West Virginia

  April 10, 1981

  {{8}}

  After the alarming encounter with Buster Thaxton, I will admit I felt much safer having Will sleeping in the other room. I kept wondering, throughout the day, if maybe Buster had a mental illness. He seemed strange to me, but not necessarily dangerous. I finally settled into Erma’s bed and snuggled underneath a warm patchwork quilt. Will had lit a fire and I could hear the Talking Heads playing Take Me to the River on the radio, mingled with the crackling sound of wood burning in the fireplace, as I dozed off to sleep fully exhausted from the disturbing events of the day.

  Sometime during the wee morning hours, I awoke only to discover Hank was tugging my quilt off the bed with his teeth.

  “Quit it Hank!” I jerked it back. “Let go!”

  Hank began shaking his head ‘NO’ as strings of slimy slobbers slapped me in the face.

  “I mean it, Hank. Leave me alone!” I rolled over and pulled the covers over my head trying desperately to escape the slippery strands of saliva splattering the bed.

  “Outtt,” Hank bellowed in my ear.

  “You are disgusting, Hank. Stop it!” He let out a pitiful whine before snatching the covers again and whipping them off my body to a heap on the floor.

  “Geeze,” I moaned. “What do you want?” I hissed through clenched teeth.

  “Outtt,” He responded with conviction.

  “You better have a darn good reason to wake me up in the middle of the night,” I informed the old dog as my finger furiously fish-tailed toward him.

  He slanted his head in the direction of the front porch.

  “You want me to go outside in the dark?” I asked disbelievingly.

  “Yeahh,” Hank wailed.

  “Is there something wrong?”

  “Yeahh.”

  “You’d better be right about this, Hank,” I admonished him. “If I go outside in the dark for no good reason, you are going to be in big trouble.”

  He took his paw and slid a flashlight in my direction.

  “Fine,” I walked into the other room, unlatched the door and looked over my shoulder. Evidently, Will was out like a light because he was peacefully snoring.

  Hank disappeared out the door, stopped immediately in front of the old plaid couch that decorated the front porch, and stared intently.

  I clicked on the flashlight and followed his gaze. There, tucked into the corner, was a cat stretched out quite motionless on her side, and huddled close to her lay a tiny striped kitten. I gazed down in bewilderment. “Why are they here?”

  I gently picked up both animals as Hank slung the screen door open with his right paw.

  “Will, wake up!” I said, as I carefully placed the cats on the rug by the fireplace.

  Hank offered Will a caring lick of his tongue, causing Will’s eyes to dart open. “What’s going on?” he asked. His head lifted from the arm of Erma’s sofa as he instantaneously adjusted his hearing aid.

  “We have cats in distress,” I told him as I knelt on the rug and passed my hand over the immobile cat’s neck and ribs. The larger cat was thin, and her fur was dirty and mud-caked. I felt for a heartbeat and doubted she was still alive. The striped kitten who had been tucked in close to her, was purring softly – clearly full of life.

  “I’ll go fetch Erma’s stethoscope,” Will told me as he plucked up his walking cane and stumbled toward the clinic.

  When he returned, I jabbed the eartips in and positioned the chestpiece on the mud-caked cat’s heart. “I can’t hear anything,” my voice was trembling.

  “Maybe you’re not using it right,” Will suggested. “See if ya can hear my heartbeat.”

  “Maybe I’m not using these right?” I glared at him incredulously. “I would have to be a moron if I stuck the wrong end of a stethoscope in my ear,” I silently considered as I stood up and pushed the chestpiece against his heart. “No. Sorry, Will. You’re dead as a doornail. I can’t hear a thing.”

  His eyes widened in surprise. “Let me try,” he urged.

  I handed it over to him and he listened intently to his own heart beating. He offered up a sarcastic grunt then crouched down and placed the cold metal circle on the cat’s chest. “Annie,” he looked up at me, “I don’t hear anything either.” He stroked the cat’s head over and over as a tear fell unchecked on the matted fur.

  I felt hopeless and full of sorrow. I dropped down on the floor beside of Will and Hank and picked up the little kitten. “What do you think happened?” I finally asked.

  “Who knows?” Will gulped. “Maybe the mama cat knew she was dying and wanted to make sure her little one was
taken care of properly. So, she came up here to the farm.”

  “Do you think there are more kittens out there?”

  Will shrugged his shoulders, “It’s hard to say, Annie. If there are,” he swallowed deeply, “Hank will let us know.”

  The big old man reached out and lifted the bedraggled morsel from my arms, and smoothed his hand along the muddy fur. I noticed him brush away a fresh tear that had formed in his eye.

  I looked away. “I’ll grab a sheet.”

  He grunted inaudibly.

  When I returned I lifted the lifeless cat from his arms, wrapped it up in the sheet and walked back to the clinic where I placed her on the operating table. I knew there would be plenty of time to bury the dead.

  Once I made it back into the living room, Will was caressing the little kitten. “Poor thing,” he mumbled, “won’t have a mother.” He rose from the floor and sat down on the sofa, as I poked at the fire that was still blazing in the fireplace.

  “It’s sad,” I whispered.

  “Yeah, it is.” He glanced up, “Maybe we should try to get it to eat something. It’s hard to say how long it has been since his belly has been full and warm.”

  “Good idea, Will.” I located a small bottle in the clinic, filled it with heated milk and we curiously watched the kitten suckle until its eyes began to flutter from exhaustion.

  “You know, Annie,” Will quietly suggested, “Mark Twain once wrote that the two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.”

  “Today is neither of those days for me, Will.”

  He offered me a half smile, “I still haven’t persuaded you to go into animal doctorin’?”

  “No,” I shook my head firmly. “Tell me though, how do you know Mark Twain quotes?”

  “Oh,” he flushed slightly, “I like to read.” He pointed his finger at me, “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention that to anyone.”

  I took in a deep breath, trying to cypher his reasoning. “I promise I will never tell a soul that you know how to read.”

  “Thank ya.” He nodded cordially, as he tucked the newfound kitten into a cozy quilt. The four of us despondently nestled on the sofa where Will, Hank, and the tiny kitten quickly drifted off to sleep.

  After the music on the radio had turned to static, and the embers in the fireplace had sizzled out, I shuffled into the bedroom and crept into the lumpy featherbed where Erma had rested for over sixty-two years.

  Near Thurmond, West Virginia

  August 6, 1919

  “Going Home”

  {{9}}

  “Will I come out of here alive today?” he asked himself as he prepared to enter the deep, dark coal pits to earn his livelihood.

  Unfortunately, the answer was “no” for seven men in the coal mining fields of West Virginia on this sweltering day in August.

  Less than three weeks after the Carswell Mine disaster, Erma and Ida packed up the Hurlburt two-ton truck and headed out to Weirwood. They had heard about the mining blast when Mr. Cramer came knocking on the farm door around seven o’clock in the morning, and since the Weirwood Shaft Mine was less than fifteen miles from the town where they had grown up, they presumed they could stay at Mrs. Jones’ farm for a few days and visit with family.

  They drove along the dusty road alongside the New River where occasionally a break in the forest would expose a patch of glittering water hundreds of feet below them. After they had driven as far as they could, they unpacked the truck and continued on foot. As they approached the vent of the mine they saw the same scene they had witnessed many times. They could hear prayers and folks talking low – the shaft is over three hundred feet deep – a pocket of gas caused it – how long do ya think they can survive?

  Erma paused to take in the surroundings that she remembered so clearly from her childhood, out toward the lush meadow, over the dark green treetops, then back to the dense bluegrass that rippled with the breeze. The beauty of the mountains seemed cruelly displaced amongst the coal dust-covered rubble that had been tossed from the mine, and the trepidation that was revealed on the faces of the folks standing helplessly outside the crumbled vent of the mine.

  The first bodies were hoisted out about nine o’clock p.m., and a tidal wave of sadness, as cold and blue as the New River, settled in. Erma and Ida stayed with those who were grieving until the last body was recovered. Erma draped her arms around a trembling woman whose husband had not been protected by angels on this ill-fated day in the coalfields of West Virginia, then down about the children standing by her side. She subtly explained to the woman how to find a refuge if needed – a place called Mrs. Jones’ farm.

  At around midnight they walked back to Erma’s truck and made the short drive to Mrs. Jones’ farm.

  “They’re gonna be surprised to see us,” Erma assumed as she slammed the truck door shut.

  “Do you think anyone is awake?”

  “I doubt it. We’ll sneak in real quiet.”

  They jumped across the water that flowed down the crystalline creek, and took off running, behind the barn, past the chicken coop and smokehouse and paused for a brief second before gently popping open the backdoor of Mrs. Jones’ kitchen.

  At the precise moment the hinges creaked they heard a rifle cock.

  “It’s Erma and Ida,” Erma called out.

  “What’s the password?” a strange voice demanded.

  “Lord have mercy, Mary! It’s Erma and Ida.” They could hear Erma’s mama saying as a lamplight suddenly lit up, “For goodness sakes.” She slung the door wide open. “I’m so happy to see ya,” Erma’s mama squeaked out as she drew her daughter close to her chest and hugged her tightly. Erma could see her mama’s chin was crumpling up with crying but her mouth smiled.

  Mrs. Jones placed her rifle in the corner as the young women slid off their jackets and dropped their suitcases to the floor. They glanced around the warm kitchen and admirably regarded Erma’s mama, Mrs. Jones, and Mrs. Jones’ sister-in-law, whom they had called Aunt Mary when they were children.

  Aunt Mary had visited the farm many times when the girls were growing up, but it wasn’t until they had left home and moved to Charleston that they had realized that their Aunt Mary was in fact the infamous Mary Harris “Mother” Jones – the activist and prominent leader of the American labor movement.

  “Let me slice you girls a piece of pie,” Mrs. Jones reached into the icebox and then opened the cupboard to find some plates. “I have some leftover stew, too. Are you hungry?”

  “I’m ravenous.” Ida acknowledged as she plopped down into a chair by the big wooden table. Mrs. Jones lit the gas burner on the large cook stove, which stood near the dining room table, and deposited a cast-iron pot on its top. Soon the savory scent of tender meat, corn, carrots and peas drifted throughout the room causing Erma’s mouth to water in anticipation.

  “What are you girls doing here?” Mrs. Jones inquired as she poured them some sweet tea.

  “We drove up to the Weirwood Mine to stand vigil with the families,” Erma told them. She scooted her seat close to her mama, “There are seven dead.”

  Mrs. Jones knowingly reacted, “There is a light you can’t always see.” She placed the glasses of tea on the table before gently patting Erma’s shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. She dolefully recognized the disheartened expression on the young woman’s face. “Erma, always remember – even though you can’t see the angels, they are still there.”

  “Yeah,” Erma acknowledged, “I reckon.” She thought back over the terror she had recognized on the faces of the widowed women standing at the shaft of the crushed mine. “I mentioned your farm to one of the women tonight so there may be some company heading this way.”

  “I figured as much,” Mrs. Jones nodded approvingly, “that’s what I’m here for.”

  Aunt Mary’s eyes sparkled, “So, you ladies are devoting time to fight for better working conditions for miners?”

  “We’ve been he
ading out to the disasters to help the grieving families,” Erma clarified, “not really fighting for better working conditions.”

  “Additionally,” Ida interrupted, “we’ve become involved in the suffrage movement.”

  “Suffrage movement?” Aunt Mary’s eyes narrowed in scrutiny.

  Ida took a long sip of tea. “Women are as smart as men so they should have the right to vote.”

  Aunt Mary “Mother” Jones was studying Ida without expression but a great deal was going on in her eyes. “I don’t agree with your assumption,” she disclosed, as her lips pursed together. “Corporations buy off elected officials, which means that women’s votes will have no impact on the economic system.”

  “I disagree,” Ida looked her straight in the eye. She felt Mrs. Jones and Erma kick her underneath the table at the same time.

  Aunt Mary continued, “I also feel the women’s suffrage movement alienates working class women.”

  “Seriously?” Ida retorted, “I can’t imagine that a woman like you, who has fought so hard to improve working conditions of miners, wouldn’t think women deserve the right to vote.”

  Mrs. Jones’ lips were fixed into the taut, pained shape they always assumed when she disapproved of someone’s actions.

  “I do feel that participation of women is integral to the success of the mining strikes.” Aunt Mary stated with a reprimanding glance at Ida’s thinly veiled criticism, “However, women’s suffrage is something that distracts women from the more important class struggle. You’ve seen the slave huts that miners and their families must live in. There is no care for the sick and alas in these towns, and the people live in a condition of desolate poverty.”

  “I disagree with your views on suffrage,” Ida pretentiously countered.

  Aunt Mary dismissed her with a snort.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Erma started nervously twisting her hair with her finger. “Ida is not gonna keep her big mouth shut.” Erma shot a firm, disapproving look in her friend’s direction, as Mrs. Jones buried her face into her hands.