“We’re almost to the old train bridge,” Ralph said to Marie. “You want to walk across it?”
“Isn’t that a little dangerous?” Sofie asked, catching up to Ralph.
“Not really. It hasn’t been used in years. Besides, we’ll have a nice view of the river from up there.”
Sofie looked back at Jack, who shrugged his shoulders. He wasn’t concerned, but then he had probably never seen the structure they were about to cross. The old wooden bridge was not in terrible shape, but it had been abandoned by the glass factory when a more modern steel bridge was constructed closer to the factory’s rail yard a few years earlier. The timber bridge was only used now by brave, thrill-seeking teenagers. They dove from it during the spring and early summer when the river was running especially high.
“The bank up to the bridge is steep. I’ll climb up first and give you a hand,” Ralph said to Marie, who seemed a little too eager to accept his assistance.
Hoping to head off a chivalrous gesture from Jack, Sofie called over her shoulder, “I can manage the hill by myself.” She pulled up her dress and dashed up the bank effortlessly.
“You’re fast for a girl,” Jack said from behind her. “Must be those long legs of yours.”
Sofie turned around with a ready glare. “For a girl! What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” Jack smiled apologetically as he caught up to her. “It’s pretty up here,” he said, his eyes widening as he surveyed the steep river valley. “Especially at this time of year.”
“Yes, it’s beautiful.” Sofie scanned the hillside across the river from town, admiring the red, orange, and yellow leaves awash with the glow of the afternoon sun. She watched as its rays sparkled on the surface of the river, making the waves look as though they carried priceless gems with them downstream. Sofie took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of drying leaves and smoke from a wood-burning fireplace upwind. “Don’t you just love autumn?”
Hearing no reply, she turned toward Jack. His face was ashen. “Is something wrong? You look sick.”
“I think I got a little dizzy from looking down at the river. We must be forty feet up from the water,” he stammered.
“At least. You definitely wouldn’t want to fall. It would kill you if the water were running low. Luckily, the river’s still high from last weekend’s storms.”
“That’s a relief, I guess.” Jack glanced toward the middle of the bridge where Ralph and Marie were locked in a tight embrace, noses only inches apart. He watched as the two kissed, Marie ending the tender moment with a giggle.
Sofie rolled her eyes. “I think we should turn back now.”
“Are you sure?” Jack took a step closer, an expectant look on his face.
Sofie studied the blonde boy. He was certainly attractive with his thick, wavy hair and bright blue eyes. And he was tall. It was a nice change to not have to look down at a boy. Sofie even found his barnyard stories and country mannerisms endearing. So why didn’t she want him to kiss her?
As Jack leaned toward her, his lips puckered, Sofie felt the urge to flee. “Look at the size of that beaver!” She pointed down at the river’s edge.
Jack leaned over the side of the bridge. “Where? I don’t see him.”
“Damn it!” Sofie grumbled. “He disappeared in the brush.” She grabbed Jack’s arm and led him back toward the path. “You’re pale again. This bridge is no place for you.” Satisfied with her diversion, she called over her shoulder, “It’s getting late, Marie. Your mother will be sending your brothers to look for you soon.”
Sofie smiled when she heard quick footsteps behind her.
Thirty-One
POLE
ABBOTT’S HOLLOW, OCTOBER 1, 1917
“It’s Monday mornin’. Shouldna we heard some noise by now? Isn’t there a rescue crew coming for us?” Mickey asked, a hint of desperation in his voice.
Pole wrapped his arm around the boy lying next to him. He wondered if he should stop checking his pocket watch every time he turned his headlamp on. Mickey had seemed especially upset the previous evening when Pole had announced it was Sunday night. He’d begun spending less time beside Gus and more time with his human companions ever since. “I wish I knew, Mickey.”
“It’s only been two and a half days,” Hamish said. “I wouldn’t start worryin’ until the fourth or fifth day.”
“I’m awful hungry,” Mickey whined. “My water’s almost gone, too.”
“That’s why I had you lads piss in my lunch bucket. We can start drinking it soon as our water runs out. We need to kill one or two of them rats today. I heard them over by Gus this mornin’.”
Pole trembled. He couldn’t believe he was going to spend his last days on Earth drinking piss and eating rats. He had seen a lot of tragedy in his twenty years, but had never imagined his life might come to such a horrific end. When Hamish handed him his lunch bucket on Saturday morning and ordered him to collect the mule’s piss, he knew they were in deep.
“I don’t think I can drink piss,” Mickey said, his voice breaking. “And I can’t eat a raw rat either.” He started to cry.
Pole hugged Mickey tightly as his chest began to heave, his sobbing growing more intense. He wondered whether God would show them mercy and cut off their oxygen supply. Surely that would be a quick death. But surprisingly, as Pole sat in the quiet stillness of the mine, he continued to detect a slight draft coming from the collapsed end of Ruthie Tunnel. He had mentioned it to Hamish over the weekend, and the two had concluded that the mountain of rubble contained gaps large enough to allow air to flow through. Pole couldn’t decide whether that was a blessing or a curse.
Over the past few days, he had considered the agony of a slow death from thirst or starvation and was not sure he could bear it. Fortunately, he had weeks before he would meet that end. Hamish was hell-bent on killing Gus once the supply of rats ran out. The mule’s meat would last for a week or longer in the cool temperatures underground.
“Hamish, you never explained how my pop died. Why didn’t you tell me you were trapped together?” Pole asked, suddenly remembering what the old-timer had said shortly after the roof collapse on Friday night.
“There was never any sense. It wouldna brought you comfort.”
“Why is that?”
“Yer daddy was a real bastart—mean and bitter to the very end. You know how you hear about people softening up at death’s door … leavin’ apologies for their kin?” Hamish asked.
“Sure.”
“That wasn’t yer daddy. He was gripin’ and complainin’ up until he took his last breath. He hadn’t a drink in over three days—he was mighty crabby. And he was saying such crazy things.” Hamish sighed. “I hate to admit it, but I was relieved when he finally passed.”
“What did he say?” Pole was desperate to know more about the man who had been such a mystery to him. Even after they’d moved to Abbott’s Hollow, his father remained distant, disappearing for days at a time. He rarely showed up to work at the mine, but always seemed to have enough money for booze. He often walked to Portage on Friday nights and caught a train to Johnstown. Pole assumed his father had found himself a nice whorehouse and was spending his weekends there. He never understood how his pop had paid for his wild lifestyle in the last months of his life.
“Come on, Pole. You don’t need the details. You already know yer daddy wasn’t a good man. Do you need to know any more than that?”
“I’m a grown man now. I want to know what he said.”
“Och, damn it! Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Hamish coughed, wincing as he grabbed his side. “Yer daddy was brag-gin’ about some robbery in that town you came from near Pittsburgh.”
“Riverton?”
“Maybe that was it. Anyway, he and his friend got away with a good bit of cash.”
“That’s not very shocking.”
“Well, there’s more. He was ramblin’ on about how a dying man should probably repent for his sins, but he felt no re
morse. He didn’t give a damn that the man they robbed got killed.”
Pole gasped. “Are you telling me my pop was a murderer?”
“Not in this case. He said the woman who helped him with the robbery did the killin’. Hit the guy over the head, I think. Yer daddy said the rich bastart deserved what he got, and he never lost any sleep over it. He wondered if that guaranteed him a place in hell.”
Suddenly, it all made sense to Pole. That was the reason his father had whisked him away to the Allegheny Mountains all those years ago. He’d been involved in a robbery and had come away with enough cash to pay for booze and whores for months.
“Did my pop ever mention the name of the man who was killed?”
“Nah, just that he was some rich guy who worked at the mill. Some sort of boss. I do remember him describing the curvy blonde who did the killin’. I think she was the man’s housekeeper. Yer daddy suspected she was doing more than keeping house.”
Pole’s empty stomach lurched. Could the curvy blonde have been Mrs. Kovac? Sofie’s mother? She had worked for a mill manager, but Pole couldn’t remember the man’s name. It was lost to him, buried deep within the recesses of his memory, along with everything else he’d chosen to forget about Riverton.
“You all right?” a soft voice whispered in the dark.
It was Mickey. Pole had forgotten about the boy nestled under his armpit. “Sure, kid. Why?”
“You’re squeezin’ me kinda hard.”
Pole suddenly realized he had a firm grip on the boy’s arm. His head was spinning, and he had unconsciously grabbed the thing closest to him for support. “I’m sorry … but that story,” he said breathlessly.
“I told you there was no point in tellin’ it,” Hamish said.
“Your daddy sounds like a mean man, Pole. You’re probably better off without him,” Mickey said. “I think my mama was relieved when my daddy disappeared a few months ago. I know I was. Course, he’s the reason I’m stuck in this mine.”
“No doubt,” Hamish said. “Hard to find a man who wants to stick around and take care of his children. Sorry if I upset you, Pole. I thought you knew what kind of man yer daddy was.”
Pole took a deep breath and leaned his head back against the coal face. “I’ve always known who my pop was. I’m just shocked about the woman in the story.”
“You know who she was?” Hamish asked excitedly.
“I think it was my best friend’s mother. She worked as a housekeeper for a manager at the mill. And I guess she knew my pop well enough to get in on one of his schemes. She once worked at the boarding house where we lived.”
“I wonder what happened to her,” said Mickey. “If she ever got caught.”
“I don’t know,” Pole said. “I went back to Riverton to find my friend a couple years after my pop moved us here to the mountains. I wanted to tell her I was sorry I couldn’t get back to the city for a while—at least not until my sister was older.”
“Ah … so it was an old sweetheart you went to find,” Hamish said.
Pole felt his cheeks grow hot. He was momentarily grateful to be stuck in the depths of the earth with no sunlight to illuminate his reddening face. He had never considered Sofie a sweetheart. She was only ten years old when he’d known her. But she had been like family to him, as much a sister as Lily now was.
“She wasn’t a sweetheart,” Pole snapped. He hadn’t thought about Sofie in a long time and wasn’t sure he wanted to discuss her with a scrappy old Scot and a young kid.
“Didn’t mean to ruffle yer feathers, lad. But judgin’ by yer reaction, I’d say the lass was important to you. Did you ever find her?” Another painful cough from Hamish.
Pole sighed. “No. I went to her house to see her, but her entire block was burnt to the ground, and her neighbors were gone. I even went by the boarding house where I used to live to see if Sofie left an address with Mrs. Janosik, but she was dead.”
“Who’s Mrs. Janosik?” Mickey asked.
“She was the owner of the house. If Sofie wanted me to find her, she woulda left word with Mrs. Janosik.”
“Maybe she did,” Hamish said. “Maybe you got there too late for the woman to tell you anything.”
“I don’t know. I wrote to Sofie for a whole year after I moved to Abbott’s Hollow, and I never heard from her. I wish I knew what happened to her.”
“Maybe she moved too—before her block burnt down. Maybe she never got your letters,” Mickey said hopefully.
“It doesn’t matter now. I’ll probably never see her again.” Pole closed his eyes. He remembered the last time he saw Sofie. She was standing on her front porch in her nightgown, her long blonde hair in tangles around her face. She was so angry when he told her he had to leave town, but Pole promised he would come back. And Sofie believed him. She’d always trusted him completely.
Pole groaned. He was still haunted by that unkept promise.
“I’m sure you’ve got someone special waitin’ for you to get outta this mine. Maybe a girl in Portage?” Hamish asked. “You’re a fine lookin’ fella.”
“No. Just my little sister.”
“Not even that pretty Irish blonde?” asked Mickey. “You know the one who works at the five-and-dime? What’s her name?”
“Kathleen. She’s fun, that’s for sure. But she’s not the type I’d like to marry.”
“Yeah, I heard she’s a little loose,” Mickey said.
Pole thought of the few times he had been with Kathleen. She was a wild young girl determined to shed her Irish Catholic roots and rebel against her strict parents. She had a taste for whiskey and enjoyed the company of a wide variety of men. Pole was certain she lacked the decency required to catch a respectable husband, but surprisingly, she didn’t seem to care. She was content with her untamed lifestyle and did an impressive job of hiding her adventures from her naive parents.
“Nothing wrong with waitin’ for the right girl to come along. When you see her, Pole, you’ll know it,” Hamish said. “Now let’s quiet down. We need to listen for them rats. When you hear one come near you, smash it with a rock.”
“Won’t that be hard to do in the dark?” Mickey asked.
“I don’t need any light, but you can use one of them headlamps if you like. Hold on, lemme get a match,” Hamish mumbled.
Pole listened as Hamish dug through his pockets, his loose change jingling noisily. “I thought we wanted to try and kill a rat or two. Not scare them away.”
“You’re a scunner, now aren’t you?” barked Hamish.
Suddenly, Pole saw a tiny flicker of light burst into a bright flame. The headlamp was lit. It was the first time he had seen his companions’ faces in twelve hours or more. Pole was alarmed at how pale Hamish looked.
“I’ll hold the headlamp, Hamish. You get some rest. Me and Mickey will hunt rats.” Pole took the headlamp from Hamish and studied the old-timer’s face. He looked tired and weak. “Mickey, you go sit by Gus. Stay still and pretend like you’re sleepin’. Hopefully, one of those rats will get curious and come in real close. And then you can whack it.”
Pole watched the boy scramble over to his mule, pausing for a few minutes to whisper into the animal’s ear and stroke its muzzle. When Mickey was finally seated on the ground a few feet from Gus, Pole said, “Try to hit the rat square on the head. We don’t want a bloody mess. If we get lucky and kill our dinner sooner rather than later, we can sear the meat on the flame of the headlamp. Might make it a little easier goin’ down.”
“Maybe I can eat a raw rat after all,” Mickey said. “We shouldn’t waste the carbide on cooking.”
“That’s the right attitude,” Pole said, trying to sound enthusiastic. He wanted to be brave and set a good example for the twelve-year-old, but inside he was quaking with fear. He had serious doubts he would ever escape the carbon tomb encasing him. His life would be cut short, taken before he’d had a chance to fall in love and know when the right girl had come along.
Thirty-Two
EDITH
SHADYSIDE, OCTOBER 3, 1917
Edith woke to the sound of her husband’s loud snoring. She glanced over at the Tiffany clock on her nightstand and was surprised that it was almost eight o’clock. James had slept late. She leaned over and whispered softly in his ear. “Wake up. It’s Wednesday. You have to be at the university in thirty minutes.”
“Not today, darling,” he mumbled sleepily. “I have a meeting with my publisher.”
“Sorry.” Edith patted her husband on the shoulder and tucked the heavy eiderdown quilt under his chin. A few days earlier, she had requested that the maid change the bed linens in preparation for the cooler October weather, but wondered if she’d done so prematurely. She had woken several times in the middle of the night, hot and uncomfortable. She had repeatedly pushed the bulky damask quilt toward her husband, who didn’t seem to mind the extra warmth.
Edith rose from the bed, pausing for a moment to admire the crimson-colored quilt she had purchased in England a few summers ago. The color was rich and vibrant, a perfect complement to her elaborately carved oak canopy bed. She smiled proudly, certain she had achieved the appropriate look in her Tudor bedroom.
As Edith turned to enter her marble bathroom, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above her dresser. She immediately noticed that the dark shadows had returned to her lower face. Instinctively, her hand went up to finger the stubble growing on her chin and jaw. She sighed gloomily. She would have to shave that morning even though she had just performed the dreaded chore the day before. Was it her imagination, or was her hair growth worsening? It seemed to be coming back much faster than it used to. Edith felt her cheerful mood slip away, despair replacing it.
She shuffled into her bathroom and over to the toilet, pulling up her silk nightgown as she walked. She sat down on the cold wooden seat, pushing her lace knickers down over her knees. As she relieved herself, her eyes traced the swirling gray patterns on the marble floor tiles until suddenly, they were distracted by an unexpected flash of brown. Edith leaned forward and grabbed her knickers. Could it be? She pulled the lacy undergarment up over her knees and examined it closely. There was no mistaking it. A brownish blood stain had marred her perfectly white cotton knickers. It was the most beautiful sight she’d seen in months.
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