by Gin Phillips
Virgie PAPA WAS UNDER THE HOUSE, CHECKING POTATOES. They kept longer under there, weren’t as likely to rot, but Mama also liked to keep a sackful in the kitchen. A sackful of potatoes could weigh a good bit, and Papa’d said he’d carry it up for her. I hated to interrupt him, but I wanted to talk to him while I had my nerve worked up.
“Papa, I want to talk to you about what I’m doin’ after school.”
His head and shoulders were under the house, and his answer echoed a little under the porch. “You wantin’ to go over to somebody’s house? Ask your mama about that.”
“No. I mean after high school.”
“Um-hm?” I could tell he was still thinking more about potatoes than about me.
“Well, I’ve got to do somethin’. I know that. Somethin’ to bring in money.”
He’d backed out from under the porch, two potatoes in each hand. He probably could have held three. “What’re you thinkin’, girl?”
He asked me like he was truly curious, and like whatever answer I gave would be a smart one and a right one. Like he’d asked Mama something, not me. “Hours aren’t so good with nursin’,” I said. “They work long shifts, days and nights. And I don’t care too much for sick people.”
He nodded, still holding the potatoes.
“I was thinkin’ maybe teachin’. Miss Etheridge says I would be good at it.”
He leaned against the house, hands in his pockets. “Teacher’s college costs money.”
I’d thought of that. “Two years of school. And I know I’d have to look to you for help. I s’pose that’s what I’m askin’ you, Papa. If you’d help me to go.”
Papa smiled a slow, lopsided smile and took a step toward me. He reached out and tucked my hair behind my ear, which I couldn’t ever think of him doing before. “I figured you’d be headed somewhere, Virgie. Knew you’d be up for makin’ somethin’ of yourself. Been plannin’ on sendin’ you to school. I didn’t know what kind you’d want, or even if you’d want it really. But it sounds like you been puttin’ some real thought into it.”
“I have.”
“You know I’d do anything in the world for you, girl. I can’t tell you how, but we’ll find a way to make school happen for you. I promise.”
I knew if Papa promised, it would happen.
Albert HAVING JONAH ROCKING NEXT TO ME ON THE PORCH wasn’t much different than having Oscar or Ban. Didn’t say too much. We’d mention a cardinal or a blue jay that lit nearby. Point out a woodpecker or a chipmunk. Mostly we rocked. Leta brought us a refill for our coffee, smiling at Jonah and waiting on him like she would any friend of mine. Whatever thoughts she might have, she’d never be rude. Didn’t have it in her.
“So you think I’m bein’ foolish,” I said to Jonah finally, second cup of coffee half gone. “You sayin’ you ain’t bothered by bein’ treated different, treated like a Negro not a man?”
“Oh, I’m bothered by it. More than you’d ever get a handle on. But I know who I am, where I am.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Who’s gone change things, Albert? You? Me? Shoot, when’s the last time you slept more than six hours straight? When you didn’t work longer than the sun does? Ain’t no time for shakin’ up things, Albert. Ain’t no energy left for it.”
“Don’t mean we can’t try.”
“You tell me where you’re gone carve that time outta your day, when you gone fit in changin’ the world?”
I liked to think the white fellows I worked with didn’t much care who I had to dinner. I knew for a fact most of ’em wouldn’t. But if a few took offense, the wrong few? Might mean a tough time at work, might mean Jack not getting a job when he got ready for one or the girls’ friends bein’ told not to come visit. I needed every penny, every scrap of goodwill to get Virgie to college. But even if it weren’t for her, I couldn’t stomach the thought of all that ugliness. Men in this town had put their backs to the wall for us, saved us when it came to payin’ that hospital bill. I needed that, my family needed that safety net if anything happened to me. I knew it, and Jonah knew it. Knew it before I did. I just didn’t want supper to mean so much.
“So you ain’t gone do supper,” I said.
He shook his head.
“But coffee’s alright?”
He coughed out a laugh. “Reckon it is.”
“You want another cup?” I asked.
“If you’re offerin’.”
Tess JACK DID SHOOT A DEER THE NEXT SUMMER, LIKE I’D asked him to. Papa skinned it and cleaned it, then gave away a good bit of it. We still had so much left that Mama came up with a week’s worth of venison recipes. The first night we had great hunks of venison on our plates, spiced heavy from all Mama’s little glass jars. She’d spooned the meat over a plateful of mashed potatoes.
The burn of the black pepper and the relief of the mashed potatoes made me think of the deer. Soft hide and sharp antlers.
“How did it feel to shoot that deer, Jack?” I asked. “Were you scared? Did it look dangerous? Or did you feel bad about it ’cause it was pretty?”
He answered with his mouth full. “Both, I guess.”
He figured that out quicker than I did. That the right answer could be more than one thing at the same time.
Acknowledgments
Many sources—including my family—helped me firm up the details of 1930s Alabama, particularly in terms of mining. I drew from The Challenge of Interracial Unionism: Alabama Coal Miners 1878–1921 by Daniel Letwin; Race, Class, and Power in the Alabama Coalfields, 1908–1921 by Brian Kelly; The WPA Guide to 1930s Alabama; Blocton: The History of an Alabama Coal Mining Town by Charles Edward Adams; Outside the Magic Circle by Virginia Foster Durr; Poor But Proud by Wayne Flynt; Black Days, Black Dust: The Memories of an African American Coal Miner by Robert Armstead; and Coal Mining in Alabama. I’m grateful to the Carbon Hill Library and the Alabama Mining Museum, as well as to Fred Leith and Shelby Harbin.
Thanks to Kate Sage for generally being spectacular and for specifically leaving every page of this stronger than she found it. Thanks to Tillman and Anne Sprouse for always being there for fact-checking and storytelling, to Barry Flowers for the legal advice, to Brad Daly for mining museum treks, and to Brittney Knox for research help. Mom, Dad, and Lisa—no one could have asked for more support in work and in life. I appreciate you more than you could know. Diann Frucci and Karen Etheridge, you’re the best. Thanks to those who read this early on and put up with unwieldy stacks of paper—to Jamie and Beth for being thorough and thoughtful, to Brooke for always being so sure. And to Fred for reading a whole lot of drafts of a whole lot of stories and making me a whole lot better.
Gin Phillips lives in Birmingham, Alabama;
The Well and the Mine is her first novel.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
Introduction
1 Water Calling
2 Daylight
3 Cicada Shells
4 No Pay for Slate
5 Jonah
6 Picking Cotton
7 Telling Stories
8 The Well Woman
9 Coffee and Supper
Acknowledgments
About the Author