Pamela King Cable's Blog, page 10

Coal Dust On My Feet ~ part 11

Strong enough to show the washboard road ahead of him, evening's light illuminated every pothole. James Curtis
drove along with ease.



            Coasting his truck past Cole’s house, James stared at a group of men
gathered on the porch. He figured they were
kin. Cole’s dad had died during the invasion of Normandy. Cole lived with his
eccentric mother and grandmother; both had refused to leave Widen after the
war.



            James recalled the day he stopped at Cole’s
house—the day after Cole turned sixteen, quit school, and went to work in
the mines. Cole's mother stumbled into the house, screaming drunk. Pounding her son with her fists after finding money in his shirt pocket, she then disappeared for two days. Word
was she got saved during some local summer revival. But that didn’t save Cole
from trouble. “Bad seed,” Doc Vance had said once as he stitched up
James Curtis’ eye from a punch Cole had thrown over a lost game of pool.



As
boys, they had played in an abandoned mineshaft on the opposite side of South
Mountain dug by the sweat and blood of miner’s backs. Men who had worked the
earliest mines in Widen at the turn of the century. The ancient cave was unlike the
new coal mine with its main shaft located near the tipple, and the underground
maze of tunneled streets that ran sixty miles from Clay to Nicholas County.



At
fifteen, Cole had built a moonshine still close to the opening of the old mineshaft, and James Curtis had donated ingredients from his mama’s fruit
cellar. But when Thirl found out, both boys had been immediately introduced to
the wrath of God and the rod was not spared. Neither boy could sit for a
week. In spite of warnings to never visit the dangerous mine again, it remained
a place of risk and adventure for the boys and young men of Widen.



The
night of their high school graduation, Cole joined James Curtis and several
boys from the class, filled a washtub with ice and beer and carried it into the
mineshaft. They spent the night drinking, playing cards, smoking packs of
stolen cigarettes, and puking after hours of pretending to be men. Driving
in the dark, his eyes stung wiping his tears with his bare hands. James
determined he would have ended up like Cole, alone, with no direction in life,
had it not been for Savina.



Rumors
spread quickly that the authorities had rounded up every striker involved in
the cook shack shootings, all but Odie and Cole. He’d heard it before he left
Doc Vance’s office. Still, James couldn’t imagine Odie not knowing about his
daughter. Somebody had to have gotten word to him by now, even if he and Cole
were hiding out. Odie, a seasoned hunter, was well acquainted with every
mountain and trail in the state. With access to a good horse, James figured he
was probably miles away by now.



As
for Cole … James knew his hiding places. The first on the list was the old
mineshaft. 



Pulling
his truck up as far as it would go, James stepped out into the tall grass and
weeds leading up to the cut timber logs that framed the opening. The wind blew
colder after the sun had gone down, but the rain had lessened since morning. He
shook visibly, but not from the night air or from fear. Ravaged by grief,
insanity had begun to seep into his pores like a cold rain. Rage twisted tight
around his head as if caught in a vice squeezing out all reason. He switched on
his flashlight and pulled his shotgun off the front seat.



“Cole!
It’s me, Cole. We need to talk!”



James walked to the edge of the
mineshaft. The light from a small fire cast
flickering shadows on the walls of the mine. He tossed the flashlight into the
weeds. Cole crouched like a feral cat against a pile of rusted metal. The
remains of their moonshine still sat crusted with several years’ worth of dirt,
but the recipe still hung on ancient wires from the ceiling. An empty whisky bottle
lay in the dirt. Coatless, Cole’s clothes were covered in dried mud. His
lifeless green eyes fixed on James Curtis.



“It
was an accident, wasn’t it? You didn’t mean to kill her, tell me that. You owe
me that. Tell me you didn’t mean to kill her.”



Cole stood and smiled a ragged
gap-toothed grin that was both knowing and mean. Another half-empty bottle of
whiskey dangled from his right hand. “I don’t owe you jack shit.” Large and
chinless, he had an enormous adam’s apple and sideburns like Elvis. At school,
his breath was like coffee and cavities. But all James could smell was the
dampness of the old mine and wafts of Cole's 100-proof breath.



Cole
dropped his bottle to the ground. He shook out a Lucky Strike, tapped it on the
side of his lighter, lit it, and then blew a stream of smoke toward James. He
had tucked his filthy T-shirt in tight, and rolled another pack of cigarettes
into his right shirtsleeve. His Levi cuffs were turned
up around muddy work boots. But it was his big round ears that made him almost
comical to look at.



Sweat rolled down James’s cheek.
“Did you do it on purpose? Did you touch her?”



Cole
flicked his smoke into the dirt and stared, shooting James a don’t-mess-with-me
smirk, the drink long gone to his head. He snarled like a rabid dog. “I shoulda
shoved her into the back seat ‘fore I shot her, now I’m gung fuggin kiw you!”



A war scream pierced the darkness
and echoed through the mine as James hurled himself at Cole,
dropping his rifle in the dirt.



            James got him first with a left hook. Cole wheeled and
came back at him and drove a vicious blow right into his nose. It sent James
reeling. He felt the crack and went to one knee, his eyes welled up and a
fountain of blood erupted from ruptured vessels, pouring like a faucet thrown
on. He wiped blood from his face. It dripped from his hands, as his nose seemed
to disappear into its cavity.



            The
blood appeared to unnerve Cole. He let James crawl up the side of the wall to
steady himself.



Through eyes blurred by tears and
blood, James caught movement coming toward him again. Struggling to hold on to
his bearings he crouched low, preparing for the strike. He ducked Cole’s fist
and it landed high above his head into the rock wall. He could see it sent a
bullet of pain up Cole’s hand and arm.



            But
Cole’s advantage was clear. Swooping in from above he rushed James once more,
whirling his pained fist squarely at his head. Fighting back a sudden wave of
nausea from a pungent mix of tobacco smoke, alcohol, and Cole’s unwashed body,
James forced himself to push off with his feet, turning his body slightly, and
caught the blow in his right arm instead of his face this time. He somehow
managed to snake his arm around Cole’s, his hand winding up on Cole’s shoulder.
Making full use of their combined momentum, James sidestepped Cole, allowing
him to trip over his feet and tumble to the ground.



            A sickening
pop echoed off the rock walls of the mine, followed instantly by a hideous
scream of pain and anger. James had maintained his hold on Cole’s arm, forcing
it farther and farther back, then letting him fall into the dirt. Squinting
through swelling eyes, James bent over Cole where he lay, face down, moaning and
clutching his wracked shoulder.



Mercilessly hooking the toe of his
boot under his armpit, James rolled him over onto his back, meeting with
another wretched cry. Staring up with eyes blinded by rage and pain, Cole used
his legs and good arm to skitter away. James stalked after him, adding fear to
the hatred that glared back at him. Cole’s attempt at escape was cut short as
he rammed into a wall of railroad ties.



Eyes darting from side to side like
a cornered fox, he accepted escape was not to be found. Fumbling at the top of
one boot with his good hand, he produced a Bowie knife from its sheath,
satisfaction replacing some of the fear. Undeterred, James drove forward with a
purposeful stride, dodging a feeble swing of the knife but tripping over Cole’s
deliberate swipe with his feet, landing flat on his back in the dirt. Cole
rolled, stood and placed the heel of his boot squarely on James’ stomach, just
below his rib cage, the knife at his neck drawing blood. James grimaced and let
out another gasp of pain.



            But the
pain from Cole’s arm caused him to stagger backwards a little, lifting his boot
from James’ chest. James heard the wheezing sound of air being forced back into
his own lungs. Cole staggered forward again; his hand flashed out from behind
his back, trailing after it a reflection of the metal that swung toward James
in a sweeping arc. James flinched instinctively, but his blurred vision hampered
his reaction; too slow to save him from the unexpected attack. He rolled, but not far enough.
This time he felt the jolt, then the sting. A sharp smell cut through his
swollen nostrils, a damp stain grew across his arm, then the loud whine of his
own voice pierced the dead air of the cave.



           

            Cole, also fighting against his own
pain, rocketed through the air again and stabbed ruthlessly at an unsuspecting James, this time slicing his cheek open with the tip of the knife. Half crawling and half falling,
Cole stabbed at him again but missed entirely and bowled over from drunken
exhaustion.



            James
rotated to his hands and knees, breathing fast and hard. His head wanted to
explode from the pain, his arm throbbed with his heartbeat, blood soaked his
coat; he felt vomit stirring inside. Picking up a rusted pipe near the fire, he
struggled to his feet and swung at Cole’s head, hitting him square in the
mouth. Cole’s lips burst open, shooting blood everywhere. Smack against
the mineshaft wall; his face, sideburns, and shirt were instantly soaked in
blood.



            “Yer
fuggin dead,” he muttered, spitting a tooth into the dirt. A wicked smile
twisted on his mangled lips, causing James to wince as the expression tugged at
the flesh and bone of his busted nose. Through the slits of swollen eyes, he
saw the terror and humiliation that now held Cole in their sway. Cole swung the
knife loosely in his hand.



James Curtis took a breath as if to
say something, but words seemed inadequate and insufficient to account for the
years of humiliation Cole lived with on a daily basis from an over-bearing
mother and taunting men from the mine. A cry from a distant hollow rung in his
ears and pulled at his heart. James raised his hands; sanity replaced his
adrenalin.



“Cole … enough.”



“It’ll never be ‘nuf.” Cole lunged
with the knife again, trapping James against the twisted metal of the old
still. The strength poured out of James’s injured arm; his futile attempt to
fight off his adversary made Cole laugh. “Yer just like her. She walked off,
refused to fight me, and she paid fer it.”



 Cole pricked the point of the knife through his enemy’s shirt and
into his chest, seemingly surprised at the ease with which the sharp blade penetrated.
James’ swollen eyes popped wide as the knife entered his body. Cole shoved the
knife deeper, the resistance of the blade bit through to the
bone. He shoved harder until it plunged deep into James’ lung, until he coughed and
gasped, until warm blood oozed from his mouth. Cole tore the knife through his skin,
spilling more blood out of James’ chest wall and down his shirt.



Without a word, Cole yanked out the
knife and backed up. Stumbling toward the dying fire, he bent down with his
uninjured arm, picked up his whisky bottle, and then took a long swig. He
swayed back and forth, feeling his way back along the rock wall until he
tripped over James lying on the floor of the mine.



Sitting in the dirt, he finished
the whiskey to numb his pain then leaned over and pulled James’ truck keys out
of his jacket pocket. Getting to his feet, he staggered back to the mine
opening and found James’ rifle lying in the dirt. He picked it up.



Cole looked back into the darkness
and laughed. In minutes, he was spiraling slowly down the mountain in James’
truck … looking for a store, or a bar, and another bottle of whiskey.



~~~



            James heard her
voice; it was Savina, he was sure of it.



Blood
seeped from every orifice as he tried to whisper her name. But his
lips only motioned what his tongue would have spoken. His breath stopped. Not breathing came as a relief from the shortened,
labored gasps his breath had become over the last few minutes. Was the voice
real, or imagined? Savina.



Sinking down through depths of darkness, James Curtis watched the fire die in the cave. Her voice was the last thing he heard.

Where Did It Begin?

Michael and me - New York City - Writing Conference







Taking a little break from Coal Dust On My Feet. Just for today. The reason, I've been reflecting on this journey, feeling weary, and wishing I had a crystal ball. Not an uncommon thought for most writers, I'm sure. But I remember thinking, after all the writing conferences, the hundreds of speaking engagements, the treks from one end of the country to the other, and wearing out one car after another, either we've completely lost our minds, or we're infected with a passion that cannot be stopped.




I've no doubt the good Lord knew the right person to bring into my life to continue this journey into the book world. It's been a full-time venture for me, since 2003. Before that, writing was only a dream. A dream I fit in between working a "job" and being a mom. I had another career once. Now so long ago, it seems like another lifetime. But this road less traveled has served me well. I've learned a great deal. I'm still learning.




So here we are again. On the verge of another book tour, and this one will take us into unknown territory. There's still a lot to do. But once in a while, you have to reflect on where you've come from to know where you're going. That's what I'm doing today.




It didn't begin in the 6th grade when I wrote that first story, or during years of writing in my journal, or pounding out short stories on an old IBM typewriter. For me, it began one day in 2002, when the man I was about to marry looked up from a manuscript and said, "This is a great story. Let's find a way for you to do this full-time."




And we never looked back. 




Blessings to you and yours.

Coal Dust On My Feet ~ part 10

Word
spread quickly of the shootings at the cook shack. By noon, the mine had closed
again. Thirl had left early to meet with the heads of The Elk River Coal and
Lumber Company.



When
there was no work and he couldn’t meet Savina at the cabin, James Curtis found
solace in drawing pictures of Powells Mountain or listening to Elvis Presley or
Chet Atkins sing their latest hit record. He had shut the door to his room and
turned on his radio.



From
the moment Highpockets left her front porch, dread ignited like a small burst
of flame in the center of DeDe’s stomach. She stood on the other side of her
son’s door and wept. Some time later, she wiped tears from her face and found
the courage to knock.



“That
you, Mama?”



The
door creaked when DeDe opened it. She avoided his eyes and sat heavily at
the foot of her son’s bed. “Oh, James,” she breathed deep and searched for
words. “There’s been an accident. Doc Vance sent Highpockets to the house.” Her
face twisted. Tears slid down fast as though she’d been waiting until this
moment to allow herself a full measure of grief.



“What
do you mean?”



“It’s Savina.” Her hands came to her face and covered her mouth. Inhaling sharply through her fingers, she then closed her eyes and let it out in one long breath. “She’s been
shot ... on the Widen road. Her car broke down and she got out. She was trying
to find Odie. Warn him not to go to the cook shack. It was Cole Farlow that
shot her. His mama found him drunk in the back seat of Odie’s car. He took off.
Nobody can find him.”



DeDe had dreamed of Savina the night before—dreamed of her tiny body, bloody, slumped on the
ground. She saw her dead, though she didn’t want to believe it was anything
more than a dream. The vision was a cold pain inside her now.



James let his gaze fall and sat for
a moment, silent, his eyes focused on his hands and the tear that had dropped
into his lap. Jumping to his feet, he
grabbed his rifle. “Where is she?”



“Don’t, James! Don’t do this … you can’t take a life for this …”



He stopped at the door. “Is she dead?”



DeDe could only go by her damned premonition, but this time it wasn’t
enough. “I don’t know … she’s at Doc Vance’s office. Cole’s mama found her,
too, and took her to Doc’s.”



DeDe drew closer to her son, attempted to hold him. He wept quietly and
thoroughly, as she couldn’t remember him weeping since he had been a small
boy—long shuddering inhalations, and then a gentle high keening as his inheld
breath came out. He pulled away and shrieked, “I’m going to see her!” He looked
back at his mother. “Tell Daddy, I love him.”



Her eyes pleading, she sensed a sorrow she’d not felt since the day
they pulled her grandfather out of the mine in pieces. “Stop, James … come back
here this instant! You can’t raise her up; only God can do it … only God can do
it …” DeDe followed behind him, grabbing his coat and clutching his arm. Great
tears coursed wild down her pale cheeks.



James escaped the grip of his mother’s fists and drove off in his
truck. DeDe fell in the road, the coal cinders cutting her knees, the mud
sucking out her life … the sound of her son’s cries still in her head and
piercing her heart. Time passed in slow motion again. DeDe
managed to pull herself up by the gate in a drizzling rain. In the mist, Thirl’s car could be seen speeding up Nicholas Street. He nearly hit the fence post where
she stood before he braked fast and rushed to her side.



            Thirl held his wife tight, his arms attempting to console her. “I heard,” he said. “I heard.”




            DeDe allowed herself to be comforted then she pushed
away, wanting to talk but not finding the strength. Thirl’s shirt was
wet where she had leaned against his shoulder.



“How did it happen?” he asked at last, keeping his voice gentle.
“When?”



She seemed stricken again at the question. Her eyes swam and grew
larger but she held on and whispered, “Savina was trying to find Odie and bring
him home. Herald Wingate, the visitor from Pennsylvania who knew her mother …
he’d told Savina of the danger before he left town today. Highpockets said Mister Wingate wanted her to
come pray with us, not go after her daddy. Oh, God.” DeDe held tight to Thirl as if
she might faint or be sick. “This afternoon. In the rain. Her car broke down on
the Widen road. Highpockets said it was shot in the radiator. Cole Farlow. He
was drunk and …” Her body became too heavy for her legs to hold. She slumped by the gate
again. Thirl eased her back into the yard and down to the grass where she sat
and held fast to her husband. Gulping for air, she managed to squeak out her
words. “Oh my God, Thirl, he shot her in the back. She’s at Doc’s. James went
to her. But I know he’s gonna go after Cole, Thirl, he’s gonna kill him, or be
killed … we got to stop him …”



            Before she’d finished her sentence, Thirl had jumped up, swung
himself back into his Plymouth, and barreled back to the middle of town, to the
clinic, and to find his son.



~~~



A
stench in the back room of Doctor Vance’s clinic seeped from the cracks between
the wooden floorboards. The smell of death and remorse—sweet and pungent.



Savina’s body made a small lump
beneath the sheet like a bundle of firewood. 
James picked up an unresponsive hand. It laid motionless in his palm. He
stared at it with sorrowful compassion and talked to her like people talk to
their babies in the womb, hoping she could hear him. He bent down and kissed
her lifeless cheek. Someone had washed the mud off her body, but her hair was
still damp. Dirt and blood had formed a crust along her hairline and the
corners of her mouth. The table was moist with the stink of an overused
dishrag. Her bloody dress had been cut off and thrown into a corner. She
deserved better than this.



Doctor Vance stood obscurely by the
bed. “She’s in a better place, James Curtis. You must be strong for her.”



It
stuck like a thorn in his mind. He swung around and stared at the doctor. “You
don’t know the half of it,” he cried.



“You’ll recover from this, son. You
have to go on.”



“To what? Die in the mines like the
rest of the crazy men in this town. No thanks, Doc.” His cheeks wet with tears,
he turned back to brush her hair from her face. “We was leavin’. We had plans.
But they’re all wasted. All wasted.”



~~~



The state police arrested 52 that
evening, incarcerating all including one woman and two small boys in the county
jail at Clay. Bill Blizzard protested, but for the first time was ignored by
Governor Marland. The police confiscated a twenty-gun arsenal from the cook
shack and from the trucks around it. Warrants were issued for the arrests of
Odie Ingram and Cole Farlow—the two who remained at large.

Coal Dust On My Feet ~ part 9









As the convoy of miners on their
way to work passed the striker’s headquarters in the pouring rain, a blaze of
rifle and shotgun fire hit the lead car. Next to Odie, Jennings Roscoe Bail
fired his .35 caliber steel jacketed rifle. In the dull gray light of the cook
shack, Jennings’ complexion was pitted and pocked like an old bone. Odie’s
stomach soured and bile came up in his throat. He swallowed it back down and
tucked his Colt Pistol back under his belt.



            “You hit
him!” Odie backed up and glued himself to the wall.



            “Son of a
bitch! I sure did! Maybe I can get me another …” Jennings shot again. “Hey,
where you goin’? This’s jus’ like ol’ times, shootin’ at the Germans! Stay and
have some fun!”



            “You’re
crazy!”



Jennings crouched by an open
window, his coat flapping, his face pinched, mouth a tight, thin line. “Don’t
stand there like a damn idiot, Odie. You’re a union man, don’t tell me you’re
goin’ scared on us! Here.” He held up another rifle, his knuckles white, and
pushed it at Odie. “Use one of mine!”



            It was
on Odie’s tongue to say that he was a coal miner, and miners didn’t shoot at
people, but the words never made it out of his mouth. He’d done
plenty of shooting the past few months, and every time he used his gun, he
could’ve easily killed somebody he knew … old friends … family.



            “I think I
hit me another comp’ny bastard! Don’t run off, Odie. This’s what we been
waitin’ for!”



Odie tossed Jennings’s rifle to the
floor of the cook shack and ran in the direction of the gully. Panic engulfed him. Shouting and chaos echoed in his ears. His gut hurt. The killing
wasn’t what he wanted. Not really. He’d talked a big talk but when it came down
to it, he ran—a coward. Smoke filled the gully like fog, blinding him. He heard the men bolting for
cover. It wasn’t until the smoke cleared that he glimpsed the lead car. It
belonged to Charles Frame, a miner he shot a few games of pool with at
the Grille only last year. The car had plowed head-on into the deep ravine.
Odie charged down the hill, tripping over tree roots and sticker bushes. Taking
cover behind a thicket of pines, he hid as close as he could to Charlie’s car.



A bullet hit the chrome bumper with
a sharp clang, making his pulse leap and his breath catch in his throat. Odie
steadied his hand deliberately and shot back. He’d left the shelter of the cook
shack knowing ricocheting bullets could accidentally hit him from his own men,
who were firing rapidly again. He had about ten feet to go. Another shot
whizzed past and hit the pine tree beside him. He tripped and half fell just
short of the car. Looking up he saw blood on the broken windshield. He crawled
the last yard.



            “It’s
all right,” he said urgently. “I’ll get you to Doc’s.” From his crouched
position, he had no idea whether Charles could hear him. Odie glanced
up—Charles’ face was pasty white and his eyes were closed. He looked about
thirty. Odie knew he had three kids, remembering Savina had babysat for his
wife last year. There was blood on his mouth. “You’ll be all right,” he said
again, more to himself than anyone else. He opened the car door but shots rang
out above him again, shouting ensued, then more shots fired in the
distance from the road and the cook shack. He remained hunkered down beside the
car until the shooting stopped.



Finally, Odie stood and felt
Charles’ pulse. The miner’s thick, dark brown hair, matted with blood, stuck to Odie's fingers. Charles was dead at the wheel. More blood dripped to the floor.
A single shot ended his life. Fired into the back of his skull, it emerged
at the front destroying the left side of his face. The right side still intact, Odie recalled Charles
had been a handsome man. There was no expression left but the leftovers of
surprise.



            Odie
surmised the only decent thing about Charlie’s death was that it must have been
instant. Still, he felt his stomach tighten and he swallowed to keep from
getting sick. Please God, let it not be one of my bullets that has done
this.



Another volley of shots rang out
from the road above, cracking and ricocheting above his head, embedding bullets
in the trees around him. Odie felt a stunning sense of failure. Ignoring the
gunfire he shivered staring down at the dead man—a miner just trying to get to
work. Odie only looked back once as he climbed out of the ravine.



~~~



Rain drummed down in opaque sheets.
Savina squinted to see beyond the steady sweep of windshield wipers that barely
kept up with the downpour. The Widen road ran alongside the creek, as crooked
as a snake’s back. She had to keep reminding herself to use the clutch. She
would catch hell if the car slid down the muddy bank into the water. Herald
Wingate’s words of warning rung loud in her ears, propelling her forward. 



Taking the next turn slow, Savina
slammed on her brakes so not to hit the man standing in the middle of the road.
The car jerked and stalled. His imaged blurred from the pounding rain pushed
off the car’s windows by inadequate blades. Time stood still with the click,
click, click, click of the wipers.



A gun went off in time with the
next click … into the radiator, killing the car. She screamed—then threw open the
car door. Standing in the mud, the rain soaking her, she found herself looking
down the barrel of a shotgun. “What are you doing!”



“That you, Savina?”



“Good God, yes! What are you doing,
Cole Farlow? Why d’you shoot my car?”



“I just came from the shootin’ at
the cook shack, I thought ya was a scab. What, ya gonna arrest me?”



“Who got shot, Cole? Who?”



“Don’t know. Don’t rightly care.”



He staggered a step or two and
swayed, staring at Savina like a starved dog after a hunk of meat. The car
hissed. Steam shot out of the grill and from under the hood.



Alcohol clouded Cole Farlow’s eyes.
Savina could smell it through the rain. Staggering toward her, dragging his
rifle behind him in the mud, a chew of tobacco swelled his lower lip like a bee
sting. “Well, well, well. If it ain’t the
purty little whore belongin’ to James Curtis Nettles,” he slurred. Cole smiled
and swung his gun over his shoulder. “I heard ya been spendin’ some time up in
Nigger Holler. Y’ain’t been cheatin’ on James with some old nigger man, have
ya? Ain’t you and James sup’osed to be gettin’ hitched soon?”



“What I do in my spare time is none
of your business, and you know I’m engaged to James Curtis!” She had to yell
above the roar of the rain.



“Too bad. Every man in Widen’s got
a hard-on for ya. Maybe ya need to spread it around some, ‘fore ya give it all
away to young Mr. Nettles.”



“Stop it. Enough of your foul
mouth. Who got shot? Have you seen my daddy?”



“Seen a couple fellers with bullet
holes through their damn heads. Must’ve scared the piss right outa their
peckers too.” Cole laughed and pulled a whiskey bottle from his pocket. “So
what the hell ya doin’ out here?” He unscrewed the cap and took two long gulps.



“Better question is, what are you
doing here? What’d you do at the cook shack? You runnin’ from somethin’? Did
you shoot somebody, Cole? Tell me. Why you been drinkin’?”



He slid in the mud another step
closer. His clothes were torn and his unshaved face bled from deep scratches,
like he had run through a patch of briars surrounded by barbed wire. “My,
you’re an awful nosy little gal.” He took a quick step forward and jabbed the
gun barrel into Savina’s chest.



Fear spread through her belly like
a spray of ice water. His finger twitched on the trigger. “You need to go home,
Cole. Go home and sleep this off.”



“I think I’d like a little taste of
what James Curtis has been chewin’ on.” He yanked the gun back and jabbed it
again, hard this time. Savina stared down the sleek black barrel of an old
hunting rifle, used for small game and shooting cans off fence posts. He leaned
toward her over the gun that connected them like an iron bridge.



“Why don’t you and me get in the
back seat of that dead car?”



Savina put the tips of her fingers
against his cold hard chest. “Stay away from me, Cole, you hear? My daddy’ll
skin your hide while you’re still alive. I’m gonna turn around and walk back to
town. You can crawl in Daddy’s car and sleep.” She pulled away slowly and
turned her back to walk in the direction she had come from. Fear seized her by
the throat in the chilling rain cutting her breath in two. Frightened, she slid
in the mud and fell hard on her hip, but stood quickly and continued moving,
cold mud covering the right side of her body.



The gun went off. Savina’s head
snapped sideways, her body turned just enough to see Cole lurch, stagger, and
then lean against the car, having shot his gun up in the air. “Get back here.
Ya always was a tattle tale little bitch.” His eyes glowed a bloodshot red
through the downpour.



Savina turned her back and
continued walking.



“I said get back here!” Another
shot blasted into the air.



She kept walking.



Cole Farlow was a better shot drunk
than sober. At the moment of impact, the third bullet burrowed through Savina’s
back and bull’s-eyed into her heart. She was dead before she fell into the mud
on the Widen road.

Coal Dust On My Feet ~ part 8

 

~~~Thursday, April
23, 1953~~~



            “He must be a new hire!”



            “Let’s roll him!”



            “Teach him not to take our jobs!”



            The 1947 Ford truck bounced and crashed down through a
different grove of trees and brush this time. Having been removed from their
previous headquarters, the striking men found a steeper embankment than the
Widen hill to roll cars. Each company man rolled narrowly escaped with his
life; many nursed wounds months later. Scars and broken bones were not an
uncommon sight in Widen. Doctor Vance had a new patient in his office nearly
every week from a fight or a car having been shoved to the bottom of a gully.



            Jonas Zirka bounded down the hill toward the truck to scare the man
inside with a few pot shots and a laugh, hoping to watch him run like a coward
into town—same as he’d done with the rest of the men they had rolled.



            He yelled to the men back up the hill, “You see this
feller get out of his truck?”



            Somebody shouted. “No! Where’d he go?”



            “Nobody here. Not a trace of him. Nothin’ in the truck to
say who he was.”



~~~



            The air was agitated and humid, rough as tree bark in the
lungs. Coal dust filled the afternoon sky. Static disrupted the gospel songs of
Mom and Dad Speer on the radio. An early afternoon storm rumbled in the
distance. Inside, the house became dark. DeDe lit two kerosene lamps that held
their flames like shivering butterflies. She thought of Savina.



Last
night’s prayer meeting phenomenon had kept her awake until morning. Drowsy, she
rested her head against the back of her chair. Dreamy and drifting into
slumber, DeDe jerked awake in the midst of a strange dream when she heard the
knock. She moved in slow motion as if wading through waist-deep water. Thunder
rolled again, nudging the storm closer to the valley.



When
she opened the door, it sounded as if a seal had been broken.           



“May
I help you?” DeDe attempted to smother her yawn.



            “Howdy-do,
ma’am. I’m looking for Odie Ingram’s place. Do you know Savina Ingram and where
I might find her?”



Despite
the smell of the oncoming storm, DeDe inhaled the wood-smoke of his voice
followed by the fragrance of apple blossoms floating through the screen door.



“I know her, yes.
May I ask who you are?” Her tone was soft and clear, with a slight touch of fascination.



He grabbed the rim of his black
felt hat and tipped it.
“Sorry, ma’am.” Nodding his head curtly, his rugged voice and apology drew a small smile from
DeDe. “My name’s Herald. Herald Wingate.”
He was an odd-looking man, thin, tall, and handsome in an out-of-the-ordinary
way. His colorless eyes, long elfin nose, unshaven face and powerful hands
were pale against his ragged and dirty clothes. His tattered pants ended at
scuffed leather boots. High cheekbones suggested Cherokee blood, but his
presence was like an offensive profanity against the backdrop of  the pink
impatience in her flowerbed behind him. It was comparable to finding lice on a
little girl’s head.



            “I’m an old friend of her mother’s,” he said. “I want to check on
the child and see how she's doing.”



            “So you’re from …”



            “Bethlehem, ma’am.”



            “Oh, yes. I remember now. Jo lived in Pennsylvania before
she moved here with Odie. ‘Bout the same time Thirl and I moved to Nicholas
Street in Widen.”



            “That’s right. I promised her mother I’d check on her now
and then. I knew Missus Ingram was dying and I’d had a few conversations with
her. She really didn’t want to leave Savina alone to take care of Mister
Ingram. But these things can’t be helped sometimes.”



The brim of his hat was pulled down
low enough to hide his strange-looking eyes again. Long dark hair grazed the
shoulders of his blue wool jacket with holes in both elbows.



            DeDe
recalled the Depression years when her mother befriended many a man walking
through Matewan with his family, or alone. Ragged men, poor men—her mother had
fed them and sent them on their way with a sack of salt pork and biscuits.



            All of a
sudden she found herself standing in the middle of her front room with a
stranger.



            “Would you
like a bite to eat? I have some leftover ham from breakfast. I could fry you a
couple eggs.”



            “That’d be
nice, Ma’am. I thank ye kindly.”



            “You can
wash up in there.” She pointed to the bathroom.



            DeDe cracked two eggs in the skillet and listened
for her guest to return to the kitchen again. She propped her purse on her
cutting board, just in case. When he emerged, his hands glowed raw and pink
from the scrubbing he had given them, and he smelled like lye soap mixed with
apple blossoms. He nodded and took a seat at the table. His left hand rested
against his leg with the palm turned out and a New Testament held loosely
between his thumb and two fingers.



“Smells mighty good, ma’am.” He ate
slowly and articulated words that sounded like music, his voice echoing through
the house. For the next hour Herald Wingate pulled topics of religious
conversation from thin air and made DeDe a verbal bouquet of Biblical subjects
irresistible to her. She’d never met a man with knowledge of the scriptures
like this man.



DeDe
stood near the stove, looking down at the dusty, bedraggled stranger. The first
stranger she couldn’t peg. Her back remained gracefully straight, but the loose
knot of hair at her nape quivered with her indecision. Who is he, really? Should I tell him where Savina lives?



~~~Sunday, May 3,
1953~~~



            As night
faded and the morning sky drowned the stars, Thirl heard the screen door
stretch on its rusted spring.



            “DeDe home,
Thirl?”



            “No, Pearle
… she leaves early on Sunday. Teachin’ Sunday School this mornin’.”



            “Oh, right.
I suppose she told you about our prayer meetin’ last week?”



            “Sure did.”



            Pearle
walked back out the door. “Guess you know then, it’s the women in this town
that God talks to.”



            Thirl and
James Curtis smiled at each other across the table.




            Pearle's eyes riveted on James Curtis. “Your mama tell you
anything about this strange new fella, Herald Wingate? I heard he’s been
spotted several times around town the past week. But seems only the women have
met him. Word has it he’s a guest at the Ingram farm. An old friend of
Josephine’s. You meet him?”



            James Curtis stood and walked toward the door. “No, ain’t
met him, but I’m sure Odie wouldn’t let him stay there unless he knew him.
Kind’ve makes me a little uneasy though.”



            “Why’s
that?”



            “Savina
says he’s been preaching to the women. Even been up to Colored Holler. Telling
them to pray for the peace and safety of the town. To reach out to God, trust
and obey Jesus. That this town is on the verge of destruction unless the women
pray harder because the men, with the exception of Pastor Jessie, don’t pray at
all. Just make a mess of things.”



            Thirl laid his hand on his son's shoulder. “Next time
this Herald fella comes to the house, I want to meet him.”



            Pearle laughed. “If you can
see him. Hardrock said Sylvia was talking to the air out in the yard a day ago,
and he asked her what she was doing. She said, ‘I was talking to Herald
Wingate. What—you think I talk to the trees?’”



~~~Thursday, May
7, 1953~~~



Savina
stood with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder ran through her frame.
“What?”



Herald
Wingate sat on the steps that led up to her porch. He held his Testament in his
hand and pointed in the direction of Dille. “I said your father’s in danger.
The next shift of men driving into Widen for work, they’re all in danger.
There’s a group of pickets at the cook shack, laying in wait. Your father’s one
of them. This violence must stop, Savina. God is not pleased.”



“How
can I stop it? Why don’t you stop them? How do you know?”



“Heard
voices while I was praying in the woods yesterday. I came here, to Widen, for
three reasons: to preach to those with open hearts and minds—turns out that’s
the women, to check on you for your mother, and to warn your father. My
work is done; it’s time for me to take leave.” He closed his Testament and stuffed
it into his coat pocket. “I advised your father not to go to the cook shack
today. He told me to mind my own business and that it was time I vacate his
farm. Savina, all you can do is gather with the women in town and pray.”



“But
you just got here. Is it too cold in the barn for ya? It’s not as good as the
old one that burned down. What we have now is just temporary ‘til we can afford
to build a new one. I'm sorry, but Daddy won’t let strangers in the house. He always sends
drifters in need of a meal to the barn to sleep.”



“No,
the barn was fine. The horses were pleasant company. I thank ye both for your
hospitality.” Moving toward the fence gate, he pulled his hat down over his forehead.



“But ... I
want to talk to you more about Mommy. Please stay a few more days.”



“Can’t.
I told you everything I know about your mother. She’s in heaven now—you’ll have
to be satisfied with that.



Savina strolled to the gate, dismissing his warnings. “You said you knew Mommy from the time she was born. How old are you?”



“Old
enough. Too old.” He smiled. His voice was like music.



“You
sure don’t look it.” A bittersweet smile eased across her lips. Lightning
flashed in the distance. Savina pulled her sweater closer to her neck and
shifted her gaze to the lowering sky. “I think another storm is comin’ over the
mountains. I need to bring daddy home. I can take you as far as the cook shack,
Mister Wingate.”



“You
shouldn’t go. Go to town and pray with the women instead. My talking to your
father hasn’t done any good. You’ll not bring him home, Savina. Men are
creatures of free will. These men won’t stop until innocent blood is
shed—the town will not recover from it. I’m off to Widen to say goodbye to
Missus Nettles and a few other ladies gathering for a prayer meeting this
morning.”



Savina pulled at his coat sleeve. “Maybe
you should meet some of the other men in town. Try to convince them.”



“Like
I said, my business here is done.”



Savina
hugged him quickly, ran up the porch and into the house to grab her purse and
her daddy’s car keys. When she came back out she wanted to ask him to please
stay for church on Sunday. But he was gone.



~~~



            “Signs and
wonders follow them that believe,” Pearle raised her hand. “I believe I have a
testimony.”



The ladies that gathered in DeDe’s front room shouted, “Bless God, tell
us, Sister Gibson.” “Yes, speak to us, Sister Gibson. Go on and testify,
Sister.”



“I believe in miracles. I believe God is going to end this strike soon.
I believe he’s given me the strength to endure until the end. Union or
non-union. We’re all God’s children. I want to testify to the strength I’ve
felt since the night we all heard the angels sing ...”



“We don’t know for sure what that was, Pearle!” Sylvia Dodrill shook
her head.



“Oh ye of little faith.” The voice startled the women, causing them to
jump and turn their heads to the screen door. Herald Wingate stood on the other
side, curling the brim of his hat in his hands. No one had heard the usual sound of
footsteps stomp up the clapboard porch.



DeDe stood. “Mister Wingate, you shouldn’t walk up on people like that.
Would you like to come in and join us?”



“No, thank ye. But keep praying ladies; my time here is up, I have to
get back home. I came to say good-bye and that there’s a storm coming. And to
pray for Savina Ingram.”



DeDe felt her insides turn to mush.
“Why? Herald, is Savina alright?”



“She’s gone to warn her father.
There’s danger on the roads this morning, ladies. Remain here and pray through
to victory. Call on the forces of Heaven to hold back the darkness that’s
coming.”



“Don’t! Don’t scare us like this
anymore, Mister Wingate!” Sylvia stood and stomped to the door. “He’s an old
beggar that’s waltzed into town and you ladies think he’s the voice of God!”
Sylvia glared at him on the other side of the screen. “Stop it! Stop scaring
us. Go home to wherever you’re from. Leave us alone!”



“Sylvia!” DeDe shrieked. “Sit
down!”



The sky had grown as dark as a fresh bruise beneath the skin. Lightning flashed in the distance
and thunder rolled through the hollow.



            “Sorry to bother you, good ladies. Good-bye again.”



“Wait, Mister Wingate!” DeDe ran
out the screen door and down the porch following him into the street. “Please
forgive Sister Sylvia. Her husband’s been sick and ….”



“He has black lung. I know Missus
Nettles. Mister Dodrill is dying. Somebody has to have faith for him. His wife
does not.”



“Won’t you stay a while longer?”



“Actually, ma’am, my work here is done. I’ve got coal
dust on my feet. It’s time to shake it off. You’ve been kind to me. I thank ye.
Good-bye, now.” He tipped his hat one last time, walked down Nicholas Street
and disappeared around the corner.



DeDe stood in a solemn gaze,
watching Herald Wingate walk away carrying no pack, sack, or piece of luggage.
Only the top of his New Testament stuck out of his pocket. Her mouth moved whispering
the scripture that flowed off her tongue. “And whosoever shall not receive
you, nor hear you, when ye depart thence, shake off the dust under your feet
for a testimony against them. Verily I say unto you, It shall be more tolerable
for Sodom and Gomorrah in the Day of Judgment, than for that city.”

Coal Dust On My Feet ~ part 7

~~~Saturday, April
18, 1953~~~





“Can we come in?” The woman said
with a sheepish smile and her hand on the door. “It’s rainin’ fit to start the
second flood out heah."


            DeDe stared at the two faces on the
other side of her screen door.




“I'm Hephzibah Kelly, and dis mah
husband, Jabo.”


            “Of course, where are my manners? I wasn’t expecting guests.
Today being Saturday, and the men out doing whatever it is men do on
Saturdays.” DeDe smiled.




Jabo returned her smile, but
Hephzibah held a steady gaze into the house.



DeDe opened the front door wide,
while her unexpected guests pulled open the screen door.



Tall and wiry, Jabo stooped over walking through the doorway. His eyes registered
everything immediately. “Sho
is uh nice place y’all got heah.”



“It’ll
do until we get our mansion up yonder,” DeDe said. Neither Hephzibah nor Jabo registered a
grin. They stared instead at the furniture, the buck
head on the wall, and the kitchen linoleum. “Well, please, come
sit at the table. Would you like anything cold to drink? It’s gettin’ warmer.
Summer’s just ‘round the corner.” DeDe’s
instant politeness smoke-screened her quest to find out about a person. The
minute she talked to anyone her eyes were everywhere—glaring into their soul.
Within seconds she had strangers pegged. It had always scared the hell out of James
Curtis, but fascinated Thirl.



She
led the Kellys to her kitchen table and motioned for them to have a seat. DeDe didn’t
remember Hephzibah being so pretty. Her hair was dark as a crow’s wing,
smoothed back, but frizzed out around her forehead. Her licorice smooth skin
contributed to her looking younger than her years. A blue cotton waistless
dress hung from her shoulders to her knees, and her stockings were rolled down to
her ankles. “We came heah, Missus Nettles ….”



“Oh please, call me DeDe.”



“Miz DeDe, we came heah ‘cause we
good friends of Savina. Your James and Savina aimin’ to marry. I knows that ain’t
no secret.”



“No, but I believe it’ll happen
later than sooner, with the strike and all.”



“True, Miz DeDe. Tha’s fuh sho.”
Jabo dropped his head wearily. His gray hair curled in tight clumps around his
ears. A frost of unshaven stubble smudged his chin, and his eyes were light
blue to the point of grayness. Veins
ran along the top of each thick bicep. His pants hung loose and rumpled.



Hephzibah eyed her husband and
continued. “You knows I work for Mist’ Bradley.”



            “Yes, I
heard that.”



            “I try to
stay outa the white man’s business. I do. But Jabo and me, we love Savina like
our own. And we love your boy, too, Miz DeDe. He’s a good boy. Savina say we
can trust you.”



            “Thank you,
Hephzibah.” DeDe smiled. “How long have you known James Curtis?”



            Jabo stared
at his wife. “Oh … well, me and James Curtis shoot da breeze sometimes when da
women folk visit … after they finish work over at da Bradley house.”



            “Oh.”



            Hephzibah cleared her throat. “I’ll state
the reason for our call. Jabo do it better though. You tell her. You tell Miz
DeDe what you heah.”



            Jabo slid
down in his seat, steepled his fingers and looked across the table to the wall. “When ah
retired last year from da mine, Mist’ Bradley offer me a handyman job at his
house. Fixin’ whatnot ‘round his place. Big place, you ever seen it?”



            “No, I’ve
heard it’s lovely.”



“Yes’um. Anyway. Ah was layin’ a
new rug in they dinin’ room two days ago and ah heah Mist’ Bradley talkin’ on
da phone. Comp’ny men ought not to make da strikers mad. They gone start a war,
Miz DeDe. It gone be a bad one. Strikers took over da garage in Dille as a new
headquarters and made it a cook shack too.”



            DeDe
grabbed her throat, and her eyes filled. “What else do you know, Mr. Kelly?”



            “Only
reason Ah’m stickin’ my ole’ neck out, is ‘cause Savina love James Curtis. She
loves her daddy, too. Hephzibah and me jus’ want yo family to be safe. Tha’s
all.”



            “Anything
else?”



“Someone at da FBI owes Mist’
Bradley a favor. He calls Mist’ Bradley from time to time. Sent two
deputies—askin’ da strikers lots of questions. Pretty rough stuff, what they
say to each other.” Jabo paused and lowered his voice.



            “Mist’ Bradley say, iffen he could fine a way to
split ‘em, to make all Widen men see that da UMW’s jus’ a bunch of lef-wing
troublemakers, don’t have their best interests at heart, well, then, this
strike be over in a week.” Jabo paused again and stared out the window this
time. “Ain’t gone happen, tho’.”



“He say, the UMW sees Elk River
Coal and Lumber as a test case. Win heah, they win da whole state. They dug in
for da duration. As long as it takes. Now, ‘cause of da comp’ny men shovin’
pickets off da hill, the union is cocky as hell. ‘Cause of they threats, they
think Mist’ Bradley gone throw in da towel, jus’ give them whatever they damn
want. Mist’ Bradley say it’ll go on for a while, and probably be some men
gettin’ hurt or worse.”



“Later, ah heard two of them union
fellas walkin’ in da woods near my place. They been collectin’ lots of guns.
They laugh and say they gone shoot the first man drivin’ in the comp’ny convoy
one mornin’ this week. Don’t know what mornin’. Could be this town be havin’ a
few funerals next week, he say.”



“Why didn’t you tell this to Mister
Bradley?”



“Ah jus’ a handyman, Miz DeDe. We
don’t speak much. Like ah say, ah don’t stick this ole’ neck out for jus’
anybody. Still, it gone on too long. Them comp’ny mens, they cain’t take they
family in and out of Widen. Been months for mos’ of ‘em, ‘ceptin on Election
Day. Da only day they able to get out of Widen. Thank da Lawd, nobody got
killed.”



“Worse part, Savina’s daddy, Mist’
Odie, he sent word to Mist’ Bradley at da house today. He say he die before he
work in non-union mine, and he say he take a few Comp’ny men wid him.”



            DeDe straightened in
her chair. “I’ve been sitting here thinking, I’m going to have a special
women’s prayer meeting at my house this Wednesday evening. I’m inviting every
woman in this town. Hephzibah, you and Mama Ola are more than welcome to join
us.”



            Hephzibah crossed
her arms in front of her. “That’d be nice, but I don’t know how the white
ladies in your church take to coloreds invadin’ they prayer meetin’.”



            “You have as much
right to divine protection as the rest of us. I want you here, praying with
us.”



            Jabo chuckled. “Oh
we protected. We do like da Hebrews. We sprinkle da blood over our door, tell
da Angel of Death to pass over this house. It work too. You should try it.” He
pushed his chair back from the table and grinned as one does when disclosing an
unsettling secret. “Da rich man thinks we’s all
niggers, Miz DeDe. They call my home nigger holler. But all Widen is nigger
holler. You and yo’ kind well as me and mine. You jus’ got a little more jiggle
room, tha’s all.”



DeDe caught Hephzibah’s eyes darting around her kitchen. “We’re not rich, Mister Kelly. Nobody in this town
is rich, except Mister Gandy and, of course, Mister Bradley.”



Hephzibah stood and pushed her
chair into the table. “Jabo don’t see what I see. They’s not rich, neither. I
sees they socks, they underwear. I wash they clothes and I sees how Mist’
Bradley worry over his bills. Some days don’t even get home ‘til way late at
night. And his wife is sick. Always a guard there protectin’ his home with a
gun. Nah, he ain’ no rich man.”



            Jabo held out his hand. “Was nice talkin’ to you
today. Ah hope we didn’t put yuh out none.”



DeDe smiled. “I enjoyed the
company.” His touch was warm, firm, and yet gentle. A double-handed shake.
Preachers always grabbed you with both hands, one squeezing your palm and the
other squeezing your wrist. “You’re a minister of the gospel?”



“Yes’um. How you know that, Miz
DeDe? Lawsamercy,” Jabo chuckled. “Ah preach every Sunday in our church up da
holler. Come visit sometime?”



DeDe’s eyes opened wide, her mouth
quivered for words. She’d never received an open invitation from a colored
church, nor had anticipated attending a service surrounded by Negros. But there
was always a first time. “Yes, when the strike is over, I’ll be glad to visit.
Thank you for your kind comments about my son, and thank you for warning us. I
hope my emergency prayer meeting will reach God’s ear.”



“Ah be bringin’ Hephzibah and my
mama by Wednesday long ‘bout seven. They’s prayin’ women. Prayer warriors. It
be after dark, that way nobody sees. That be fine wid you?”



“Yes, of course.” Her eyes met
Hephzibah’s and the two women embraced. Another first.



~~~Wednesday, April 22, 1953~~~



Opposing sides filled DeDe’s house quickly. Women
sympathetic to the union and company women, who wanted the strike to end,
managed to exchange a few polite nods, stares and smiles. The ladies, lacking
for words, gathered in opposite rooms of DeDe’s house—company women in the
kitchen and union women in the front room. Despite the heat, tension chilled
the air. Some hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in months. It wasn’t until a
tiny, elderly lady named Ossie Casto, whose flesh was the color of toadstools and
whose memory was so eroded she thought they’d come to pray for President
Roosevelt, stood and sang the wedding song Oh Promise Me that giggles
erupted throughout the house.



Stifled words longing to be said spilled out of
their mouths and the rooms converged on one another. Long hugs, apologies, and
passing the tissue box—DeDe heaved a sigh of relief and put her purse away. The
healing was long overdue.



            Opal Hamrick arrived late. A wide-bottomed, pale, hard-looking woman of forty-five
or so, she carried a Jello mold in her hand. Her husband, Jack, had remained on
the strike line despite being fired by the company. Opal hugged DeDe so hard
her hair had to be combed again. “DeDe, you’re so skinny, I’ll bet you have to squat to fart.”



            Tessa Butcher, Bonehead’s wife, was
nine months pregnant with her fourth child. Her swollen bare legs above tight ankle socks held the interest
of every woman in the room. A topic of conversation, along with possible remedies,
it was a welcome diversion from the strike.



Each
woman searched for conversation to divert themselves from the past months of
living in a war-torn town. Sylvia Dodrill complained she’d lost her shape with
her last child. But Fleeta Thigpen disagreed, stating the only thing wrong with
Sylvia was her faded yellow hair that clung too close to her skull like some giant
ear of corn with not enough silk. The Digg sisters, Lottie and Goose, busied themselves in DeDe's kitchen, making lemonade and cutting the crust off cheese sandwiches. Tootsie Barrow, Imogene Sanders, and a heavyset woman with thin legs and wide fee, Edith Holcomb, exchanged recipes. Pearle Gibson arrived late with her Bible-toting Aunt Hattie Mae from Summersville.




The old woman walked over to DeDe
and immediately knit her brows together. She gave DeDe’s hand a gentle squeeze.
“The Lord holds a flashlight as we walk through the valley of the shadow of
death, dear. He helps us find new life in the midst of the valley.”



Embarrassed, Pearle grabbed her arm
and pulled her to a seat in the corner. She mouthed a “sorry” to DeDe. But DeDe
smiled. She smiled because it was all she could do. Chilled for a moment as
Hattie Mae’s words shook her to the core, DeDe turned her
attention to the other women in an attempt to rid her mind of the old lady’s
words and to remind herself that the room wasn’t cold. In fact, she had opened
all the windows. The temperatures had broken records that late April evening.
The heat and humidity inside the house caused some to stand and catch a breeze while
their dress hems lifted in the hot air and moved around their legs like a sigh
in church.



When DeDe answered the door, and Hephzibah and Mama Ola stepped into
the house wearing their best clothes and holding their Bibles in the crooks
of their arms, the room shut down. Not one woman’s chin quivered. A
dozen pairs of inquisitive eyes glared at their hostess.



DeDe spoke in a commanding voice.
“I invited Hephzibah Kelly and her mother-in-law to visit with us this evening.
You all know Mama Ola. I prayed hard about it. I believe God laid it on my
heart for them to be here. We are all women, women of faith, women who want an
end to the strike, but above that, we are women who know how to love. Women who
want our families safe. These women do too. And they have voiced their love for
my family. I am proud to have them in my home tonight. I want you all to
welcome them.” The words dashed against her teeth,
the wave of emotion unable to carry them farther.



Mama Ola’s wide smile showed a
mixture of gaps and brown teeth. Her white hair glistened against her dark
brown skin.



            DeDe’s pleading glance fell on Opal, who chewed her gum
in short, irregular snaps. If Opal would accept them, the rest would follow.
Opal stood and walked over to Hephzibah. “Your boy, Highpockets. He did a fine
job buildin’ my hog pen last summer. Got good manners. It’s nice to meet ya
both. C'mon ladies, meet DeDe’s guests.”



            DeDe breathed deep. A breeze moved against her sweaty
back. She pulled her sticky blouse from her skin, and decided to stand still--allow the air to dry her clothes while the rest of the women surrounded her two
new friends from Colored Holler, welcoming them in the name of the Lord.



~~~



The social hour passed. DeDe
intended to devote the next hour to the scriptures, reading and praying. She
scarcely found her voice as she preached. “I’m going to read the scripture
Pastor Jessie read last week in service. Please turn to Ephesians the sixth chapter, verses
ten through seventeen. I believe it’s appropriate for this evening.”



“Finally, my brethren, be strong
in the Lord, and in the power of his might. Put on the whole armour of God,
that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. For we wrestle not
against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against
the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high
places. Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God that ye may be able to
withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand. Stand therefore,
having your loins girt about with truth, and having on the breastplate of
righteousness; And your feet shod with the preparation of the gospel of peace;
Above all, taking the shield of faith, wherewith ye shall be able to quench all
the fiery darts of the wicked. And take the helmet of salvation, and the sword
of the Spirit, which is the word of God.”



The room fell into a weighty hush. Darkness seeped in from the outside
and filled the house, even with DeDe’s single lamp that sat on her bookcase. The
night sounds of frogs and crickets and an occasional dog’s bark were the only
noise. Then, as if on cue from God, these sounds also ceased.



There
was no breeze to speak of. The air around them felt heavy and dead. The screen
door to the porch was open and DeDe’s white chiffon curtains at the windows
suddenly blew gently inward and billowed like angel’s wings, as if some
supernatural being had glided into the room. Lottie put a hand to her mouth.
The breeze stopped, the women froze, and their fanning ceased. Nothing moved,
not even the wind.



The
singing came from outside. As if a choir were floating up Nicholas Street. A
soft carol of voices. The song escalated in strength, grew stronger, louder,
and became recognizable—a chorus. A mass of voices singing in a heavenly
language. The sound grew as if someone had turned up the volume on a radio. It
floated through the doorway and as it did, a light came with it, filling the
room. It expanded and appeared to seep into every mind and heart. And then,
just as it came, it descended out the west window, as if someone opened a
vacuum and the singing was sucked out.



No one could speak for a period of unknown time, as every
watch on every wrist had stopped. Even the mantel clock on DeDe’s bookcase
ceased to chime the hour. Sounds of murmured praise came first from their lips.
Hephzibah whispered to Opal that she saw tongues of fire over each woman in the
room. Opal reached for her hand and smiled. “I see ‘em too.”



Questions oozed from every mouth … “Did you hear it?” “Yes,
what did you hear?” “What was it? A choir?” “Angels, yes it was angels
singing.”



Sylvia and Tessa believed it was the radio next door and an
electric surge. Lottie and Goose cried. Ossie, Opal, Tootsie, Imogene, Fleeta and
Edith sang, “Praise Him, Praise Him,
Praise Him in the mornin’, Praise Him in the noontime, Praise Him when the sun
goes down …”



One by one, the ladies bid their teary good-byes. Pearle
pulled DeDe aside after most had gone and a few waited for their rides. “Was it
a sign? A good sign or a bad sign? What’d it mean?”



Hattie Mae couldn’t hold back any longer. “It was a sign of
the second comin’.”



“Oh, hush, Hattie Mae! You don’t know that.” Pearle shook
her head at her elderly aunt.



“I know somebody’s comin’,” she said.



Hephzibah looked at Mama Ola. “What you think, Mama?”



The old black woman stared at DeDe and grinned. “She know.
She know what it was.”



Pearle’s hand, still on DeDe’s arm, trembled. She asked her
again. “What do you know, DeDe?”



“I know it’s late. Thank you all for coming.”

Coal Dust On My Feet ~ part 6

~~~Tuesday, April
14, 1953~~~



            DeDe woke up, ran her tongue behind her teeth, and
tasted bitter anguish. A taste as unpleasant as chicory that melts on the tongue. Another storm had moved into the valley, the
wind whipping pine branches across her bedroom
window. Too windy to hang out clothes and sheets, her laundry would wait
another day. She hated wind with no rain. At least the rain washed the air. But this was a wicked wind that picked up the coal splinters and hurled them at your
skin. She felt an uneasiness in her spirit, and the top of her head tingled.



            Thirl’s Vitalis on the pillow greeted
her as she stirred. Out of habit she moved her hand along his side of the
bed, feeling only the lingering warmth of the empty spot. He was always up first. Hugging the abandoned pillow to her chest, she inhaled the scent
of his hair, letting herself drift a while longer.



Mornings
like this one she was grateful for the bathroom Thirl had built. DeDe reckoned
the only thing outhouses were good for was to know the bathroom habits of your
neighbors. She heard Thirl maneuvering his stiff leg through the kitchen and lay his Bible on the table, his usual morning routine. Through the curtain that separated the bedroom from the kitchen, she watched as he limped into the tiny bathroom and filled the
basin with warm water to shave. It was time to get James out of bed or they’d
both be late.



The morning's chill clung to DeDe through her chenille robe. Preparing both lunch boxes for her men, she filled each
Thermos with boiling coffee. After stirring the coal in the stove, she glanced
out the front room window at the first drops of rain pinging the panes. Her
heartbeat quickened at the sight of two men rushing up to her front door.



The
screen door was yanked open, causing the spring to emit a startled twang. They
knocked hard and fast. Whoever it was on the other side of the door clearly
wasn’t worried about disturbing the household.



Thirl
poked his head out of the bathroom—shirtless, wiping the remains of shaving
cream off his face with his towel. DeDe heard him pulling on his pants,
his belt buckle jangling. “Who is at this time of the mornin’?” he asked.



“Company
men, I’m sure.” DeDe opened the door and found Dewey Wilson standing behind
Jugg Pyle. The wind flung rain in their faces like cold spit.



“Morning,”
said DeDe.



“Thirl
inside?”



“Getting
ready for work. You need to talk to him now?”



“Yes,
Ma’am,” said Jugg. “We …”



            Dewey interrupted with a cold stare, “We ain’t got time
for pleasantries. Didn’t come fer no tea party … we gotta talk to Thirl.”



            “Hold on, gentlemen. I’ll get my husband.” She
opened the door and led them to the kitchen. DeDe knew Thirl was listening and
probably dressed by now. James Curtis hadn’t stirred from his room. She peeked
her head inside his door. “Get up, son; we have visitors.”



            A groggy voice squeaked in the darkness. “Who is it,
Mama?”



            “Company men here to see your daddy. Get up now. You’re
both gonna be late as it is.”



            Thirl had walked into the kitchen to find the men
standing by the stove with their hats in their hands. “You fellas want some
coffee?”



            “Ain’t got time for coffee,” said Dewey.  



            Jugg stared at Thirl’s clean face, rubbing the stubble on
his own. “Some of the men had a meetin’ at the church early this mornin’. We
knew you wouldn’t want to be a part of this, but me and Dewey thought we’d at
least let you know, on account of you bein’ shot and for all your misery.”



            “Just
tell him, for Christ sake.” Dewey blew a wrathful breath from his nostrils,
while his huge brown hand came thundering down on the table. “It’s like this.
From the start, the comp’ny has admonished us to avoid any action that might be
construed as retaliation against the strikers. But we’re tired, Thirl, tired of
turnin’ the other cheek. You know it weren’t comp’ny men that burned Odie
Ingram’s barn. Strikers did it to their own to make us look like a bunch of
vigilantes. Here’s the deal. Bosses don’t know yet, ‘cept you. A group of the
men are takin’ a bulldozer up to the head of the Widen road. They plan to plow
the striker’s headquarters off the hill. We’re through with ‘em. We want to get
back to work. Comp’ny’s losin’ money, and it might destroy the town if the
strike goes on any longer. We ain’t safe in our own homes. Time we did
somethin’ beside sit by and let them take pot shots at our cars and our
families. Tub Perry’s got a dozer he used when he worked on the roads. He’s on
his way now.”



            James Curtis bounded out of his room, his shirttail
hanging, one boot on and holding the other. “Y’all cain’t do that! Somebody’s
gonna get killed!”



            “Son! Calm down. Get yourself some breakfast.” Thirl
threw a glance at DeDe to keep James Curtis out of the conversation.



            She laid her hand on James’ shoulder. “You men ever lost
a loved one? Other than your parents, have either of you laid a dear soul into
the ground? I’m not prepared to lose my husband or my son because you boys want
to act like a bunch of John Waynes and plow the strikers into the dirt.”



            Dewey Wilson spit a stream of tobacco juice into the pop
bottle he pulled out of his pocket. A steel-eyed glare was his only response.



Jugg, the town’s undertaker for the
past ten years, quoted from the book of Job, “The Lord gave and the Lord hath
taken away.”



“I prefer Deuteronomy,” she said
and looked hard at the men. “I will render vengeance to mine enemies. Vengeance
is the Lord’s work … not ours!”



Suddenly,
Dewey pulled an ancient gun out of his side pocket and spun the barrel like
John Wayne in Red River, making a crooked aim out the window. His eyes were
loose-closed; a trembling rim of white showed between his lashes. The tip of
his tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth. His red finger tightened on
the trigger. “I’m ready to help the Lord out, what about you, Jugg? I think you
need to calm your wife down, Thirl, this here talk is between the men.”



DeDe
picked up a dishtowel and pretended to clean off the table. “And who do you
think suffers the most? The men?”



“Dewey,
put your gun away. My wife is privy to all I know. She has a say in what goes
on in this house, gentlemen. I believe she’s fixed breakfast for your families
a time or two. And if you want to discuss business in my wife’s kitchen, you’re
gonna have to listen to her.”



Jugg
nudged Dewey toward the door. “We’re sorry, ma’am.” He nodded to all three of
the Nettles family. “We just wanted to let you know what happened at the
meetin’. But ya cain’t stop it, Thirl. It’s already started.”



Dewey
slipped his gun back in his coat pocket, spit in his bottle again, shoved his
hat on his head and stormed out the door.



“Good
thing he ain’t a union man.” Jugg’s nervous chuckle brought no reaction from
DeDe or Thirl. “I apologize for Dewey; he ain’t been himself lately. Strikers
rolled his car down the hill last week. He’ll settle down. I don’t see this as
an act of violence, just us peaceful men bein’ fed up. That’s all. Rest easy,
ma’am. Ain’t gonna be any killin’.”



“And
a cat’s butt ain’t puckered,” said DeDe, throwing her kitchen towel on the
table and leaving the room.



~~~



Off the state highway, in the
middle of the company road at the top of Widen hill, the strikers had set up
their field station. Benches and old automobile seats ringed a cluster of
fifty-gallon drums. James Curtis had heard Odie refer to them as fire barrels.



As men for the union scattered
right and left to safety, the bulldozer tracked into their camp, pushing
barrels, benches, lunch boxes and accumulated trash across the road and over
the lip of a deep gully.



Whooping and hollering, Dewey,
Jugg, and a hundred company men drove back into town, honking their car horns
and lighting firecrackers as if they deserved a parade. Their celebration could
be heard from one end of town to the other.



“They’re rejoicing for the wrong
reason,” said DeDe. “Strike’s not over, the battle’s just begun.” She rocked
back and forth on her porch swing.



Her neighbor Pearle squatted on an
apple crate and broke pole beans. “If ya ask me, I’m hopin’ that’s the end of
it. I ain’t been to Strange Creek to see my grandbabies since this thing
started last year.”



The people of Widen walked out of
their homes that evening, gathered on porches talking and feeling free to move
about. They allowed their children to roam the streets once again. A few young
boys carried baseball bats and gloves toward the baseball park. A young girl
rode her bike toward the Grille.



DeDe sensed the tingling in her
head again … and thunder rolled in the distance.

Writing Fiction From Your Family's History

Taking a little break this morning from Coal Dust On My Feet . I received an email yesterday from a writer who asked, "How do I weave my past into my stories?"



Every writer has a past, a family (good, bad, or ugly.) You possess your own personal turmoil from years gone by. The rain falls on us all. Heartache, heartbreak, hardships ... go back and visit those dark places, if you dare, and if you do, you'll find honest writing that tugs at the emotions of your readers.



In writing Coal Dust On My Feet , I went back into my early years. As the eldest daughter of Darrel King, I was still too little to remember anything about the coal strike. But I do recall the emotion on Grandpa's face when he talked about it. For the majority of the story I drew from those memories. Specifically, my many visits to Widen as a young girl. A sense of place rooted and grounded me into the story. I remember Grandma and Grandpa's house. It's still there and remains in the family's possession today. (See picture below.)



It seemed so big to me back then with its wide front porch and creaking swing, as well as a smaller back porch off the kitchen where Grandma washed clothes on Mondays in a wringer washer. There was always a broom or two in the porch corner and a box for coal. A clothesline zigzagged up the hilly backyard and a cloth bag made from an tattered housedress was full of wooden clothespins. Swinging from a clothes hanger, the bag scooted across the line as my mom hung out our bed sheets. One small working bathroom was added on later, and in my mother's opinion it was never clean enough.



I can still smell the coffee, bacon, and fried potatoes and eggs Grandma cooked for breakfast; the tinny smell of squirrel meat as Daddy and my aunt skinned a few from the morning's hunt, and the lingering scent of coal floating through town--especially on foggy mornings. The way the creek gurgled in the heat of the day. The feel of Widen's soft dirt roads on my bare feet, and the safety (or so we thought) of being surrounding by nothing but mountains. Nobody had money, everybody was in the same boat, and there really was a "Colored Holler." The town was segregated. It was the late 50s and early 60s. Nobody crossed those lines back then, sad to say.









Those memories shaped the story. The town was clearly in my head as I wrote about it. DeDe's house was Grandma's house. Even the deer head in the living room. The coal dust in the furniture. The lone light bulb over Thirl's bed. It's all from memory.



But it's when you write about the heartbreak in your life, when you draw from those deep and often tortured emotions ... that's what touches your readers. When you cry, they cry. Your readers will not feel the pain of loss unless you do. They will not care a bit about your characters unless you do. You, as a writer and a human being, have a wealth of information to pull from. If you're a storyteller, you can ask yourself ... what if? What if Uncle Percy robbed the store and got away with it? What if he hid the loot, got drunk, and told me as a kid where he stashed it? Think about different twists and turns in your own past, different endings to what really happened. Believe me, your plot will take off into directions you never knew your brain could conjure. It's an amazing ride.



And of course, be considerate. Don't write something about your mama that will upset her later. Or at least twist, turn, and bend it so she doesn't recognize the incident. Some of us hesitate to raise the stakes because of not wanting to hurt those we love. I can understand that. But just remember, you own everything that happened to you. Or so says Anne Lamott. And if your family knows you're a writer, they should expect that at some point, they may end up in a book somewhere.



Above everything, have fun writing. The process of putting words on paper is pure pleasure for me. It only becomes work after the book is published. So while you're in the moment, wrap yourself in words and emotion and especially the memories of your lifetime. There is where true originality comes from. No other writer has walked in your shoes. Remember that.



Blessings to you and yours.

Coal Dust On My Feet ~ part 5

~~~January 1953~~~



Winter came and stayed. Blizzard
followed blizzard, each day gray with a fierce wind from the North. The hollows
were deserted of man and beast, empty as any wasteland; the creeks were a
perilous pile of ice. Coal trains couldn’t get through, water pipes cracked;
all of West Virginia was locked in, the air as brittle as kindling.



Snow fell at daybreak. Later a
charcoal film would cover the day-old snow. January’s drifts banked the
windowpanes before it let up, the streets leveled, and the mountaintop above
Widen faded like smoke. When the storm petered out at noon, the town lay
steeped in fog—the ground-hugging kind that usually follows snow in valleys
where coal camps nestle between the mountains. Fog by itself did not deter the
citizens from carrying on with their lives, but fog with snow was something
else. A person stayed inside, worn down by cold trips to the outhouse and
restless sleep. Beneath this rag-and-bone sky, the only shadow cast was the
violence of the strike. The snow smothered every inch of ground where the land
bordered Buffalo Creek.



James Curtis followed a deer path
over the mountain. Rabbits scattered into thickets of rhododendron. Bobcat
tracks pocked the snow. He threaded his way over and through the mountain
trails with less difficulty than a sliver of soap through his fingers. Her love
pulled him like a solar eclipse—breathtakingly beautiful, spellbinding, and
able to make him blind. Blessed with a young man’s body, the coal dust had yet
to bite at his insides. Passion and pleasure waited for him at the end of his
path in a feather bed, in a secret place, a place they could be alone. A place
where they’d made a pact to meet one night a week. Savina would tell Odie she
was staying with Hephzibah, and Odie would never check on her for that one
night, especially in Colored Holler.



The tiny cabin was warm and dark,
and smelled of wood and pine. Once occupied by escaped slaves, it lay hidden
under thistle brush, pine boughs, and rhododendron for the past hundred years.
Jabo told stories of how it had been a small farm hidden in the hills of the
federal state, long before Widen and its coal was an idea in the mind of a
young man named Joseph Bradley.



Succumbing to his wife’s nag, Jabo
allowed the two young lovers to use it. The Kellys loved Savina. A white girl
who had claimed them as her best friends. Nobody but Savina ventured into
Colored Holler. Mama Ola, Jabo’s mother, had tended Savina’s sick bed months
ago, bringing Hephzibah with her. The women became friends. An unusual
relationship in Widen, which Odie Ingram tolerated and for which James Curtis
was forever grateful. A relationship only a few families in Colored Holler knew
about.



Savina had scrubbed the cabin until
the skin on her hands bled raw. Highpockets and Percy, Jabo’s sons, assisted
James in making repairs to the cabin for the better part of three weeks,
turning it from a shack into a one-room hideaway complete with a working
fireplace, feather bed, table, oil lamp and a chair.



Careful
not to be followed, James wended his way up a steep and snowy hill, eyeing the
thicket of pines that held the cabin in its midst. He stood quietly for a
moment, breathing deeply, his breath pluming in the frigid air. He picked up
his heavy snow-covered boots, one after the other, stepping over and crunching
into two feet of snow that blanketed the area. Smoke curled out of the chimney;
she was already there. Savina’s footprints, followed by her dog’s, left a trail
for him to follow. Rascal barked when James Curtis opened the door.



“Hush, boy … it’s me … shut up,
boy.” The old beagle panted and whined; his tongue, as pink as raw bacon, hung
out of his mouth.



            James Curtis stomped the slush from his boots and
walked over the threshold, tall and strong, like an oak tree covered with snow.
Breathless, his nose dripped and ice crusted his hair. His cheeks were as red
from the cold as maple leaves in autumn. James felt his chest and stomach constrict
in a slow concussion of affection at the sight of her. She had told him he was
always rushing her, pushing her into bed. His plans to keep the conversation
light and move a little slower faded with each glance at her face.



He smiled, took off his coat and
boots, laying them near the fire that warmed the room and cast a throbbing red
glare on the bed. But her words fell soft on his heart like winter snowflakes.



“I hope you’re hungry,” she said.
“There’s fresh bread and butter I bought at the store this mornin’. And some
candy bars … and I threw a couple Cokes out back in the drift.”



            His love for her kicked him hard in the chest. All
he could utter was a squeak.



Savina stood by the fire, wearing
the thin gold band she’d pulled out of its hiding place. A wedding ring he’d
bought her from the Sears and Roebuck catalog. She wore it only in the cabin.
Her faded dress hung below her knees and the pink of her elbow showed through
the hole in her sweater. But James Curtis imagined she could wear a feed sack and
be beautiful. Except most of her dresses weren’t much better than the one she
had on. His mother had offered to take her shopping in Summersville on more
than one occasion, but Savina had always refused. It wasn’t her apparel he
cared about anyway. After they were married he’d make sure she had better
dresses than the threadbare garments she owned.



Her face was flushed from the fire.
Tears started in her eyes, but she blinked once and they were gone. Still
breathless, James cupped her chin and pulled her hair back. He lifted it from
her back to the top of her head and kissed her bare neck. Her face was so
pretty. An angel face with a perfect nose and round cheeks, big wide blue eyes
like her father’s, and full lips that melted him with her kiss. Her hair was
pretty, too, a light coppery brown, a shade lighter than his own, shining near
the fire like a new penny.



Her head barely came to his armpit.
The first time he laid her naked on a blanket in the woods, Savina’s adolescent
body splayed out tiny and shapeless on the ground. He had made love to her at
sixteen. Her body was like a child’s: no hips, bony legs, and breasts the size
of fried eggs. But her breasts and hips had rounded and become ample in the two
years they had been meeting secretly at the cabin. He looked forward to her
eighteenth birthday. In five months he would remind Odie of his intent to marry
his daughter, no matter how the strike turned out.



Savina slipped her shoes and socks
off and sat on the floor. She propped her feet on a dry log, pulling her knees
up to her chin. Her dress rode up, exposing her white panties. They glowed in
the dim orange light of the fire. James sat down beside her crossing his legs,
trying not to touch her. Suddenly, her hands were on the buttons of her dress.



Next to the heat of their blazing
fire, the two wordless lovers stepped out of pools of clothes left on a
makeshift wood floor, springing for the warmth of the feather bed and mounds of
quilts.



James’ hands skimmed over her skin.
Her nails dug into his back and urged him closer. He found he could not think
at all. His body, long and lean, moved over her tiny frame. This was not their
first time, but his need for her was as continual as the snow falling outside
the cabin’s window. His touch as light as the promises he whispered. She
followed his lead through the moment when he was certain he would not stop to
do what was right, and by the time their limbs were tangled together, James
could not recall even one fornication scripture.



He kissed her until she was shaking
for him to settle. When he did, when his mouth came over hers, she arched into
him and closed her eyes. James moved as if nothing existed but the darkness of
the cabin. Then, just as he could not hold on any longer, he was suddenly
forcing her to look at him. “Nothing will ever keep me from you,” he said.



She smiled and he filled her.



Their bodies lay woven together,
rocking to the rhythm of their own love song and fiddle tune. Savina had lost every inhibition
her world had bestowed upon her. Their world existed only in secret. She fell asleep heavily in his
arms, curled up against him. He tried to memorize the way she held her mouth,
the way her dimple twitched when she slept, and the crooked part in her hair.
Just like his mother’s. He smelled her on his skin.



The moon rose full from behind the
ridge, its light casting bright shadows of trees on the snow. He held her
petite hand up to the pink sliver of moonlight that fell diagonally across the
quilt, illuminating the tiny gold band. He smiled again. Someday, he could call
her wife and she could wear the ring in public. He held it against his lips,
forgetting everything but Savina and the path to Colored Holler.



~~~



            In the early morning, the clouds broke open to clear sky
and bright sun. The snow began to melt as it dropped in clumps from the bent
limbs of trees; the sound of water ran in the creeks again. They lay under the
warmth of quilts for some time, spooning and drowsy.



Savina
inched back the covers, slid out of bed, careful to walk around the few
floorboards that moaned in the morning's cold. She laid a log on the empty grate. Pulling a quilt off
the bed she curled up next to the hearth and poked at the red coals, hoping the
sparks would ignite the log.


            His voice was so quiet, it tipped over Savina’s
shoulder.



            “Stop thinking, it gets your mind all tied into
knots.”



            She jumped. “You scared me. And I
ain’t thinkin’.”



            “All liars will burn in the lake of
fire … ain’t that what Pastor Jessie says?”



            “In that case, we’re gonna fry.”




            He tried to swallow around the knot that had lodged
in his throat. The truth sat in his stomach like something indigestible—a
stone, a nickel. “In a couple months, this will all be over, maybe sooner.
We’ll be married and on our way to Ohio. I’m sure I can get a job with one of
the rubber companies in Akron. We’ll come back to visit, you and me and all our
young’uns … it’ll work out, wait and see.”



A
flicker of doubt crossed her face. Savina couldn’t speak.



James crawled out of bed and stoked
the fire hot so Savina could dress and not freeze. She was always cold. She hated
winter. After pulling her sweater over her dress, Savina stepped into a pair of
leggings made of thick wool and lined with flannel. She sat back down on the
bed and smoothed her dress over the Confederate gray fabric.



            “What are
you laughing at?” she asked.



            “Where’d
you get them things?”



            “They were
Mommy’s. Stop laughin’. They’re warm.”



            “Sorry.”



            “No, you’re
not.”



            He squatted
down in front of her at the edge of the bed, his limbs hinged like grasshopper
legs. “They just remind me of how old-fashioned you are.”



            “I thought
you liked that about me.”



            “I do. I
love that about you.” He took her hands and kissed them, then sang two lines of
her favorite hymn, “I’ll fly away …”



She stood and pulled his head into
her breast. “It’s better when your daddy sings it.”



“Lady, you ain’t marrying me for my
singing.” He kissed her one last time. “I’m late and I have to go.” He stood,
pulled his jacket on and watched her take off the gold band. She hid it again,
under the stone beside the hearth. It would lie there until next week.



“There’s going to be a meeting at
the Grille this morning and Daddy wants me to go with him. Wants to make sure
I’m not being swayed by the strikers.”



            “When’s it
gonna end?” Savina tucked her scarf inside her coat and pulled another over her
head as James held the cabin door open for her.



            “Not soon
enough. FBI says the union is violating the civil rights of miners. They say
it’s a federal offense to hinder anybody from going to work. I heard they been
telling the strikers to get themselves a lawyer.”



            Savina
pulled on her gloves. “Daddy said some of the men are askin’ for their jobs
back. But I say the strike ain’t gonna end as long as the UMW gives the
strikers free groceries. Only about fifty men left at the top of the hill.”



            “The worst
fifty,” James said.      



            “Daddy’s
just blind. He’ll come around, soon as we’re married. He won’t want hard
feelin’s between the families. ‘Specially with him and your daddy bein’ old
friends.” She giggled. “James Curtis, what
are you doin’?”



            “Making a
snow angel. That’s what you are, Savina Ingram soon-to-be Nettles. A snow
angel.” He had fallen back into the drift by cabin’s door, his legs and arms
moving like a cartoon character in the snow.



            It didn’t
occur to her not to get her dress wet. A second later she joined him in the
snow, flapping her arms and legs up and down … creating her own angel, while Rascal, revived by the cold, barked and jumped through the drift, enjoying
the romp.



            Laughing,
James pulled her up.



            He looked down at the snow where
their bodies had laid side-by-side, perfect angel depressions in the earth.
Savina stepped over them with the utmost care, and seeing how careful she was,
he stepped over them, too, and then hugged her while their clothes were
frozen, covered with ice crystals up and down their bodies.



~~~April 1953~~~



            The color of old bones, the sky appeared cold and lifeless. Some of the
trees hadn’t bloomed yet. The bare, gray maples and elms behind Widen were
topped with tight red buds. From a distance they stained the hillsides a ravenous
dark pink.



            Thirl had
recovered slowly over the winter, but his limp dictated his need for a cane.
He’d gone back to work after Christmas as the picket line dwindled and the
terror eased up, spreading itself into the surrounding countryside. When Odie’s
barn burned down the first week in April, Savina lit out the next morning to
tell James.



            “We lost
two horses and our cow. The tractor was blown up. Daddy’s been excused from the
picket line for the week. I have to get home before he knows I’m gone. Lord,
he’s taken to carryin’ his gun ever’where. Even to the outhouse. He’s guardin’
the farm, like some ole’ chicken sittin’ on her nest of eggs. It’s doubtful
he’ll spend much time joinin’ the strikers on the line. He’s sure some
poacher’s gonna kill the rest of his horses and burn down the house. If I’m out
of his sight for long, he comes lookin’ for me.”



James Curtis ran his hand through
his auburn hair, tarnished from the mine’s dust of working a double shift. He
kissed her softly. Her mouth tasted of milk and berries. “I can’t stand this
any more. Why can’t we be together, like we planned?”



            “Won’t be
for a while … not ‘til this damn strike’s over.” Savina said. “He knows when I
leave for Colored Holler and he knows what time I’m supposed to be home.”



            DeDe
overheard Savina’s last statement from inside the house. She opened the screen
door to serve her a glass of lemonade. All hugged up on the porch swing, Savina
and James sat up straight as DeDe sat the glass on the railing and smiled.



“Thank ya, Missus Nettles,” Savina
said. She eyed the glass but pulled her heels up to rest on the swing instead,
wrapping her arms over her knees and smoothing her skirt to her ankles.



            “Why are
you going to Colored Holler, Savina? If you don’t mind me asking.” DeDe noticed
the sadness stuck in the corners of Savina’s eyes, like little bits of sleep.



            Savina and
James looked hard at each other, but she found her answer and quickly blurted
it out. “You know old Mama Ola and her daughter-in-law, Hephzibah … they’re my
best friends.” She took a sip of her lemonade and stepped over her words with
caution. “Hephzibah cleans the Bradley’s house over in Dundon and washes Mister
Bradley’s laundry. Mama Ola’s son, Jabo, he fixes things ‘round the house for
Mister Bradley’s wife. Jabo retired from the mine last year, with thirty years
of service.”



            “How does
she get over to his house? I know Jabo don’t drive.”



            Savina
scooped a mosquito off her arm and rubbed it between her palms. She hesitated,
avoiding DeDe’s eyes. “Ever notice how mosquitoes are like little butterflies,
so dainty and easily broken?” She took a deep breath. “Mister Bradley’s man
picks her up. And sometimes I ride along to help her. Every other day or so.
Jus’ to make a few dollars and help Daddy make ends meet.”



            DeDe nodded
then walked back into the house. She wouldn’t ask how she got to be friends
with Hephzibah or Mama Ola. Or why. Most folks in Widen stayed clear of Colored
Holler.

Coal Dust On My Feet ~ part 4

“Deanna?
Where are you, honey?” Thirl twisted his head, his eyesight blurry in the dim
light of his bedroom. He had a dream of himself in a coffin with pennies on his
eyes. The undertaker had placed the wooden box on sawhorses in their front
room. He stretched his arm down to his leg—still there—remembering what happened. He felt like he’d been sawed in half. Thirl had
prepared himself for a mine disaster all his life. He wasn’t prepared for a
bullet.



From his bed, he focused on the
burning coal in the stove. Like the red eyes of a black dragon squatting in the
middle of the front room with its tail sticking in the chimney, it blew its hot
breath into the house. Sitting defiantly on its asbestos-sheathed-in-tin mat,
the cast iron dragon waited for an opportunity to strike. Thirl closed his eyes
again. They felt hot. His mouth was hot. He felt sick. He sensed something
staring at him and turned his head slowly. On the bed beside him laid his
wife’s sock monkey. It had always made him laugh. He tried to smile, but the
pain wouldn’t allow it.



“Deanna, you in the kitchen?”



~~~



DeDe had kept vigil for three days,
more in than out of her tiny bedroom. Preparing the oven for corn bread, she’d
just fried a handful of cornmeal in her iron skillet before the batter could be
poured. James Curtis would be home soon to check on his daddy. No one had eaten
a bite the past three days. She had pulled herself away from Thirl’s bedside to
cook something besides the pinto beans that simmered on the stove, a food
offering from her neighbor, Pearle.



Hearing her husband stir, she crept
in and turned on the light. One naked bulb overhead shot off a feverish
discolored glow that failed to find the corners of the room. Daylight had faded
and the room darkened into roundness, like standing in the bottom
of a well ... or a mine.



            Thirl’s gritty face, lined with a telltale track on
each cheek, gave only a hint of his agony. “You’re awake.” DeDe put on a smile
she pulled from her sleeve and sat down on the bed’s edge, wiping his brow
with a cool cloth. “Here, take this pill. Doc Vance said it’d help. You’ve been
shot, but I suppose you know that.”



            Thirl
fought an impulse to gag. Choking, he attempted to swallow the large pill.



            “Sorry,
darlin’, but Doc said …”



            “Don’t care what Doc said,” he
gagged again. “I can’t swallow pills … never could. You know that. And turn
that damn light bulb off.”



            “Don’t get
pissy with me,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be a widow just yet, so if you
don’t mind you’re gonna take the pill whenever I give it to ya.”



DeDe stood and turned off the
light. The glow from the front room seeped into Thirl’s bedroom as she lit a
kerosene lamp and sat it by his bed on a small table. Its light barely touched
Thirl’s head. But she sensed he preferred it.



            Thirl
sipped at the water glass she held at his lips, then asked, “How bad is it?”



            “You’ll
live. But you’re gonna limp a while.”



            “I mean the
strike.”



            “Strikers
cut off the town at the top of the hill. James Curtis says he’s not sure yet if
there’s enough men to keep the mine open, and how many of them live out of
town.”



            “Tell James
Curtis to stay away from the line, it’s dangerous.”



            “Shhh. You
rest.” She wiped his head again, watching his strength fade. “James is a man now. He knows how to take care of himself. You taught him
well.”



            “No, honey,
if he’s got any good in him, it’s from you.”



            DeDe wrung
out the cloth in a chipped spatterware bowl. “Odie threw him off his farm.”



            “So Odie’s
strikin’… I figured as much.”



            “It was
Odie that saved your life. Drove your car to the Grille away from the danger.
Hardrock and Boney were closing the place up. They brought you home. You’d lost
a lot of blood.”



            “Odie was
my best friend, once.”



            “I know.”



            “I
should’ve taken you and James Curtis to Oregon. We could’ve bought some land
with my cousin after the war. I’ve wasted my life, DeDe.”  His eyes flashed with determination not
to cry.



“We don’t waste life. It wastes us,
darlin’.”



~~~October 1952~~~



            Finding nearly five hundred of its workmen still
available, The Elk River Coal and Lumber Company, which remained completely
shut down during the first week of the strike, resumed limited operations. But
resumption brought Ed Heckelbech, UMW organizer, to the picket line and the
violence began again. Jonas Zirka and his pickets commanded the only road into
Widen and continued to cut off non-strikers who lived outside the town. All
traffic in and out ceased.



            As a warning to the few company men attempting to
cross the picket line, the strikers yanked out the drivers and dynamited their
empty cars. After that, any man attempting to cross the picket line found themself rolling down Widen hill inside their vehicle. A dozen strikers
stood guard to pick up any company man's car, shake it, and give it good toss down the mountain.




            Odie spent his share of time on the picket line.
Most nights were quiet. Only twice had he thrown rocks and bricks at
cars. He’d helped to roll Delmar Tuller’s pickup down the hill but the
scab had managed to limp away. The company's fruitless efforts to call the law proved the
state troopers sided with the strikers. Each time they were notified of an
incident they arrived at the top of Widen hill, tipped their hats to the
picket line with a smile, and headed back to Charleston--reporting no
disturbance. If not for the company armed guards, union sympathizers total takeover of the coal camp would've come by no surprise.



But the strikers’ biggest victory was
halting the train and forcing its passengers to unload. Odie wasn’t near the
car where he’d heard Zirka beat up a man and forced him at gunpoint to get off
the train. Nevertheless, Odie stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest of the
picketers who had dynamited the railroad trestles at Sand Fork and Robinson.
He’d been part of the crew uprooting telephone posts, cutting a quarter mile
of line into short pieces, and successfully isolating the town.  Widen families went hungry for the first time in over a decade as Odie and the rest of the
strikers placed a firm chokehold on the coal camp.



~~~



Stepping on generations of leaves,
Odie perched himself on a log with a straight shot into the switch house.
Guards had been posted to prevent the entry of possible saboteurs, but it was
clearly a war now. A war with no help from the law for Bradley’s company. The
Attorney General and Governor had been voted into office with union votes, not
company votes.



Determined to shut the mines down, the strikers hid in strategic positions. Cutting the electric was Odie’s idea. From the surrounding hilltops, rifle bullets
went whining into switch houses that controlled the electric circuits into the mines. Contemplating his aim, Odie twitched as Josephine’s
words shot into his mind like a silver bullet meant for his heart. She loves
the boy, Odie. I weren’t but her age when I married you.



            He’d worked his
wife into an early grave. It was guilt that caused him to spoil his girl and let her go
off with James whenever she wanted. But he needed her at home. The place was falling apart without her. Snatching
Savina away from James Curtis wasn’t going to be easy.




Savina had missed plenty of school
the past year. There’d be no going back to school for her, not until the
strike was over at least. Maybe not even then. She had new responsibilities
now, bigger ones than high school and dances and shopping trips to Charleston.



Odie fired his last shot, taking
out the electric in the mine.



Since coal could not be hauled out,
the mine would close once again. Odie reached into his pocket for his tobacco
pouch. He stuffed a plug into his lower lip and hid in a grove of rhododendron until darkness covered him like the walls of the mine.



~~~



“You’re from that little shithole
town, Widen, right?” The man bagging groceries eyed the two men in front of him
warily.



Harry Gandy, Joseph Bradley’s
operations boss, and Red King, loyal company man, found an old
logging trail over the mountain and managed to get to Charleston to buy food,
filling Harry’s car to the brim.



            “Yeah,” said Red. “We’re from Widen.”



            “What you doin’ buyin’ groceries here?”



“We’re on vacation, just thought
we’d stock up on the way to the beach.” Harry tipped his hat and snickered as
Red paid the bill.



The carload of food had to be
unloaded at the first blown-out bridge by human chain like a bucket brigade
passing bags of flour, beans, and bacon from hand to hand. Filling a railroad motor
coach that had luckily been left in operating condition between the two blasted
bridges, each man and woman worked in hushed solidarity, spilling not one word or grocery sack between them.



At the next destroyed bridge, they
repeated the same process before the daily shipment finished its journey into
Widen. At both transfer points the protective
rifles of company guards pointed in every direction. Over the weeks, Harry Gandy continued to sneak in carloads of food, unloading, passing contents hand to hand, and always under the watchful
eyes of a man with a high-powered rifle in his hands.



~~~



            Thirl stood by and grinned while townsfolk, the
non-strikers, filled their wheelbarrows and sacks with groceries. Taking
nothing for himself, he thanked God for the oversized vegetable garden his wife
insisted she grow every year. A garden that took up a third of the back yard. And
he was grateful for the fruit cellar she’d made him dig years ago. He’d been
quarrelsome and nearly refused.



I’ve dug enough dirt for
Bradley, I don’t need to be doin’ it in my own yard. It shamed him to think
how contrary he’d been. She always knew things he didn’t.



Thankful for the hog DeDe made him
butcher every year, Thirl had also stopped complaining about the chickens in the back yard
behind several feet of chicken wire. Chickens, as far as he was concerned,
were on a level not much higher than rats. He preferred deer meat and squirrel. But the store no longer stocked eggs. Collecting them from DeDe's hens that
morning, he stopped complaining about anything to do with his wife.



DeDe’s pantry was full of home-canned
jars of raspberry and blackberry jams and jellies, pickled beans and corn. His
house had turned into a small eatery. She fed those most desperate. Her
breakfasts of bacon, eggs, and biscuits with sorghum molasses filled the
bellies of many company men and their families over the next few months. Like angels singing in the rafters, tin forks and knives
rang against plates, and the sound of chairs pulled acrossed the worn linoleum filled the tiny kitchen most mornings.



At sunrise, the smell of bacon
and coffee drifted into his bedroom along with the mournful songs of the
Carter Family on the radio. Thirl knew he was lucky he was to have her.
Even propped up against the refrigerator with her arms crossed watching people
eat, she looked fetching. He sipped his coffee and gazed at the freckle on her
forehead beneath the zigzag part of her hair. Her doe eyes melted him, made his
chest and brain feel like corn mush. As the day wore on, the sensation hardened
to a prickling along his spine, then to a low hum in his abdomen. He’d thought
about her cooking and he thought about her naked—in equal amounts of time.



She was his gift from God. Because
she knew things. Odd things. It wasn’t the first time his wife had told him of
a coming flood or the imminent death of a healthy neighbor. She’d predicted a
famine the year before. And then there was the day DeDe dropped her dusty beans on the porch because
she’d ‘seen’ Josephine fall dead in her kitchen, gripping her heart over five
miles away, Thirl never doubted her again. But he was never sure if she knew
how much he loved her.