by Mary Knight
“And so it begins,” Papaw says.
Helen stares down the road at the cameras as the others wait for direction. “We do not usually allow the photographing of sacred ceremonies, but in this case, we must make an exception.” She motions for her people to gather along Ol’ Charley’s trunk—the part we have just blessed. For such a small, seemingly frail woman, she commands a heap of respect. She nods. They lift.
“Come, you two.” She extends her hand up the path toward our property. “Show us the way.” Helen, Papaw, and Mrs. C drop in behind us, followed by the rest of the group carrying Ol’ Charley.
I try to keep my mind focused on the sacredness of the procession—but I can’t help but wonder if those cameras are getting any of this on film. Maybe it’s all those reality shows Jules and I watched while Papaw was gone, but I’ve got to believe this could get us the kind of publicity Helen is hoping for.
Once we make the climb to the plateau, I show Helen the area I have in mind, several yards from my family’s graves. Her people set Ol’ Charley down but continue to stand around like they’re waiting for further instructions.
I feel a sudden rush of sadness seeing Ol’ Charley stripped of his branches and out of the woods like this. Jules and I will never again crawl into his hollow trunk to get away from it all. I’ll never lift her onto our branch again, follow her up, and dillydally the day away. Lord knows I could use some dillydallying right about now.
And yet, here he is. Helen’s ceremony has helped me see we still have him in a way. It’s like Jules and I have our own church now, up here with my kin. The Church of Ol’ Charley.
“How do you want us to place him?” Helen asks me gently, waking me from my thoughts. “When you sit on Ol’ Charley, which way do you want to look?”
I think about the seven directions. Do I want to face east up the mountain, or west toward home? After all, both places are sacred.
“That way,” I say, pointing north. Helen nods and motions for her people to set Ol’ Charley down in the tall grass, just so.
Jules searches in the direction I pointed, as if she’s wondering what kind of sacred site I have in mind, or maybe if I’ve lost my mind.
“Why north, Curley?”
I pull up a long stalk of grass and nod in the direction of her home.
“Because that’s where you are.”
Venerable—adjective
1 : capable of being venerated; worthy of veneration or reverence; deserving of honor and respect; generally implying an advanced age
2 : rendered sacred by religious or other associations; that should be regarded with awe and treated with reverence; as, the venerable walls of a temple or a church
Lunch period is the first chance Jules and I get to see JD and fill him in on everything that’s happened in the last forty-eight hours since we saw him. Turns out, he already knew about a lot of it. I guess you could say he has an inside source.
“Yeah, my old man was telling me about knocking down your tree at dinner the other night. He said you guys created quite the scene.” He puts an arm around Jules, who’s sitting next to him at the lunch table, and gives her a little squeeze. He looks across the table at me. “I love a girl who’s got swag, don’t you?”
If I didn’t know about rhetorical questions (r word, fifth grade), I’d be tempted to answer that, but watching Jules’s reaction is a lot more interesting. What JD might think is a smile is most definitely a wince.
“That tree that your father ‘knocked down’ was three hundred years old—sacred to the Cherokee and sacred to me!” She shrugs his arm off her shoulder. “And that ‘swag,’ as you call it, came from losing one of the most important parts of my childhood. Our childhood—Curley’s and mine.” She scowls at me across the table, like it’s my fault, too.
“Hey, Jules, I wasn’t dissing you, honest.” JD shoots me this pleading look.
“Yeah, Jules. JD was trying to compliment you, you know; he loves that you’re a fighter.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” JD brightens. “You know there’s nothing I’d rather see than somebody getting the best of my old man.” JD leans over to look up into Jules’s face, all puppy-dog-like. “I’m proud of you.”
Jules starts packing up her lunch tray like she’s leaving on vacation. Knife and fork here, milk carton there, wadded napkin tossed into her uneaten beef stew. “For your information, James David Tiverton III, we did not get the best of your father. He cut Ol’ Charley down.” She slams the tray on the table for effect, picks it up again, and is gone.
“What the … ?”
Poor guy has no idea what just happened, and I want to make him feel better, honest I do. But nothing I can say could possibly change the way he looks at the world … or Jules.
“Sorry, JD,” I say. “I think she just wanted to hear that you’re sorry about her tree.”
Mrs. C picks Jules and me up at school at the end of the day to drive us back to my house for our press conference. She tries to prepare us for what to expect. Now that our video has gone viral, it seems that some of our viewers have taken me up on my invitation to visit Wonder Gap.
“Your fan base has arrived by the droves,” Mrs. C says. “They’re all looking for Ol’ Charley, of course, and they get awful mad when they find out what happened to him. Three people from Ohio even lay down in front of the bulldozer before it got to Ol’ Charley’s stump and wouldn’t let it pass. Tiverton’s men finally had to shut down operations altogether, at least for today.”
Jules and I are excited about all that, of course, and grateful for the support, but the mention of “droves” of people invading our holler has both of us on edge. That, plus the thought of all of those cameras staring us down, and we’ve got a serious case of the willies.
“My stomach’s got butterflies,” Jules says, chewing on a chunk of her hair.
“Mine has squirrels,” I say, and she laughs. “I’m serious, Jules. It feels like they’re tumbling all over each other.”
It’s not as if we haven’t thought about what we’re doing. Mr. Amons met with us during study hall to go over the questions the press threw out at us earlier today as we left for school and didn’t have time to answer. When we got to the question “What’s the nature of your relationship?” Jules and I looked at each other, waiting for the other to answer first.
“Well?” Mr. A waited expectantly. “This one should be easy.”
“Friends,” I finally said.
“Right … friends,” Jules echoed.
Mr. A cocked his head to the side for a second. “And so … it would seem that the simple answer to ‘Are you dating?’ would be … ?”
“No,” we both answered simultaneously.
“Okay, then,” he said, running his hand over his bald spot, “as long as you’re both on the same page. You can always answer, ‘No comment,’ but I wouldn’t advise it. They’ll come at you like a school of piranhas.” I found this about as reassuring as when Mrs. C told me that Papaw was okay but was on his way to the hospital in a helicopter.
In addition to prepping us, Mr. A has offered to come to the press conference and hand out fact sheets about mountaintop removal. He said he thinks it’s important that folks hear about the “bigger picture.”
“One of these days, Curley, I think you’re going to find that saving your mountain isn’t enough.”
“That’s just fine, Mr. A, but until that day comes, saving Red Hawk is about all I’ve got the stomach for.” When I consider what this fight has already meant to me and Papaw, I hate to think what an entire mountain range would cost.
Mrs. C eases her Jeep through the throngs of people waving and cheering at us on both sides of my driveway and, of course, we wave back. They’re as crazy excited as a crowd at a homecoming football game. As a kid who never made the cut into varsity anything, I never thought I’d get to feel this way.
Some folks are waving signs that read, SAVE RED HAWK MOUNTAIN and JUST SAY NO TO COAL. One sign even says, A TOP
LESS MOUNTAIN IS AN OXYMORON, which, I don’t mind telling you, adds to the thrill.
“Look, Curley, they quoted you!” Jules says, as if reading my mind.
Mrs. C pulls into the side yard away from the crowd that’s forming around the front porch, where a microphone stand has been set up above the steps. We jump out of the Jeep and rush through the back door into the kitchen, where Papaw and Aunt Gertie are waiting for us with fresh-baked cookies and milk.
“Oh, Papaw, I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” I say, nibbling around the edges of an oatmeal raisin cookie.
“Me neither,” says Jules. She’s ignored the cookies altogether, which isn’t like her at all. She’s sitting next to me at the kitchen table and kicking my chair with her foot. I don’t think she even knows she’s doing it.
“There are only two things you need to remember,” Papaw says, lighting his pipe. “Be yourselves.” How many times have I heard that one?
“And?”
“And remember what you stand for.”
No sooner does he say that than I start thinking about Tiverton Coal torching trees and blowing up Red Hawk, and I’m itching to talk. Papaw blows a stream of smoke out the side of his mouth and leans in closer to me. I can smell the woodsy scent of his breath.
“All the answers you need are inside you, Curley. You know that. But … if for some reason you get stuck, don’t be afraid to wonder. Wonder aloud.”
I’m always on the lookout for my next word, but until a few weeks ago, I’ve only needed to pay attention on Sundays. These days, they’re coming at me every which way like a field full of fillies.
“That’s the next word, isn’t it, Papaw? Wonder?”
Papaw chuckles. “Well, now that you mention it, I guess wonder is your next word. It makes sense, doesn’t it, considering where we come from?” He slaps me on the back. “Feel free to use it or not, son, but I will say this: Wonder has a way of opening folks up.”
“Come on, Curley. Let’s do this thing.” Jules pulls me out of my chair. Her cheeks are flushed, and I wonder if I’ll ever get to stick my finger in that dang dimple of hers.
“Curley?” she says. Her hand waits in the air.
“Oh, right,” I say, giving her a high five, perfectly placed, I might add.
“For our mountain,” she says.
“For our mountain!” Aunt Gertie, Papaw, and Mrs. C repeat as they gently nudge us out the door.
The crowd erupts as soon as we walk onto the porch, hundreds of them, screaming and cheering and shaking signs. The only thing I’ve experienced that comes close to this feeling is that UK Wildcat basketball game Papaw took me to last winter up in Lexington. As soon as the team took the floor, the crowd went wild—hooting and hollering something awful. So this is kind of like that, only without the indoor fireworks, if you can imagine. There is also a row of cameras, some with enormous lenses, lined up in front of the porch, and a dozen or so reporters holding microphones.
As planned, Mrs. C speaks to the crowd first, giving them some background on Tiverton Coal and what the company is planning on doing to our mountain. Honestly, I don’t hear much of it since I’m so busy searching the crowd for anyone I might know. Papaw says it’s a good idea to pick out somebody and talk to that one person. That’s part of his “all it takes is one” rule. That way you don’t get to feeling overwhelmed.
Thankfully, I find a number of familiar faces to choose from. Mr. A’s here, of course, milling through the crowd, passing out flyers. And there are the Donnelly sisters, Ida and Rosa May. They look kind of closed in and anxious, what with all the jumping and hollering going on around them. Anna Ludlow and her ma are standing at the edge of the crowd over by Ma’s peonies. Mrs. Ludlow has her head wrapped in a blue-and-white-checkered scarf. Anna doesn’t talk about it much, but I know Mrs. C’s been driving Mrs. Ludlow to the hospital for chemo. Mrs. C says she’s got a rare form of leukemia caused by their tainted drinking water, another deadly effect of mountaintop removal, or so Mrs. C says.
I’m wondering how hard the whole thing must be for Anna, when I notice Gordy the dozer guy standing way in the back with an older man in a Harley jacket, both of them grinning like they’re at some kind of motorcycle rally. I bet the older guy is his pa. Gordy catches my eye and tips his cap.
Sheriff Whitaker and several of his deputies are stationed on either side of the porch, I guess to make sure we don’t start a riot or anything. They all look pretty happy. This kind of radical activity doesn’t come through Wonder Gap very often. I don’t see Sheriff Whitaker’s ma, though. I could really use Helen’s venerable presence right about now.
I don’t know how I could have missed him, but I see Jules break into a smile and wave at JD standing smack-dab in the middle of everything, right behind the line of reporters and cameras. I guess at some point today, they must have made up. I’m surprised to see him here in enemy territory, though. Mr. A must have given him a ride. If Mr. Tiverton finds out he’s here, there’ll be hell to pay.
JD gives Jules and me a thumbs-up. We give it right back.
I still haven’t decided on that one person I’m going to talk to, when all of a sudden, Mrs. C is introducing us. On the way home from school, Jules and I decided that I would be the main speaker, although she’s promised to jump right in if she thinks of something to say, or if I go blank. She said, “Don’t worry, Curley. I’ve got your back,” which is something JD would say, but I didn’t mind. It sounded pretty good to me.
“Hi, y’all!” I shout. My voice echoes through the holler, and I remember Aunt Gertie warning me to let the mike do the work. “Welcome to Wonder Gap!” Jules and I wave. More applause. Folks are waving back.
As I wait for everyone to settle down, I notice this guy standing behind JD with his arms crossed tight over his chest. He has this grim look on his face, and I wonder if he’s one of Mr. Tiverton’s men come to spy on the proceedings. But no, I think he’s just unhappy.
He’s the one.
“Jules and I are glad you’re here,” I begin, looking right at him. His gaze is so intense that I already need a break from it. “But if you don’t mind my saying, all y’all are looking the wrong way.” It’s funny to see everybody look around, the man included, wondering what the heck I’m talking about.
“A really good friend of mine once said that Red Hawk isn’t just my mountain, it’s our mountain.” JD’s grinning from ear to ear. “At the time, he meant it was mine and Jules’s. Recently, I discovered that the Cherokee also treasure it. And now that you are here, it’s your mountain, too. So go ahead, turn around and take a nice long look.”
Most everyone does just that, which I appreciate. It’s that time of day when the trees at the top of the mountain are bathed in golden light from a low-hanging sun. We couldn’t have asked for a more spectacular view.
“This is what Jules and I used to do when we sat up in Ol’ Charley. We’d sit there and stare at our mountain and wonder about it, like how it got there and how could anything be so beautiful. We didn’t need to talk. It’s like the mountain did our talking for us.”
Some people continue to gaze. Others, like the man, turn back to listen. He seems suspicious of me, like he thinks I’m playing some kind of trick.
“A mountain like Red Hawk inspires us to wonder,” I continue. “Take away the mountain and our wonder is gone.”
Right now, I’m wondering about that man.
“Who are you?” I say with more edge to my voice than I’d like. Jules whips her head around and stares at me, like I’ve lost my mind. A familiar look.
“Why are you here?” I pause for a moment, as if expecting an answer.
“Perhaps you work for a coal company, and you think your life depends on coal. If that’s true, I respect that. I used to think my life depended on coal, too.” I notice Gordy the dozer guy nodding along with a few other folks.
“But then I realized that the life I was holding on to on account of coal wasn’t a life I wanted to live, es
pecially if it meant living without my mountain.”
I hear a few whistles and a catcall or two. JD shouts, “Tell it, Curley!”
“You see …” I listen to the echo of my voice rolling through the holler, and I feel my mind go blank. I know I had something really important to say, but it just took off, like the train left the station without me. “You see …” Any second now, I’m expecting it to come on back.
Someone shouts: “We love you, Curley Hines!” A tall, blond-haired girl toward the back of the crowd is jumping up and down with three of her girlfriends. Now I’m wondering where they came from, but, thankfully, not out loud like Papaw wanted me to do.
Jules rolls her eyes at me and steps up to the mike. “I think what Curley’s trying to say …” She waits for the cheering section in the back to settle down and then begins again.
“I think what we both want you to know …” Her voice catches like a sob is stuck at the back of her throat, but she pushes through it. “Oh, gosh … We miss our tree.”
A full kind of quiet settles on the crowd. I find myself clearing my throat even though Jules is the one talking. That girl. She has a way of cutting to the chase, as Papaw would say, with just a few thin words.
“As many of you know, Tiverton Coal cut Ol’ Charley down yesterday to make way for a mining road.” Jules waits for the booing to stop. “But as much as Curley and I are going to miss sitting up in Ol’ Charley, we would miss our mountain a whole lot more. It’s kind of like Curley was saying. Around these parts, life without a mountain to wonder on is no life at all.”
Well, that does it. Watching her talk from her heart like that makes mine bust wide open, and before I know it, I’m planting a kiss on her cheek in the vicinity of that dimple, right in front of God, our neighbors, Lexington News at 6, and, well, everybody.
Jules pulls back a few inches from my face and stares at me. I expect her to give me that “have you lost your ever-lovin’ mind” look, but she’s full-out blushing instead. She reaches for my arm to steady herself.