Dig Too Deep

by Amy Allgeyer

  He’s funny. I like that. “I’ll put it on my calendar.”

  We smile at each other, not sure what else to say. Finally, I point to the mountain. “What’s going on there?”

  Cole’s eyes flick to the mountain. “Peabody Mining’s new big thing—mountaintop removal.”

  “A coal company did that? On purpose?”

  “It’s an easier way of getting the coal out.”

  “Yeah, along with the trees and the dirt and everything else. Is it legal?”

  “Of course it is.” Cole’s still staring across the valley. “Federal government issued the permit for it.”

  “And nobody’s complained?”

  “Complained? Why would they? Mining jobs are good jobs. My daddy’s lucky to have one.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “That right there is progress,” Cole says. “All those jobs are going to bring Ebbottsville back to life.”

  I think about the boarded-up shops and empty streets downtown. “That’s great, I guess. It’s just …” The sky looks empty without the craggy peak. “My granddaddy walked me all over that mountain.”

  Cole smiles. “Mine too. There was a honey hole for brook trout on the back side, up by …” He glances at me then shakes his head.

  “Up by what?”

  His nose crinkles under his freckles. “I can’t tell you. Granddaddy swore me to secrecy.”

  I raise one eyebrow, like Iris taught me. “But it’s gone.”

  “A secret’s a secret.”

  That’s exactly the kind of weird reasoning I remember from my own grandpa. Mountain people are an odd breed. “You realize that makes no sense.”

  He smiles and shrugs. “What are you doing here anyway? I thought you and your mama moved to DC.”

  “We did.” I wonder how much to tell him. Having a mom in prison is probably as gossip worthy in Ebbotsville as it is in DC. “I live here now,” I say and hope he leaves it at that.

  “No shit. Really?”

  “Really.”

  “That’s great,” he says, and I get the feeling he means it. “Will you go to Plurd?”

  “Is there any other high school here?” I’d give my favorite sweater for him say yes. A private school, a Catholic school, heck even a charter school would be better than Plurd County High, with its 60 percent graduation rate and test scores in the thirtieth percentile.

  “Nope. Plurd’s it.” I try to smile, but I must look like I’m in pain, because Cole says, “You probably went to a fancy school in DC, huh?”

  “Kind of fancy.” I turn and start down the rhododendron trail.

  He follows me. “I can tell by the way you talk. Really proper.”

  “Sorry.” Sorry? Did I just apologize for speaking correct English?

  “No, I like it,” he says.

  “It’s not like we were rich or anything,” I say. “I was only there on scholarship.” I frown, remembering the paperwork for that scholarship. A scholarship that I heard about. And I applied for. And I got—no thanks to MFM, who was so busy saving spotted seals that she wouldn’t have noticed if I’d decided to homeschool myself.

  “Well, that’s good,” Cole says. “I mean … it was good. I guess.”

  The trail is narrow, and he’s walking behind me. I’m wondering if he’s staring at my butt. I try to walk normal, which suddenly seems very hard.

  “I was thinking maybe …” He puts his hand on my arm and I stop. “There’s a party tomorrow night. You should come, meet some people from school.”

  His ears are turning a little red, and I can feel my face doing the same thing. He’s not technically asking me out, but I think he kind of is. “Okay,” I say. “Sure. Where is it?”

  “West of town on Highway 52. I can pick you up, if you want.”

  “That’d be great.” The thought of walking into a party alone is terrifying. People here aren’t too quick to warm up to strangers.

  “Eight o’clock?”

  “Sure.”

  He walks backward up the trail. “A’ight, then. See you tomorrow.”

  I wave and start down the trail, smiling since I know he can’t see me. I’m not looking forward to being the new girl at school. Knowing Cole will be there gives me some relief and, if I’m honest with myself, something to look forward to. He is pretty cute … but then I always have been a sucker for dimples and a crooked grin.

  Three

  Back at the house, I tiptoe in so as not to wake Granny, but she’s sitting up, watching Wheel of Fortune.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey back atcha. You find somethin’ to do?”

  “Just went for a walk.” I watch the television as Vanna turns over two A’s in what is clearly Amsterdam and I realize I never did check my messages. “I saw that mess up on Tanner’s Peak.”

  “Goddern Peabody!” Granny grumbles. “He’ll have the whole county ground up and left for dead if he keeps on.” She starts coughing again, and I watch her bony shoulders clench together as she hacks away.

  “Your water’s on the end table,” I remind her. “Take a drink.”

  Between coughs, she manages to get a couple swallows down.

  “How long have you had this cold?” I ask.

  “Just a little bitty while,” she says, which I know could mean anything from a couple minutes to a year and a half.

  “And aside from the cough, how are you feeling?”

  “Fair to middling.” That could mean anything from perfectly fine to nearly dead.

  I sit on the arm of the couch and put my feet on the cushion. “I ran into Cole Briggs. Up on the ridge.”

  “Did ya? I see him at church now and again.” Granny cuts her eyes at me sideways. “Turned out cute, didn’t he?”

  One corner of my mouth turns up. “Fair to middling.”

  Vanna flips over the D. “Amsterdam,” Granny yells.

  I remember sitting on this same couch, watching Wheel of Fortune ten years ago. Honestly, I think it’s how I learned to read. “How about I make us some dinner?”

  “That’d be a paradise,” Granny says.

  I hop off the couch and head into the kitchen to check the cabinets. The options are slim—half a loaf of white bread, a block of moldy cheese, and a couple cans of soup. The bottom shelf of the fridge holds a stash of Mountain Dew.

  I cut the mold off and lay thick slices of cheese on the bread. After checking the date on the mayo, I toss it in the trash. Then I melt some butter in the cast-iron skillet and mash the sandwiches into it, waiting until cheddar globs out the sides.

  “Do you want to eat in there?” I call. “Or at the table?”

  “In here, if you don’t mind.”

  I slide a spatula under each sandwich and put them on plates. After grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and a Mountain Dew for Granny, I take one last hopeless look around for veggies or fruit. There’s nothing. A trip to the store tomorrow is at the top of my list.

  I hand Granny her plate and sit down next to her.

  “Muchie grasseras, darlin’.”

  “De nada,” I reply.

  My sandwich is hovering deliciously close to my mouth when Granny says, “Hold yer horsies! Ain’t you forgettin’ something?”

  “Oh right.” I can’t remember the last time I said grace. Something about eating alone doesn’t lend itself to giving thanks. “Sorry.” Putting down my sandwich, I take Granny’s hand and stumble through the words I haven’t said in four years.

  “God is great. God is good. Let us thank him for our food. By his hands, we are fed. Give us Lord, our daily bread. Amen.”

  “Amen and how,” Granny adds, squeezing my hand before she lets go.

  Wheel of Fortune is over. She turns off the television just as Jeopardy! comes on. “I don’t care for that man,” she sa
ys. “Alex Trebek.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s a gol dang know-it-all,” she says through a mouthful of grilled cheese.

  I’ve always felt the same way. Like, he acts like he knows the answers to all the questions, but I bet he really doesn’t.

  “Sure is nice to have you here.” Granny puts her hand on my leg. I guess I’m not used to people touching me, because I jump a little. “I know you’d rather be up home. Hell, this is probably the last place you want to be.” Her blue eyes bore into me like a welding torch. She never was afraid of saying hard things right to people’s faces. “But I’m happy to have you, even if it is selfish.”

  “Thanks, Granny.” I glance out the front window, where the yard is already dark in the shadow of the hill. On the ridge opposite, sunshine lights the tops of the bare trees, making them glow like skeletons against the pink sky. It’s gorgeous and I’m not really lying at all when I say, “It’s nice to be back here.”

  We eat in easy silence, watching the clouds roll through. Slowly, they go from pink to purple to indigo. I swear I can feel my blood thickening, slowing down, matching the pace of the mountain. It’s a stride that feels natural, even after so many years away.

  “How’s your dinner?” I ask Granny.

  She’s finished about half the sandwich. “Dee-licious. But I’m ’bout full as a tick. I believe I’ll wrap this up and save it for tomorrow lunch.”

  She struggles off the couch and shuffles into the kitchen. I shove the last bite into my mouth and follow. “I’ll get the dishes.”

  I turn on the faucet to rinse the plates and almost drop them in the sink. The water’s orange. Like neon. “Whoa. Is this water safe for washing?”

  “County claims it is.”

  “What’s going on with your well?”

  “It’s the mine,” she says. “Ever since they started pulling down that mountain, ever’body’s well water been orange.”

  “Everybody’s?”

  “Them that ain’t dried up all together. Reckon they busted up a rust layer or something, and it’s all running downhill.”

  “Hm.” I’ve seen rusty well water. Granny’s used to get like that if we had a long dry spell. But this isn’t rusty. It’s neon. “Can’t the county do anything about it?”

  “They had the waters tested.” Granny shrugs. “They say it’s safe to drink.”

  I blink twice. “It’s. Orange.”

  Granny chuckles and opens the dishwasher. “I get ya. I don’t drink it. Tastes funny to me. But there ain’t much I can do about washing in it. Hard to fill a washing machine with bottle water.”

  I wonder what it’s going to do to my clothes as I look at the stained inside of the dishwasher. I nudge Granny toward the living room. “I said I’d do the dishes. You go sit down.”

  “I don’t need you waiting on me hand and foot,” she snaps.

  “Good thing. Because I didn’t come here to be your maid,” I say, matching her tone. We glare at each other for a few seconds. “God, I’m just being nice.”

  “Well, I reckon there’s a first time for ever’thing,” she grumbles. But I see her smile as she turns away.

  Loading the dishwasher takes all of thirty seconds, then I’m back on the couch, watching a Matlock rerun. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Cole invited me to a party tomorrow night.”

  “Whose party?” She sounds wary.

  “Some friend of his.”

  “What friend?”

  “I’m not sure.” I try to recall the conversation. “I don’t think he said a name.”

  The wary look remains. “That friend’s parents going to be there?”

  I can’t remember the last time Mom asked where I was going or with whom. It’s nice having someone actually care about me. Nice, but also a little annoying. “I don’t know.”

  “Find out,” she says. “Then we’ll see.”

  I’m not used to having to ask permission to do things. And I’m definitely not used to people telling me no. “Granny, I’m seventeen years old. And it’s just a party.”

  “I am not letting you go off to who knows where, to do who knows what.”

  She’s actually shaking her finger at me. I’d laugh if it wasn’t so irritating.

  “I’m responsible for you, darlin’. What would your mama say if anything happened to you?”

  “First of all”—the mention of that woman puts an edge on my voice—“nothing is going to happen. You know Cole, right? You know his family. They’re good people.”

  “Well, yeah. They go to church regular like.”

  “Second of all, it would be nice to meet some kids from school before I start on Monday.” I let that sink in for a second. “Being at a new school sucks, you know?”

  “I reckon it does.”

  I’m making progress. “And last, it’s just a party.”

  “Well,” she says. “I don’t know. What d’you reckon your mama’d say?”

  I feel the blood rush to my face. “I do not have a mother.”

  I know I’ve gone too far when her cheeks turn red and that wagging finger pops back up. “That’s enough of that! Your mama loves you. I know she’s made some mistakes, but ain’t nobody perfect. Lord, if I had a dime for every mistake I ever made, I’d be richer than God hisself.”

  “You don’t understand,” I say.

  “I understand she’s disappointed you.”

  “That’s the understatement of the year.”

  “And I bet having a mama in prison probably don’t go over too well at that fancy school of yours.” She rubs her chest as she goes on. “But that woman is still your mama. She deserves your respect, even if you can’t love her right now.”

  “Respect? Are you freaking kidding me?” The struggle to keep my voice calm isn’t working. “You don’t know what it was like. She was never home. Never. I made my own dinners. I did the laundry and kept the house clean. I paid the bills because she always forgot. Most every night, I came home to an empty house because she had ‘work’ to do. I went weeks—I’m not kidding, weeks—without seeing her.” I’m pretty much yelling now. “She deserves a lot of things, but respect isn’t one of them. I’m glad she went to prison. I hope they find her guilty and she stays there for the rest of her miserable life.”

  “Liberty!”

  I storm past her, heading for my room, when she starts coughing again. I get about halfway down the hall before I realize she can’t stop. Turning back, I head to the fridge to get her some more water.

  “Hey, stop that,” I say as I hand her the open bottle.

  She’s bent nearly double, clutching her chest. When she manages to take a drink, her cough quiets.

  I sit next to her and rub her back. “Monday, I’m taking you to the doctor.”

  “Psh, he can’t do nothing,” she says.

  “Have you been to see him?”

  She shakes her head and takes another sip of water.

  Figures. “You’re going on Monday, then.”

  “You’re right bossy,” she says. “You know that?”

  I smile and squeeze her shoulder. “Yeah. I get that from my grandmother.”

  Four

  Most grocery stores I’ve been in look the same—fluorescent lights, bad music, moms with full carts, and screaming kids. You can be totally anonymous in a grocery store anywhere in the world. Except here. People in the mountains have a sixth sense about strangers. They know you don’t belong, didn’t grow up here, didn’t morph out of the dirt and rocks like their ancestors did a billion years ago, so they stare. The employees, the moms, the old men standing in front of the store, even the kids—they all stare. It’s rude. And unnerving.

  I hurry through the shopping, trying to ignore the stares and wishing I’d taken Granny up on her offer to come along. At least I’d have somebody to tal
k to. Before I left, she gave me twenty dollars and a SNAP card. SNAP stands for Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, which is a fancy way of saying food stamps. I’m embarrassed that I didn’t know Granny was on food stamps. Almost as embarrassed as I am to be using them myself.

  When I’m done, the cart seems awfully empty, considering this food has to last us a week. The two cases of bottled water and the twelve pack of Mountain Dew take up most of the cash. I put back the green pepper and fresh broccoli and toss in a bag of rice and a big carton of oatmeal instead. More food, less money. I count up the change from the bottom of my purse and have just enough to buy a package of cough drops for Granny. It feels weird to be scrounging for money. MFM’s job might have taken her away from home, but she got a halfway decent paycheck every month. Enough, at least, that I usually had more than sixty-seven cents.

  As I’m standing in the checkout line, hiding the SNAP card in my sleeve till the last minute, I overhear a woman in the next lane talking about her daughter.

  “Doctor says she might have some trouble with the birth, her being so young,” the woman says. “But so far she’s doing good.”

  “What d’you reckon will happen after the baby comes?” asks the woman behind her.

  “She says she’s gonna keep it.” The first woman shakes her head. Her hair is streaked with gray and her eyes are so tired they look like they’re sinking down into her cheeks. I feel sorry for her and guilty for eavesdropping, but it’s like a train wreck. I can’t stop.

  “She don’t have any idea what it’s gonna be like. Thinks she can get a after-school job to pay for day care and still finish school.”

  “Pff. That ain’t gonna happen.”

  “Don’t I know it? She don’t listen though.”

  “They never do.”

  I wonder if Granny stood in line here seventeen years ago and had the same conversation with one of her friends about MFM.

  The lady sighs. “I reckon we’ll end up raising the baby, at least till she graduates.”

  “Where’s the daddy?”