Coal River (11 page)

“No,” she said. “Please. Just leave me alone.”

CHAPTER 7

A
t half past midnight, when she was certain everyone was asleep, Emma got dressed, grabbed her suitcase, and snuck downstairs. She crept through hallways filled with grainy shadows, then slipped through the door into the kitchen. A bluish, otherworldly glow bathed the white-tiled kitchen, and the coal stove ticked in the quiet room. Moonlight reflected off the glass-front cupboards, making the panes look like squares of ice. She tiptoed across the floor and into the pantry, freezing with every creak and wooden groan. Moving as quickly as possible, she filled her suitcase with canned goods, taking one jar each of beans, carrots, beets, tomatoes, corn, and peas. She prayed Cook wouldn’t notice anything missing. When she was finished in the pantry, she shoved two loaves of bread into a cloth sack, stole a half a wedge of cheese, and took a tin of milk from the icebox.

Then she left the kitchen and crossed the dining room, her shoulders hunched, trying to ignore the feeling that her aunt and uncle were watching from the portrait above the fireplace mantel, their dark eyes following her every move. A high-pitched ringing filled her ears, along with the sound of her blood rushing through her veins. She went to the cherry sideboard, wrapped three scones inside a cloth napkin, and put them in the sack. Then she reached for a jar of marmalade, and froze. Someone was behind her, breathing hard and fast. Fear clutched her throat. She’d been caught. Trying not to panic, she tried to come up with a lie that would sound believable. Nothing came to her.

Then a darker thought came to her mind, and the hairs on her arms stood up. It was Michael. He had broken in because he had another message for her. She spun around to face him, certain he would be standing there, staring at her with black eyes.

There was no one there.

A window was open on the far side of the dining room. A tree branch was brushing back and forth over the sill, rustling across the wood with a rhythmic swish-swish. Emma’s shoulders dropped, and she let out a sigh of relief, her thundering heart starting to slow.

She made a move to go over and close the window, then decided it might make too much noise. Instead she grabbed the marmalade and hurried into the hall. Once there, she paused, waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom, and made her way through the living room toward the back veranda.

Holding her breath and saying a silent prayer that the porch door would be unlocked, she gripped the glass doorknob and turned it. The latch clicked and the door slipped loose of the frame, squeaking softly. She slipped outside, carefully closed the door behind her, lifted the suitcase and sack of food over the veranda railing, and set them in Aunt Ida’s flower bed, trying not to disturb the prized roses. Then she straddled the railing, climbed over, and crossed the moonlight lawn. She stole a final glance over her shoulder to make sure she’d escaped undiscovered.

Uncle Otis and Aunt Ida’s bedroom curtains were open. And their light was on.

She ducked and sprinted toward the side yard, staying low until she reached a line of eastern hemlock and leafy dogwood on the far end of the lawn. There she hid in the shadows and looked back at the house again, nervous sweat breaking out on her forehead. Then she shook her head, a shaky laugh erupting from her lips. The bedroom curtains were closed, but the material was so sheer, it gave the illusion of them being open. No one was pulling the curtains back, watching her sneak across the yard. No one was opening the sash to yell after her into the night. She said a silent thank-you, then climbed over the wrought-iron fence at the rear of the yard and made her way down the hill toward town.

The moon was high, and a million stars shimmered in the night sky above the mountains, like ice chips in a coal dust blanket. Praying everyone was in bed, she followed the residential streets of the village, avoiding the roads that ran beside saloons, hotels, and taverns. When she reached the village green, she started across the shadowy grass, hoping to take a shortcut across the lawn toward the road leading up to the colliery. Then she caught a glimpse of movement, and froze. A gathering of silhouettes lurked around the bandstand, the orange tips of cigars and cigarettes glowing in the dark. Drunken laughter and loud voices traveled across the green through the humid night air. Unless she wanted to take the chance of being harassed by a band of drunks, she would have to take the long way around. So she turned and went the other way, hardly daring to breath until she was safe from view.

Keeping close to buildings and hurrying from one house to the next, she finally reached the road leading up the mountain. She trudged up the steep hill, her hand aching from the suitcase handle digging into her fingers. Black branches and leaves seemed to make shapes like faces and reaching hands. All of a sudden she stopped and drew in a dry breath. What if Michael was here, waiting for her on this dark road? What if she didn’t see him until the last minute?

That’s enough,
she told herself.
There is no reason to be afraid
.
Michael is just a boy. He has no reason to harm me. If anything, I should be worried about running into more drunks.
She exhaled and continued on her way, trying to devise a plan for what she was about to do.

When she reached the miners’ village, she hid beneath a lone high-skirted spruce and set down the suitcase, checking to make sure the coast was clear. Other than a few open windows yellowed by flickering lantern light, the houses were dark, the roads empty. She picked up the suitcase and moved along the far edges of the main thoroughfare. Slag crunched beneath her shoes, and an owl hooted in the distance. At the end of Welsh Hill, a coonhound jumped off a porch and barked at her, making her jump. She scurried away and entered the dirt path that led into Murphy’s Patch. Behind her, the dog howled into the night, a long, sorrowful moan that echoed through the quiet hollow.

With her heart in her throat, she continued along the lane until she reached the shanty of the new widow. The windows were dark, and black ribbons hung from the front door. Emma went around the side of the leaning front porch, knelt in the damp grass, opened the suitcase, and removed three jars of vegetables. She crept up the porch steps, careful not to trip on the broken treads, and set the jars of vegetables on the threshold, along with the cloth sack filled with a loaf of bread, the cheese, and the tin of milk. Then she pounded hard on the door, scrambled down the steps, picked up her suitcase, and ran. She sprinted across the dirt path and hid behind an outhouse, where she waited, hardly daring to move. When she peeked around the corner, the sour tang of human waste wafting from the outhouse door hit her and she clamped a hand over her nose and mouth, swearing under her breath. She wanted to move to a better spot, but worried the widow would come out and see her.

A few seconds later, a lantern flickered behind a front window, and the door opened. The widow searched the empty porch, looking left and right, her weary face etched with confusion. When she didn’t see anyone, she stepped back and started to close the door. Then she noticed the jars of vegetables on the threshold. She knelt and peered inside the cloth bag. Her mouth fell open. She picked up the bag and grabbed the jars, clutching them to her chest with one wiry arm, then raised her face to the sky and crossed herself before closing the door.

When she thought it was safe again, Emma stepped out from behind the outhouse and moved away from the shack, a surge of elation loosening the tightness in her neck and shoulders. For the first time in what seemed like forever, she felt a weight being lifted, as if she were crawling out from beneath a boulder, or being let out of prison. It felt as though she were taking her first deep breath since coming to Coal River. Maybe this was what Michael meant. Maybe this was what she was supposed to do.

Still, there were so many unanswered questions. How did Michael know this was what she needed? And why was he able to speak to her if he was a deaf-mute? More importantly, why did he say Albert’s name? She had to find answers.

On her way out of Murphy’s Patch, she left the rest of the vegetables and bread on random porches, wishing she knew if the evicted pregnant woman still lived somewhere in the village, so she could leave food on her doorstep too. When all the food was gone, she made her way back down the hill, her spirit soaring with something that felt like an exhilarating mixture of love and triumph. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before, and it was completely unexpected. Her insides felt full of light, her mind full of possibilities. She remembered reading a quote by Booker T. Washington a few years ago that said, “Those who are happiest are those who do the most for others.” Now, for the first time, she understood it completely. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt intoxicated, drunk on life and love for her fellow human beings. Tomorrow morning this elation would be gone, buried beneath the returned weight of crushing sorrow. But for now she would savor the reprieve. And in the days to come, maybe helping the miners would lessen the wretched grief she carried inside her heart. She could hope anyway.

CHAPTER 8

T
he morning after the cave-in, and Emma’s nighttime excursion into the miners’ village, the sky was low and threatening, as if the endless smoke from the culm banks had gathered below the clouds, obscuring everything like a giant shroud of churning grief. It was a Sunday, and Emma was free to do as she pleased as long as she made it to church on time. She left her uncle’s house early, before everyone was awake. The world was gray and silent, except for the distant, snarling roar of Coal River.

The previous night, she had gone to bed filled with hope and purpose, certain she was doing the right thing by leaving food on the widow’s doorstep. She had vowed then and there to take food up to the miners as often as she could without getting caught, hoping she had found a way to stay sane in Coal River. But then, after tossing and turning half the night, trying to figure out more ways to help the mining families, and wrestling with the fact that she was counting on her uncle to provide food and shelter with money earned off the miners’ backs, the weight of heartache and anger returned. Leaving food for the miners wasn’t enough. She had to do more. What, exactly, she wasn’t sure. But if she was going to start over, if she was going to help anyone, there was something else she had to do first.

She made her way down the steep hill and around the edge of the village, following the road behind Flint Mansion and Susquehanna Avenue. She walked past the train depot, then took a narrow lane toward the river. She passed the coal pit used as a stoking point for the trains that ran through the switching yards, then she plodded down a steep, dirt path, her arms swinging in rhythm with her steps, trying not to think until she reached her destination. Locusts whirred in the river birch, and a cardinal called from the pines. Fir trees and honeysuckle bordered one side of the trail, and a tangle of grapevines and poison sumac lined the other. Nine years ago, when she’d chased Percy and his friends down this path, the trees had been mere saplings, the bushes an overgrown patch of chickweed and witchgrass. Still, she remembered the twists and turns, sidestepped the rocky sections, and slowed on the hairpin curves that edged foliage-camouflaged cliffs as if she’d run down it yesterday.

“I’ll just walk on and on,” she said to anything or anyone that might be listening. Maybe the path turned into a foot trail along the riverbanks and followed the waterway right out of Coal River. If only she had dressed for hiking and brought provisions. If only the surrounding mountains weren’t endless and steep and the woods weren’t filled with wild animals. If only she had someplace to go.
Remember what you came here for,
she reminded herself.

When she came to the third fork in the path and turned down it, her throat grew tighter and tighter. Just then, a flock of crows exploded from the branches of a tall maple, making her jump. She stopped and held a hand over her racing heart, trying to catch her breath. The crows screeched and beat their mighty black wings, scolding her for disturbing them. Then they were gone as quickly as they had appeared, and she was alone again. She kept walking, trying to ignore the sense of dread that crept up her spine, the light chill caressing the nape of her neck. She held her breath around every corner, certain Michael would be standing in the path, waiting. While she was grateful that he had led her toward the decision to help the miners, and felt that his intentions were good, he was still a deaf-mute who had never spoken a word to anyone except her. His face showed no emotion, and his dark eyes seemed to look into her soul. It was eerie. What would he say this time?

She steeled herself and kept going. If Michael had something else to tell her, she would listen. Especially if it had something to do with Albert. Finally the ground leveled out, and she crossed a narrow clearing between birch and fir trees. Stepping through a wide swatch of grass, she came to a gray mosaic of flat rocks near the shoreline. The river looked brown and cold, and the smell of muddy water hung in the air, equal parts iron, coal dust, sulfur, and wet rock. As always, the waves were high and churning, the rocky banks stained yellow from mine runoff. The thunderous roar of rapids filled the air, a constant whooshing that some might have considered peaceful, but set Emma’s nerves on edge. The snarl of water reminded her of the uncontrollable power of the river, and the speed at which a life could be carried away.

She stared at the dark water for a long time, then went back to the grassy clearing and faced east, toward the train trestle in the distance. This was where she needed to be, not where her brother was buried in the cold, hard ground, but where his soul had left his body. This was where she’d been standing nine years ago, feet rooted to the icy ground, doing nothing while he drowned. She closed her eyes and pictured his small face, his brown eyes and freckled nose, his toothy grin. She thought of all the things he’d missed out on—growing taller and falling in love, family dinners and snowy Christmases, their mother’s famous chocolate birthday cakes. He would have loved the growing number of automobiles in Manhattan, and the feature-length films at the theater.

Her heart ached, thinking how much she missed and needed him now that their parents were dead. Before returning to Coal River, it had been so long since she’d seen and talked to him that it almost felt like he was someone she had known in a dream, or loved in another lifetime. Only one thing remained constant over the last nine years—the profound weight of her guilt. Here, in Coal River, that burden was multiplied tenfold. In this isolated mining town, he was everywhere, like the coal dust that covered the mountains, the buildings and the roads, the leaves and the bark of the trees, the dirty faces of the boys and young men. Now she felt like she was being punished for forgetting about him, for not keeping him first and foremost in her mind, for going on with her life when he no longer could.

If only she hadn’t chased Percy and his friends down to the river that day. If only she hadn’t stood there, frozen, watching her little brother fall through the ice. She should have saved him. She should have grabbed a branch or a stick, something for him to hold on to until help came. But it happened so fast. So fast.

“I’m sorry!” she cried above the rush of water. “I was scared. I was only thinking about myself! It was selfish and unforgivable, and I’m a horrible sister!” She hung her head, tears dripping from her nose. “Please, please, Albert. Forgive me if you can.”

She knelt in the grass and buried her face in her hands, dark thoughts erupting in her mind.
Maybe everyone is right,
she thought.
Maybe I am cursed. Maybe I should walk into the river and let the rapids pull me under, away from this anguish. Maybe I should walk out on the train trestle and throw myself off.
She imagined the fall from the high bridge, the wind whipping through her hair, the hard impact of the water, and then . . . peace. She raked her hands through her hair.
No. I can’t do it. I’m too scared. Besides, I finally have a chance to make up for what I’ve done. And I’m not willing to go down without a fight.

Just then, a sharp crack pierced the air, a quick, loud bang above the roar of the river. A gunshot. Emma flinched, the shock of sudden fear tingling through her body. It sounded close. Another shot rang out. She ran for cover behind a giant oak, unsure where the shots were coming from. A third shot sounded, a muted pop in the distance. After a few minutes of silence, she inched out from behind the tree and made her way toward the shoreline, staying close to the bushes. Maybe someone was hunting. The gunshots sounded like they were coming from upstream, in the opposite direction of the train trestle.

When she stepped out onto the flat rocks, her skin went cold. A man floated down the river just inches from the shoreline, his face covered in blood, his arms and legs undulating on the waves. Her breakfast rose in the back of her throat, and she clasped a hand over her mouth to keep it down. Before the body passed, she recovered and dropped to her knees to try to reach the man before he was washed away. But again the river was faster than she was. The rapids swiftly carried the body downstream, the man’s pale hands appearing and disappearing like white fish just below the riled surface. She swore and pounded her fist on her leg, then looked upriver, toward the direction the body had come from. A group of men stood on an outcropping of rock. Her breath caught, but they hadn’t noticed her.

One of the men was Hazard Flint, looking on while a man in a deerskin jacket with an oversized cross engraved on the back held a revolver to a kneeling man’s head. A fourth man, this one wearing a police uniform, stood next to the kneeling man, his back to Emma. She couldn’t be certain, but it looked like Frank Bannister. Then Mr. Flint nodded, Frank stepped back, and the man in the deerskin jacket pulled the trigger. The kneeling man slumped forward, and Frank pushed him over the rocky bank with one foot. The man in the deerskin threw the gun into the river, watching it splash into the water about halfway across. Then he looked in her direction.

For a fraction of a second, Emma froze, unsure if he could see her. Then he pointed at her, and she bolted into the brush, her head down, ignoring thorns and the slap of branches on her face and arms. She took a shortcut toward the path, slamming through bushes and brambles. Finally the path opened up just ahead, and she nearly fell when she burst out of the underbrush. Behind her, to her right, she heard the crackle and crash of someone running through the woods. Whoever it was, they were headed in her direction. She turned and raced up the hill, breathing hard and pushing herself to get to the top before her pursuer could cut her off.

Halfway up, she stumbled and fell. Pain flared briefly in her ankle, rocks and sticks stabbing the skin on her palms. She pushed herself upright and hobbled a few steps before finding her stride again. Ignoring the ache in her leg, she sprinted on and up, no sound but her own labored breathing in her ears. Then, behind her, someone crashed out of the woods and shouted. She kept going, the slippery soles of her shoes kicking up sand and gravel. If she could make it to the top of the path, she could run to the train depot, or hide in one of the storage buildings next to the gravel pit. Then someone grabbed her by the arm and spun her around. It was Frank.

“Emma!” he said, his sweat-rimmed eyes wide.

She yanked herself from his grasp and started running again. He caught up and captured her, his strong fingers digging into her upper arms.

She kicked his shins. “Let me go!” It was no use. He tightened his hold.

“What are you doing down here?” he said.

“I was just . . .” she said.

“What did you see?” he said, shaking her.

“Nothing!” she said, her voice trembling. “I didn’t see anything!”

“Why were you running then?”

Her mind raced as she tried to come up with a believable excuse. “I thought I saw . . . a body,” she said. “In the river. It scared the hell out of me!”

“That’s it?”

She nodded.

“You’re lying,” he said. Just then, Mr. Flint and the man in the deerskin jacket rounded a bend a few hundred yards down the hill, moving fast. Frank glanced over his shoulder, then directed his attention to her again. “Keep your mouth shut about this,” he said under his breath. “Or you’ll be sorry. Now hit me! Hard!”

She shook her head, confused. “What are you—”

“Hit me!” he said through clenched teeth, his eyes wild with an odd mixture of power and fear. “Unless you want to join your brother in that river, do it now!”

She clawed his face and hit him hard with both fists, releasing fury and fear with every blow. He howled and let go, bending over in pain. “Go on,” he hissed. “Run.”

She turned and ran up the hill, faster than she had run in her entire life.

 

After seeing the men murdered down by the river, Emma raced home, convinced that she had to flee Coal River. If she hurried, she could leave before her aunt and uncle came home from church. But by the time she reached the house, she remembered that nothing had changed since she’d first arrived. She still had no money and nowhere to go. And even if she had somewhere to go, Aunt Ida and Uncle Otis would never buy her a train ticket. After all, she was bringing in extra income and working around the house for free. Why would they pay good money to get rid of a slave?

Besides, what was she going to do, tell them she needed to leave because she saw Hazard Flint order someone killed? That he and Frank Bannister were murderers? They’d never believe her. Or maybe they already knew. After all, they were part of the problem, letting Mr. Flint run this town. And even if something happened to her, would her aunt and uncle even care? She collapsed on the bed, tears of frustration burning her eyes.

Frank had warned her to keep her mouth shut, and she would do just that. For now, at least. Who would she tell anyway? The only person she remotely trusted was Clayton Nash. And she barely knew him. Besides, what could he do? If he tried anything, Mr. Flint would get rid of him too. For now she would play innocent. She would pray Mr. Flint didn’t recognize her down by the river, and Frank didn’t turn her in. Because what choice did she really have?

The next morning, on her way to the Company Store, she hurried down the steep hill, constantly glancing over her shoulder and into the woods, worried Mr. Flint’s henchman would burst out of nowhere and take her down to the river, where he would shut her up for good. Everything around her seemed to move in slow motion, while her own movements felt sped up and jittery, as if her limbs were shaking out of control. Worrying about seeing Michael was one thing, like being afraid of ghosts or bad dreams, something that felt like it could hurt you but really couldn’t. Worrying about Hazard Flint and his henchman was another thing entirely. She felt like a rabbit being chased by a fox, or a soldier hiding from battle.

Halfway into town, she met a group of people making their way toward Freedom Hill. She slowed, unsure at first what she was seeing. Six teenage boys in dark jackets carried a small pine coffin up the gravel road, followed by a sobbing woman and a somber-faced man. The man was wearing black trousers and scuffed leather boots. He carried a toddler on his hip and was trying to hold the woman up with his free arm, urging her to keep walking. The woman stumbled beside him, her shoulders convulsing, her face twisted in agony. A few yards behind them, a gathering of miners’ wives and children plodded wearily along the road, their faces long. At the rear of the procession, a ragtag troupe of boys in short jackets and patched knickers trudged together in an uneven cluster, their hands in their pockets, their heads low. They looked between the ages of six and twelve, with the younger boys outnumbering the older ones three to one. A few glanced at Emma with haunted eyes, their lips pressed together. Most were trying not to cry. Some walked on crutches, missing half a leg, one foot, an arm. Two boys were missing hands, and one had a black patch over his eye.