Sky of Stone (31 page)

“I like you, too, Bobby Likens,” I replied, and then we stopped talking for about an hour. In Coalwood, you were allowed to like a man who wasn’t your relative, but it was best if you kept it to yourself.

The last day came. Eighteen tracks lay between the two teams. We weren’t allowed to tear up our ten sets of rails and work backward as usual. According to the rules as formulated by the MLTLBRC, the last day was to be a straightforward tear to reach the final two rails. At the nods of our foremen, we started. “Full-court press!” Bobby yelled, and off we went on the run.

As the day wore on, more and more men showed up to watch, off-shift men who’d been allowed to come witness the final push. Every so often, I’d look up and see the helmet lights flashing from the Caretta team. They were running, too. Then, all of a sudden, we were just yards apart. I could even hear them breathing as they fell like crazed animals on their track. We threw down our last rail before the red ones and started hammering spikes. I kept looking over at the other team. “Don’t look at them!” Bobby yelled. “It doesn’t matter what they do!”

Bobby was right. We needed to keep our heads down and go at it. I didn’t look up until Johnny drove in the last spike. Then we ran to the next rail, a red one. Then somebody yelled,
“Hold it!”
and we froze in place. I looked up. Garrett, Delmar, and Chinky were standing at their red rail, too. That meant we had either lost or . . .

Mr. Strong came up and shined his light in our eyes, one by one by one. He had a big chaw and spat over into the gob, then laughed mirthlessly. “It’s a tie,” he said. “Sudden-death play-off.”

B
OTH TEAMS
were allowed ten minutes to gather themselves and plot out strategy. When Johnny didn’t have much to say, Bobby took over. “All right, we play to our strengths. Johnny, you pull the spikes, roll the rails off, and shovel gob while Sonny and I hump the new ties and the new spikes into position. Then—Sonny, you rip out the old ties while Johnny and I put in the new ones and level them behind you. Then we’ll all three push the rails up and start spiking. I’ll spike one side, Johnny, you the other. Sonny, you be prepared with fresh spikes if either Johnny or I bend one. Got it?”

“Got it,” I said.

Johnny didn’t say anything. Our lights flashed into his face. “How about it, Johnny?” Bobby demanded.

Johnny nodded. “I understand.” He was down in the mouth about something, but there was no time to ask what it was.

Mr. Strong came up. “Let’s go, boys. Now or never. It’s going to be Coalwood’s day or Caretta’s. It’s all up to you.”

I stood up, dusted myself off. “It’s going to be Coalwood’s day,” I said. I’d never been so certain of anything in my life.

“Let’s show them who the real track-laying men are,” Bobby said, and led the way.

“S
TART!
”
M
R.
S
TRONG
cried, and Bobby and I went off on a run to our stack of ties and barrels of spikes. Behind us, we could hear the ratcheting sounds of Johnny jerking out the old spikes. I kept my head down, watching my boots. It was no time to hit the roof with my head or trip over the track we’d just put down. Bobby and I didn’t have to talk. Our movements were practice perfect, like ballet dancers. We grabbed ties and ran back and forth, our pockets filled with spikes. We flung them down and kept going. I got a momentary glance at Johnny. He was a flurry of action. Spikes flew into the air. As we got back with the last tie, he rolled the second rail off. I pounced on the old ties, swinging my pick.

Sweat streamed into my eyes, but I ignored it. I was on my hands and knees throwing old pieces of rotted tie over my shoulder. Behind me, Bobby and Johnny grunted as they wedged in a new tie. Johnny leveled and we worked on.

Johnny was fussing with the level of the last tie when Bobby and I jumped down in the ditch and grabbed the first rail to push it up. “Level!” Johnny yelled, and Bobby and I heaved with all our might. With a heavy metallic thud, the rail landed on the fresh ties. We crabbed across it to get to the other rail. Johnny began to lever the first one into position with his pry bar.

“Push, Sonny!” Bobby yelled, and I pushed. The second rail was flung up into position. All we had to do was spike the rails in and we were done.

I glanced toward the Caretta boys. Both of their red rails were up on fresh ties, too, and Delmar and Garrett were going after their hammers. I raced to our hammers, tossed one each to Bobby and Johnny. Then I ran along the rails, laying the spikes where they were needed. Then I stopped. I had worked myself out of a job. Now it was all up to Bobby and Johnny to drive in the spikes.

I looked again at the Caretta team. A helmet light flashed back at me. It was Chinky. He was doing the same as me, ready to jump in if needed but on the sidelines now while Garrett and Delmar did the spiking.

My ears throbbed with the noise of hammers on steel. Men crowded in closer. They were yelling, urging their teams on. In the tight space of the main line, it was a rumble like thunder. A spike went flying. I saw its flash out of the corner of my eye. Bobby had missed one. I saw his lips move as he cursed, but he drew another spike from his pocket and started pounding again. Once, twice, three times, and the spike was driven home. He scrambled to the next one. I looked at Johnny. His mouth was open in a scream I couldn’t hear as he pounded his spikes into the hard wood of the ties. Two powerful blows of his hammer and the spikes were in. It was an awesome thing to see.

Then we were done, or nearly so. One spike to go. Johnny had it. We were in a flood of lights from the other men. I looked and saw Garrett and Delmar were still working. We were two spikes ahead!

Bobby pounded my back, yelling something I couldn’t hear. Johnny was down on his knees, placing the spike, raising his hammer. It fell, once—and struck a glancing blow. I couldn’t believe it. All summer, Johnny had never missed a spike!

On the Caretta side, Delmar threw his hammer down. He was done. Garrett scrambled to put down his last spike.

Bobby was past me, grabbing Johnny by his shoulders. Johnny was shaking his head. I heard him yell,
“It’s bent!”
and saw him pointing at the spike. I grabbed a spike puller and flipped the spike out and stuck another in the hole.

“Go, go,
go
!” Bobby screamed. Other men screamed their encouragement, their roar like a sonic waterfall.

Johnny struck another blow and sparks flew.
Missed again!
I flung myself at the rail, pulling the bent spike out with my bare hands and jamming the new spike in place. I rolled out of the way. Johnny swung again, this time a solid blow. Then he raised his hammer again.

“Hit it, Johnny!”
Bobby cried.

I heard a roar go up from the Caretta side just as Johnny let his hammer drop. I’d never seen him hit a spike so hard.
“Done!”

Bobby and I looked at each other, and then at Johnny. Johnny was still kneeling before the last spike on the last rail, just staring at it. Then he threw down his hammer.

B
OBBY AND
I sat leaning against a crib. Men’s faces seemed to be swirling around me, their lips moving, but what they were saying, I couldn’t tell. Johnny was by himself, sitting on the last rail, his head bowed. I crawled over to him. I couldn’t help it. I had to know the answer. We hadn’t been beaten. Johnny had let the other team win. Maybe nobody else understood that, but I did. “Why?” I asked him.

Johnny raised his head. He’d taken his helmet off. Sweat had made rivulets through the crust of gob on his face. There were also fresh tracks from the corners of his eyes where tears still leaked. “Because you cheated,” he said.

I went numb. “When did you find out?” I asked, not that it mattered.

“Just now,” he replied. “For certain.”

I crawled up on the rail beside him, took off my helmet, and gave my head a good scratch. “When did you suspect?”

“Maybe a week ago. I ran across a Caretta man who works on the hoot-owl shift. He told me how the engineering work orders covering Garrett’s team were so screwed up right after the bet. You and that enginette—Rita. You were really friends back then. I remember how much you talked about her to Bobby. I put two and two together. But I wasn’t sure until now.”

“I didn’t ask her to do it, Johnny. I swear I didn’t. When I found out about it, I made her stop.”

“Cheating is cheating, don’t matter when you start or when you stop.”

“But you cheated, too! All those men who bet on us—”

“I didn’t do anything but miss those spikes!” Johnny hissed. “I didn’t know what to do so I prayed to God, begged Him to take charge.
He
made me miss!”

I held my head in my hands. Bobby clambered over the rails and squatted in front of us. “What?” he demanded, and Johnny dully told him the whole thing.

Bobby sat on the rail beside me. I felt his hand on my back. All I could say was “I’m sorry,” and I did.

“Never forget how you feel right now, Sonny,” Bobby said. “And it won’t be for nothing.”

I don’t know how long Johnny, Bobby, and I sat on that rail together, just being quiet. After a while, we noticed we were alone and got up and walked back down the main line, toward Coalwood. Man-trips passed us by, but we waved them on. We didn’t say much. We just walked, admiring our handiwork. When we reached the man-lift and stepped aboard, Bobby said, “Well, we laid some good track this summer. They can’t take that away from us.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

Johnny kept to himself all the way up the shaft. At the surface, the attendant swung open the gate and we stepped out. “Take it easy, Johnny,” Bobby said.

“See you, Johnny,” I said. There was no use apologizing anymore.

Johnny stopped. “Come here,” he said. His expression was fierce.

Bobby and I gathered in front of him.

“There’s only one thing I got to say to you two,” he said. He looked at Bobby and then at me. “I have worked in the coal mines all my life.” He spat in the gob. “But I have
never
been in the company of better men!”

He stuck out his hand and we grasped it, one on top of the other.
Johnny’s team.

42

COALWOOD FOREVER

W
ITH THE
track finished on the main line, Bobby and I were sent to toil with a variety of crews. We worked split shifts, sometimes in the evening, a few times even on the hoot-owl shift. I learned how to rockdust, put in a roof bolt, and even took a turn operating a shuttle car. I apologized when I clipped a pillar, sending all the miners in the section more or less running for their lives. Jake came by when Bobby and I were building a crib. “How about taking a turn through the mine?” he asked. “I want to show you something.”

Bobby said he could finish the crib by himself, so Jake and I took off on an electric tram. On the main line, the ride was as smooth as grease. “You boys did a good job,” Jake said.

“We sure did.”

“I’ve studied the job Rita did,” he went on. “She’s really a remarkable engineer. The new main line is going to up production considerably.”

I didn’t much want to talk about Rita, and I think Jake sensed that. We rode on in silence until he turned at a sign that was marked 10
WEST
, Tuck’s old section. New posts had been put in, new headers and cribs, too. There was no sign that there had ever been an explosion. We walked to the face in the bent-over, head-up posture that now seemed completely normal. A continuous miner crew was tearing away at the coal, a foreman in his white helmet watching over them. The shuttle cars moved in and out, scraping up the coal. It was the choreography of the face. “What is it you wanted me to see?” I asked over the din.

Jake pointed. “I wanted you to see your father’s mine. All that sound and fury in the investigation, and now it’s back to work as usual, digging the coal, shipping it to Ohio and Pennsylvania to make the steel.”

“Thanks to you,” I said.

He shook his head, his light flashing across the work crew. “No, not really.” His light fell on the foreman, who turned briefly and waved. “Sonny, I don’t think the steel company would have sold Coalwood, anyway. Some of the big boys up there thought it would be best but, in the cold light of the new day, I think they would have reconsidered. Kennedy’s tax cut is kicking in. A lot of cars are going to be bought next year and Detroit’s going to need steel and a bunch of it. The steel mill that has a ready supply of inexpensive coal is the one that’s going to get the contract—and nobody delivers coal any faster or cheaper than a mine supervised by Homer Hickam.”

“So nothing mattered, not what you did or Mom did or anybody else?”

Jake shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

“Amazing.”

“That’s the Coalwood way.”

We laughed together. It certainly was.

“What’s next for you, Jake?” I asked. “Back to Ohio?”

He surprised me with his response. “I’m staying here.”

I peered at him. “And do what?”

“I’m going to work for your dad.”

I guess I should have been surprised, but I wasn’t. “Mom said a long time ago that someday this would happen.”

“Your mom is a very smart woman, Sonny. You should always listen to her.”

“Do I have a choice?”

We laughed together again, then fell silent and watched the ancient ore being torn from the earth. Then I said, “I’d be proud to have you visit VPI, Jake. You could come see a football game, watch Jim play, and then I’ll show you around the engineering school.”

“I just might do that,” Jake replied. “So you’re going to stay in engineering school?”

“I’m going to help men go into space, Jake. Then maybe I’ll write about it.”

“Seems to me you’ve got some military service in your future, too,” he said worriedly. “Kennedy’s not only planning on going to the moon. He’s trying to push the Communists around and they don’t like it. You be careful out there, old son. Could be a war coming.”

“I will, Jake,” I said, although I didn’t much believe I had a thing in the world to worry about. “You be careful, too.”

He put his hand out for me to shake. I took it. “I’m staying sober, if that’s what you mean,” he said.

It wasn’t, but it would do.

T
HE
C
OALWOOD
Labor Day party was held in the Club House dining room. Ginger Dantzler finally made her appearance. “What a summer you must have had,” I said after asking her for a waltz. She was stunning. She had always been a pretty girl, but a year had done a little extra with her figure. She wasn’t a girl anymore. She was a young woman.

“I heard you’ve been busy, too,” she said. “Boy, you’ve grown!”

I grinned. “You’re looking at a track-laying man!”

“Well, I hope a track-laying man can dance all night, ’cause I’m ready to kick up my heels a bit.”

“I’m here to serve,” I said.

She gave me a sweet smile. “I still think we would have made a cute couple.”

“I do, too.”

Ginger looked into my eyes with her big baby browns. “But we’re never going to be anything but friends, are we?”

“I guess not.”

She studied me. “I’m glad, Sonny. Friends are the best things in life.”

I could not have possibly agreed more. I held her close and we dipped, then kept dancing nearly every dance.

When I took a break for a glass of punch, I saw that Dad and Mr. Dubonnet had pulled off into a corner. They were arguing, that much I could tell, but about what I didn’t know, nor did I suppose it mattered. I surveyed the room. Doc Lassiter and his wife were chatting with the Bundinis. They were joined by Doc Hale, who had brought a pretty lady friend back with him from Florida. Other groups cloistered—union men, foremen, C.O.W. ladies, teachers, preachers, and deacons. Congenial as it was, I could sense undercurrents in the room, maneuverings, subtle tensions. It was Coalwood going about its business, always half hidden.

I spotted Rita. She was surrounded by engineers. She wore a low-cut midnight-blue gown, but, as beautiful as she was in it, I liked her better in her junior engineer khakis. By the way she was moving her hands, I could tell she was telling her fellow engineers how to mine coal even better. What a mystery she was, at least to me.

Mr. Dubonnet walked into the center of the room and held up his drink. “A toast,” he said.

Everybody gathered around. This was Labor Day, after all, and therefore the union’s party.

I expected to hear some grand oration from Mr. Dubonnet, maybe about how great the United Mine Workers was, or something about the genius of John L. Lewis, or the triumph of the labor movement across the world. But he surprised me. Mr. Dubonnet raised his glass and said, “To Coalwood.”

Everybody raised their glasses.
“To Coalwood!”

B
OBBY AND
I worked one more week past Labor Day and then came out of the mine and shook hands. “Quite a summer we’ve had,” I said.

“I hope you’ll remember all that I’ve taught you,” he said in his most aggravating, conceited way.

I said, “Maybe you should tell me again.”

He laughed, shook his head, and started walking away. I called after him. “Bobby?”

He turned. “What now?”

“Be a good doctor.”

He grinned, then pushed his glasses back up on his nose. “If you ever get sick, look me up.”

“If you ever want to fly into space, look
me
up.”

We would not speak again for forty years.

My last day in the mine was also my last day in the Club House. I’d promised Mom I would spend the weekend with her before I stuck my thumb out to go back to college. Floretta met me in the foyer on my way out. “Law, I’ll miss you, Sonny boy.”

“I couldn’t have made it through this summer without you.”

“Well, don’t forget your old Club House mama.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. Wherever I go, I’ll think of you.”

I folded her in my arms. She began shaking, and I could feel my shoulder getting damp where her face was pressed. I just kept holding her until she pushed me away. “Get on with you, now.” She headed for the kitchen, the handkerchief pressed to her eyes. I looked after her, then walked out onto the porch into the waning evening sun. It was still summer, the trees on the mountain a dense green, but I could almost smell the coming of autumn. In a few weeks, V-shaped patterns of geese would be flying overhead and the mountains would be ablaze with color. The fall was Coalwood’s most glorious time, and I couldn’t help but regret that I wouldn’t be there to see it.

That evening, I stayed in my old bedroom, absorbing its sight, its smell, and its touch. I could never be in there without thinking about the boy I had been, that boy so filled with hopes and dreams, that rocket boy. I sat at my desk, running my fingertips over the dried glue left from a hundred model airplanes built on its surface. I slid open a side drawer in the desk and looked at the rocket drawings still stacked there. I drew out the sheath of papers, turned them over one by one, studying them. My first attempts to draw a working rocket were crude, but they’d grown more sophisticated with each attempt until the final, well-drawn engineering designs. For those, I’d used professional engineering drawing instruments, gifts from my dad on my last Christmas as a Coalwood boy.

I looked at my bed where once Daisy Mae, my sweet little calico cat, had watched me do my high school homework. I got up and looked out the window to her resting place beneath the little crab-apple tree, its leafy branches waving gently in the slight breeze. As I searched the darkness, my eyes raised toward Substation Mountain, where Lucifer probably slept for eternity. He had been a tough old cat, but somehow wise. And Dandy was up on Water Tank Mountain now. I thought of him as he had been as a pup, a blond ball of fluff with a furiously waving tail stub, his snout turned up into a licking grin. Now he was gone. They were all gone except Chipper, who was quickly getting old, as squirrels do, and Poteet.

Then I thought of Mom’s painting. She’d worked on it again. Beside her fox were her other angels: Dandy, Daisy Mae, Lucifer, Poteet, and Chipper. Maybe she’d let Dad, Jim, and me join her in time.

Nothing was the same, yet it was all the same. My room, the house, our pets, each other, and all the town had changed, yet we all still existed as we had once been somewhere, if only in our thoughts and dreams.

As I went to bed, I saw a wink of heat lightning off in the distance. Then another, without thunder. I couldn’t help but think of something I’d read by Mark Twain:
Thunder is good, thunder is impressive; but it is lightning that does the work.

I’m not certain even now how I knew that something was wrong. I rose in the night and went to the window that faced toward the tipple and saw the flickering of flames lighting the darkness. Water Tank Mountain was on fire.

I pulled on my clothes and went outside, and found Mom and Dad already in the front yard. The smell of woodsmoke burned my nostrils. People were coming from everywhere. There was an ugly orange scar on the mountain, and it was racing straight toward Tipple Row. “Go get some shovels, Sonny,” Dad said, his voice even but commanding.

I rushed to the basement, picked up two shovels, and ran back, handing Dad one of them. Mom grabbed the other shovel from my hands. “Get one for yourself, too,” she said.

I started to argue, saw the futility of it, and dashed back to the basement. By the time I’d returned, my parents were gone. I looked up and saw clusters of people climbing the mountain. I ran to join them.

Mine foremen were taking charge, each one directing groups of people fighting the fire. Mr. Strong spotted me. “Come on, Sonny,” he called, and I followed him. We spread out and started digging firebreaks in the brush. If fire reached Tipple Row and the Captain’s house burst into flames, it would ignite the Sharitzes’ house, and so on down Main Street. The whole town was in danger.

All night we dug, and when a tongue of fire leapt one of our breaks, we beat it down with our shovels. When a thicket burst into flames, I caught sight of the faces of the other men. All were black, just as they were in the mine. Everybody was the same color in the battle against the fire, just Coalwood men—and women, too.

Jugs of water arrived. Mrs. Sharitz handed me a jug, and I gratefully took it and nearly drained the whole thing. “Leave some for me!” someone said in a voice charged with adrenaline.

It was Rita, reaching for the jug with a gloved hand. I handed it over, and she threw it up to her lips and finished it off. She wiped her mouth with the back of her arm. I took the empty jug from her and nodded my thanks to Mrs. Sharitz. “You be careful, you hear?” she warned, and headed back down the mountain.

Rita had her hair tucked up inside a ball cap, and her face was black with soot. There was an eager gleam in her eye. “We’re going to kick this fire’s butt!” she crowed. She gave me a look. It was almost as if she didn’t recognize me until that moment. “Aren’t we?”

“You bet we are,” I said.

She looked around as a shout went up. The fire had found a small pine tree and grabbed it. People charged up after it. “I love this,” she said suddenly. “I love the battle.”

“I know.” My voice was glum. I couldn’t help it.

Her eyes flashed. “Stop it, Sonny.”

“Stop what?”

“Feeling sorry for yourself. I know you had a crush on me. I liked you, too. But our lives are on entirely different trajectories.”

Trajectories.
It was a good engineering term. I’d used it often enough for my rockets. Some of them flew straight, others wobbled off at an angle, but they still got where they were going.

“I told you I’d get inside the mine,” she said.

“Dad’s already saying you’re the best engineer he’s ever had.”

She laughed, and I saw her perfect teeth like pearls against her blackened face. “He’s right.” Then she threw herself in my arms and kissed me. Though she smelled of smoke, her lips were like velvet. “There!” she said, as if that cured everything for all time.

And then she was gone into the acrid clouds cascading across the mountain. I heard more yelling and charged off in that direction, my shovel at high port, ready for action.

Slowly, slowly, as the night went on, we began to win. Whooping victoriously, we closed in on the last line of fire until it came apart and separated into frustrated whorls of hot flame. We beat at them with the flats of our shovels until they flickered out, and then we came down the mountain in triumph.