The Evening Hour

For Yukiko Yamagata

And it shall come to pass in the last days, saith God, I will pour out of my Spirit upon all flesh: and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams.

—ACTS 2:17

The mountains shall bring peace to the people.

—PSALMS 72:3

Part One

Chapter 1

Cole double-locked the trailer door behind him, then stood on the top rickety step for a moment, still waking up. Gunmetal sky, with the faintest hint of light rippling at the edges. There was a tight chill in the air on this early April morning, and he shuddered, rubbing his bare arms. The air smelled like sulfur and scorched earth.

He started his pickup, let it warm up a minute. He'd just bought the Chevy off his twin cousins. Piece of shit. Busted taillight. A rusted-out hole in the floor of the passenger side that he covered with cardboard, so that dust and gravel didn't shoot up into the cab.

Instead of heading out, he drove up to his grandparents'. The lights were on, blazing yellow squares beckoning him. He knew his grandmother would be up. She didn't sleep much; Cole was the same way. He saw her looking out the kitchen window, her pale moony face always worried.

The house was warm and smelled like frying bacon. Cole wiped his feet on the welcome mat and tightened the drawstring waist of his scrubs, which were too big for him, the cuffs spilling over his black hightops. He glanced at himself in the mirror by the front door. It had been a late night, and he looked rough. Three-day-old beard, beak of a nose, thick lips. Goat eyes small and sleepy. His scruffy, bleached-out hair made him look like somebody else.

“I've got breakfast ready,” his grandmother greeted him.

“I can't stay. I got to get to work.”

In pictures from her youth, his grandmother was thin and willowy, but he'd only ever known her as stout, with sausage-link fingers and doughy flesh. Her hair, in a bun, was the color of gravel. This morning she wore a button-down denim shirt pulled over a thin housecoat and mint green slippers, her white-as-bone ankles thick and swollen like they'd been injected with something.

“Pshaw,” she protested, pinching his arm. “You set and eat, put some meat on those bones.”

“Grandma, I just stopped in for a minute.”

She was studying him. “Well, I see you did that foolishness to your hair again.”

“It'll grow back.” He added defiantly, “Anyway, I like it.”

“I don't know why you'd want to mess with its natural color. If God wanted you to have blond hair, he would have given it to you.”

“Well, anyway. I just come by to check on Granddaddy.” Yesterday she had called to tell him that his grandfather was throwing a fit; Cole hadn't listened to the message until he rolled in at three a.m. “Sorry I couldn't get over here last night,” he added.

“You're hard to get a hold of.”

“You could call my cell when I'm not at home.”

“I thought you said it doesn't work.”

“Doesn't, most of the time.” Cole glanced at the clock on the wall. He should have just gone straight to work. “Well, is he okay? How is he?”

“He's all right now. Rebecca and Larry came over last night to help get him settled down.” She shook her head. “It was the blasting. Lord, he thought it was the end of the world, you never heard such carrying on,” she said angrily. “You smell the sulfur?”

“Yeah, I figured.”

Whenever the coal company blasted the mountain, the walls of Cole's trailer trembled, the floors vibrated. His friends told him to take the money and run. The other day he'd found rocks the size of basketballs in his yard.

His grandmother's eyes darkened behind the thick lenses of her glasses. “You look at what they've done.”

He followed her through the sparsely decorated house. Nothing hung on the walls save a few family pictures and framed Bible inscriptions. Cole's grandfather believed that austerity led to a clean, healthy soul.

In the hallway she pointed out the jagged cracks.

“Maybe I can patch that up,” Cole said.

“You can't patch nothing up. It's not just the walls. They've done ruined the foundation. This house is sinking.”

His grandmother logged the time and details of every blast in a legal pad, the chart now a dozen pages long. This seemed to give her some kind of satisfaction and hope, even if it was a waste of time, just like all the calls she'd made to government agencies.

Cole traced the cracks in the wall. They ran up from the floor, broke off, then spread near the ceiling, splintered and spidery like the lines in his own hands. “It's nothing that can't be fixed,” he said.

His grandfather was asleep in the La-Z-Boy, one side of his face frozen from a stroke a few years ago. He'd also had what the doctor called “mini strokes,” which did not alter his face but ate away at his brain like acid. Every day he said fewer words. “Dementia, similar to Alzheimer's,” said the slick doctor in Charleston, who would not look Cole or his grandmother in the eyes.

“When you look at him sleeping like that, he almost looks gentle, don't he?”

Cole agreed that he did and touched his grandfather's cool waxy brow, but he did not stir, breathing in kittenlike breaths. His thin hair lay in streaks as if painted on. On the stand next to his chair was the King James with its cracked spine, delicate pages. His grandfather no longer read, but sometimes he still opened the Bible and stared at it. He used to quiz Cole on Bible verses. It was the only thing his granddaddy wanted him to learn. Fortunately, Cole was good at memorizing. The verses stayed with him, even now.

“But he wasn't so gentle yesterday,” his grandmother added.

The fits were getting worse. A couple of weeks ago, after a blast went off, he had hurled pots and pans, flipped over furniture. His grandmother had locked herself in the bathroom and called Cole at work. By the time he arrived, the old man was curled up under the kitchen table, shaking like a dog.

“I wish you'd take him off that waiting list,” Cole said. “If he goes into the nursing home, it'll be the end of him.”

“You'll be there with him. You'll take care of him.”

“He can't go in there.”

She looked away. “Come on and get a bite to eat.”

“I gotta go,” he said.

“At least let me make you a plate.”

Cole followed her into the kitchen. She filled a plate with strips of bacon, scrambled eggs, and biscuits, and poured coffee into a thermos. It was black and steaming. Cole's granddaddy didn't even drink coffee, that's how pure he was.

She handed him the plate, covered in tinfoil, and he thanked her. But before he could head out the door, she stopped him. “Rebecca and me talked last night. She wants me to move in with her and Larry.” She took off her glasses and cleaned the lenses on her shirttail. “It's something I've got to consider.”

He tried to read her expression. About a year ago, when he had asked if she wanted to take the coal company's latest offer, she said, “There's nowhere else that is home.” He wasn't surprised about his aunt Rebecca. All three of his aunts had been talking to him about it, but he stood behind his grandmother. Now he said, “You're backing out.”

“I ain't,” she snapped. Then, softer, “But things are changing. I got a bad feeling about the land. I been having dreams.”

Cole gulped the coffee, burning his mouth. He did not want to hear about her dreams and prophecies, all her worry. The only good thing he'd ever done was to stick by the land and the couple who had raised him. Two years ago, his aunts sold off their parcels of land, one by one, and when Cole had said, “Well, I'm staying,” his grandfather just looked up at the sky, like he didn't even hear him.

“I'm running late.”

“Can you take me to church tomorrow?”

He shook his head. “I can't.”

“Well, come out for dinner,” she said. “You can bring that girl if you like.”

“I'm working.”

“You know what your granddaddy would say about that, working on Sunday.”

Cole backed out of the driveway, the thermos of coffee resting between his legs. There was only one road that ran through Rockcamp, and his grandparents' property, tucked in a hillside, was at the end of it, where the rutted asphalt turned to dirt and cleared land gave way to forest. The twenty acres, now whittled down to fourteen, had originally belonged to Cole's great-great-grandfather. For over two hundred years the Freemans had been on this land. Cole's grandparents still lived in the same house where they'd been all of their married lives; his aunts and uncles and cousins used to live on the small plots around them, but they had moved away, spread out across West Virginia and beyond.

Cole lived on a slivered portion of land that would have gone to his mother, if she was around. He drove past his single-wide, which sat close to the road, the hills looming behind it; sometimes when they blasted, the trailer was engulfed in a cloud of dust. The Heritage mining operation up above them had grown to 1,800 acres. It wasn't like the old days of sending men underground. Now, to get to the layers of coal seams, they blew the tops off the mountains, bringing them down hundreds of feet, and then pushed the rubble into the valleys. It was impossible to grasp the enormity of 1,800 acres. That was almost 1,800 football fields. He'd never seen the site; it was guarded and blocked off, and from here, it looked as if the mountain was still standing. Behind the ridge, it was a different story.

He wondered what his grandmother had seen in her dreams. The Holiness said God gave his people gifts.
To another the working of miracles; to another prophecy; to another discerning of spirits; to another
divers
kinds of tongues; to another the interpretation of tongues.
Cole did not have a gift. He did not speak in tongues or handle snakes or see the future. His grandmother said he needed to open himself up to the Holy Ghost. He'd grown up knowing that there was another world beyond this one; there was more than a person could see with just his eyes.

The folds of forested hills, with newly budded trees, rose like giant steeples behind abandoned homes. At the mouth of the holler sat a few trailers where the miners lived. Most everyone else had moved away—pushed out by the blasting, the dust, the flash floods. One old-timer, Floyd Mitchell, still lived in a shotgun shack, him and his toothless dog Sugar.

He approached Route 16, the main road that ran along Dove Creek. The only road that led him out. Turn right, he'd pass by the processing plant, where the coal was cleaned and shipped out across the country. The leftover waste was then pumped into a basin on the mountain and held back by a giant dam. The sludge dam. Out of sight, out of mind. Turn left, he would head in the direction of Stillwell, the only real town in the area; eventually, that way, Route 16 would connect to other roads, which led to highways, which could take him far away from West Virginia.

He turned left. The sky was lighter, a glowing pink in the east, the air warmer. He drove down the mountain with his elbow resting out the open window, his hand lightly guiding the wheel. The craggy land rose up all around him, pressing in on both sides of the road. Plumes of mist spiraled up from the dips and valleys, the ghosts of the Cherokee and mountaineers, his grandmother would say.

He rounded sharp curves and switchbacks, occasionally looking down into a hollow where the houses huddled together like scared children. He drove by dilapidated clapboard homes, deserted churches, shot-up road signs, and little white crosses with plastic flowers commemorating the dead. All of it was as familiar to him as his own skin. Cole had lived here for all of his twenty-seven years, except for a few months after graduation, when he'd moved to Charleston. He used to dream about leaving for good; in high school, he and Terry Rose made up plans to run away and never come back. All of that seemed like a long time ago.

An overloaded coal truck barreled around the bend, coming at him from the opposite direction and sending up sprays of dust, and he quickly rolled up the window and clung to the right side of the road. As they passed each other, the trucker waved, but Cole did not.

He clicked on the radio, sang along with the Eagles' “Desperado,” which the classic rock station played about a dozen times a day. His mouth felt limber, words alert on the tip of his tongue. When he was a boy, his grandfather had prayed for his stuttering to disappear. For the most part, it had, but sometimes when he was tired or nervous, it returned like memory, twisted his tongue in rippled knots.

Just outside of Stillwell he let up on the gas, coasting through the shell of a town, crossing the bridge where Dove Creek spilled into the Cherokee. A hand-painted sign outside of a Freewill Baptist church said “Walk by faith, not by sight.” He passed a general store that also advertised a special on tanning, a beauty shop in a double-wide, and an abandoned gas station spray-painted in red: “Miners, All It Takes Is Unity,” and “Best Wise Up if You Want to Keep a Standard of Living.”

Cole pulled into the parking lot and cut the engine. He ate a bite of bacon, but his stomach clutched—too early—and he washed it down with coffee. The T-shaped, low-slung building looked as if it had been dropped there by mistake. No landscaping around it, save the strips of scrubby grass, a few trees. He sighed and tossed his burning cigarette. He was already ten minutes late and didn't need Linda's shit this early. He went in through the back door. Clocked in. Poured coffee into a small foam cup. Flipped through schedules and charts.

In the lounge the old people were watching cartoons. A superhero that Cole didn't recognize flew above a sparkling city.

“Hey y'all,” he said, but only Hazel Lewis looked up.

“Cole, Cole, Cole, it's so dang hot.” She tugged on her sleeves as if they were heavy chains, the pink cotton shirt pushed up, exposing her stomach. His first day on the job, he'd walked in on Hazel stark naked, her cowlike body unfurled on the bed. Powder-white flesh, sagging breasts. Cole had snapped a sheet over her like she was a corpse, then called for one of the female aides.

But now he adjusted her shirt, smoothing it over her jiggling belly.