Coal River (3 page)

Emma had no idea it was possible to cry so hard you could barely breathe, your sobs bursting from your throat as if they were coming from the bottom of your soul. She remembered wondering briefly if it was possible to lose your mind at ten years old. Then her parents died in the fire and she’d fallen apart all over again, certain the sheer agony of losing them would kill her. That time, she’d been in a white hospital room with a stone-faced doctor and a glassy-eyed nurse standing at her bedside, with no one to hold her, no one to tell her everything would be all right, no one to kiss her sweaty brow. Thinking about it now, a fresh wave of grief nearly brought her to her knees.

“Emma?” Aunt Ida said, bringing her back to the here and now.

She blinked. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“I was wondering what you thought of the new drapes,” Aunt Ida said proudly, as if she had made them herself. “The old ones were so old and faded, I just had to get rid of them!”

“They’re very nice,” Emma said, trying to sound like she cared. As far as she could tell, the curtains looked exactly the same as they did nine years ago.

Aunt Ida led her through the white-tiled kitchen toward the rear of the house, their footsteps echoing on the floorboards. They moved through a door into a short hall, then started up the steep, narrow stairway toward the servants’ quarters.

“I do hope you’ll forgive me,” Aunt Ida said. “But the room you and . . .” She hesitated, pausing on the steps. “Oh, mercy me. I can barely say his name without feeling faint.”

“Albert?”

“Yes, your poor brother, Albert. God rest his soul.” She crossed herself and continued up the stairs. “Such a shame. And with his whole life ahead him. Now my poor sister is gone too.” She shook her head, her face crumpling in on itself. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just . . . It’s all too painful for me. I never imagined my life would turn out so sad.”

Emma gripped the banister tighter. “I know what you mean.”

“There’s just so much wretchedness in this world,” Aunt Ida said, sniffing. “It can be terribly hard on a sensitive person like me. I wish I didn’t have to see or hear about people suffering. That’s why I try to focus on happy things, for my own sake.”

If only it were that easy,
Emma thought. Then she remembered the boy slumped next to the telephone pole, and Albert’s twin with the missing leg. “Speaking of suffering,” she said. “May I ask you something?”

“Of course, dear,” Aunt Ida said. “Anything.”

“On the way here, I saw two young boys in the village,” she said. “One was missing a limb, and another had a leg brace. Do you know what happened to them?”

Aunt Ida stopped on the stairwell again. She put a hand over her brooch. “Oh dear,” she said. “You mean those poor breaker boys?”

“Breaker boys? Who are they?”

Aunt Ida held up a finger, indicating that Emma should stop speaking. “Please,” she said. “It’s much too depressing for me to talk about right now. We’ve had enough sorrow for one day, don’t you think?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Emma said.

Her aunt continued climbing the stairwell, wheezing with the effort. Then she smiled, her mood suddenly turning. “As I was saying, the room where you and Albert stayed last time has been converted into a sewing room. And Maggie is the most fabulous seamstress. Wait until you see the beautiful dresses she makes for me! Anyway, there’s no longer enough room for you in the main part of the house.”

“That’s fine,” Emma said. “I don’t need much.”

In truth, Emma was relieved. The bedroom she had shared with Albert would be filled with memories of playing hide-and-seek in closets and beneath beds, peeking out the windows to spy on Percy when he was being tutored in the backyard, competing at Pick-Up Sticks and Twenty Questions when Uncle Otis locked them in their room during dinner parties. It would be too hard to stay in there.

At the top of the steps, Aunt Ida led her down a narrow, whitewashed hall and stopped in front of a squat door. She paused, trying to catch her breath, then said, “Most of the help has been let go because we just can’t find good people anymore.” She pointed toward the end of the hall. “The water closet is down there. Now, mind you, you’ll have to share it with Maggie and Cook, but it should be sufficient.” She pulled a ring of keys from her apron pocket and unlocked the door. “I’m certain you’ll have all the space you need right here.”

Inside the narrow room, a single bed with an iron headboard sat pushed against one wall, the mattress covered with a brown wool blanket. Opposite the bed, a six-paned window overlooked the side yard. There was a wooden washstand, a blue dresser, a spindle-back chair, and a green threadbare rug covering half the plank floor. Yellow wallpaper with tiny roses covered the back wall. The other walls had been painted white.

Emma forced a smile. “It’s perfect,” she said.

“I’m delighted you think so,” Aunt Ida said. “I was so afraid you’d be upset because you’re not in the main house with us.”

“Not at all. It’s bigger than my bedroom was back in Manhattan.” Emma set down her suitcase, unpinned her hat, and laid it and her purse on the bed. “But if you don’t mind, the train ride was exhausting. I could use a little rest.”

“Right now?” Aunt Ida said, wrinkling her nose as if she smelled something rotten. “But your uncle will be expecting you at dinner! You know how he gets when—”

“I’m sorry,” Emma said. “You’re right. I’ll freshen up a bit, then I’ll be right down.”

Aunt Ida tented her hands beneath her chin as if praying, and shook them. “It’s for the best,” she said. “We have a lot to talk about, Emma. This is your home now, and your uncle has certain rules and expectations. You don’t want to start off on the wrong foot.”

“Of course not,” Emma said. Nerves prickled the skin around her lips. She gripped the door handle and started closing the door, ushering Aunt Ida backward into the hall.

“Twenty minutes,” Aunt Ida said. “No longer.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Remember what your uncle always says,” Aunt Ida said. “Clocks were made for a reason!”

“Yes, Aunt Ida. I remember.”

The door clicked shut, and Emma took a step back, staring at the white knob, trying to keep her wits about her. It was no use. Panic clawed at her insides like a cat inside a sack. With shaking hands, she tore open her drawstring purse, yanked out the mourning veil, and grabbed the glass vial. She pulled out the stopper and took a tiny swallow of the bitter liquid inside. Then she took off her shoes and collapsed on the bed. Closing her eyes, she put her hands over her face, homesickness and grief washing over her in torrential waves.

After a few long, unbearable minutes, she felt the laudanum slithering through her veins and muscles, loosening the crush of anguish inside her chest. When she thought she could trust herself to sit up without feeling dizzy, she swung her legs over the bed and stood. She unbuttoned the long sleeves and high collar of the mourning dress, undid the waistband, and slipped the garment over her head. The skirt’s underwire caught in her hair, and for a minute she was stuck. Finally she ripped the heavy garment over her head, tearing out a small clump of hair. Tears of pain sprang up in her eyes, and she blinked against a new flood of despair. She removed her petticoat, untied her corset, and took off her stockings.

Finally able to breath, she opened her suitcase and retrieved the copy of the
New York Times
from the inside pocket—given to her by a nurse before she left the hospital. She sat down on the bed, turned to the page featuring the list of theater employees who had died in the fire, and read her parents’ names for the hundredth time.

Back in Manhattan, when she and her father used to walk past the offices of the
New York Times
at One Times Square, he always joked that the only time he’d get his name in the paper was after he was dead. When that day came, he used to say, he wanted her to remember that he had lived the life he wanted, and that he loved her more than anything on Earth. No matter how much she missed him after he was gone, he wanted her to look forward, toward the rest of her life, and make the choice to be happy.

The black and white print blurred on the page, and Emma tried to make the choice to be happy. It didn’t work. She returned the newspaper to the suitcase and slipped off her chemise.

At the nightstand, a thin towel hung from a wrought-iron hook, and a bar of lavender soap sat on top of a folded washcloth. She lifted the pitcher and was relieved to find it full of water. She filled the washbasin and rinsed her face, then used the washcloth and soap to clean her arms, hands, and neck, scrubbing three days’ worth of grime and sweat from her skin. How she longed to soak in a tub of hot, soapy water, to wash her dirty hair and relax her tired muscles. But there wasn’t time.

She finished washing, unpinned her hair, brushed the snarls out of it, and worked it into one long braid, leaving it free to hang down her back. She put on her petticoat and the broadcloth skirt, unbuckled the belt and tied it around her waist to keep the skirt from falling off, then put on the baggy, shawl-collared blouse and her only pair of shoes—lace-up boots with heels and pointed toes. Then she took a deep breath, opened the bedroom door, and went downstairs.

CHAPTER 3

T
hey sat beneath a gas chandelier in the dining room, tiny, flickering flames reflected in the walnut-paneled ceiling. Uncle Otis was at the head of the table, Aunt Ida to his left and Percy to his right, wine bottle in hand, studying its label. Aunt Ida had insisted that Emma be seated next to Percy to avoid having to shout along the length of the outlandishly long piece of furniture. Behind Aunt Ida, platters of roasted beef filled the sideboard, along with bowls of green beans and pickled beets, and a basket of fresh-out-of-the-oven tea rolls. Nearly nauseated by the thought of eating, Emma would have been happy with a glass of cool water. The only beverages on the table were wine, coffee, and hot tea. To her dismay, the small sip of laudanum was already beginning to wear off, leaving her with the heightened sense of feeling trapped. She thought about having a glass of wine, but was afraid she wouldn’t stop drinking once she started. All she could smell was warm dust drifting up from the Persian carpet. She wanted to ask if she could open one of the three tall windows, but thought better of it.

The dark wood walls and an enormous canvas painting above the stone fireplace heightened the feeling of suffocation. The portrait showed the Shawcross family, Uncle Otis in a black suit and plaid tie, sitting in a ladder-back chair, looking bored. Aunt Ida stood beside him in a red gauze dress, her bosom corseted nearly up to her double chin, one hand on Uncle Otis’s shoulder. A young Percy stood in the center, wearing a white sailor suit with a blue collar, his chubby legs like sausages stuffed inside navy leggings, his face pale as a ghoul’s.

Emma thought back to the day her parents left her and Albert in Coal River while they went back to Manhattan to look for new jobs. On the wagon ride back to her uncle’s after dropping them off at the train station, she held her mother’s locket so hard, the edges nearly cut her fingers. Then, later, at this very dinner table, Uncle Otis informed her and Albert that from that day on, they would be expected to earn their keep. After all, he had taken them in after their parents lost their jobs in New York, and they’d already stayed twice as long as planned. The next morning, Albert polished shoes while Emma scrubbed the bathroom floor on her hands and knees, Aunt Ida standing over her to make sure she rinsed twice. Every day after that, Emma polished the silver, folded the linens, swept the rooms, and pressed the clothes while Albert slopped the hogs, split and hauled wood, and cleaned and filled the oil lamps.

Once, during a winter thaw, Uncle Otis sent Emma up a ladder to wash the outside of the second-story windows. She begged him not to make her do it, and Albert even offered to do the job in her place. But Uncle Otis refused his offer, insisting Emma face her fears. When she froze at the top of the ladder and couldn’t climb back down, he sent the stable hand up to rescue her. As punishment, he withheld her supper for the next two days, accusing her of weaseling her way out of the job. A week later, when Albert forgot to lock the hog pen, Uncle Otis forced him to kneel on a corncob in the mudroom for three hours, then told him to “buck up” when he limped into the kitchen with red and swollen knees.

Now Emma had to face Uncle Otis alone, without Albert to make faces behind his back during his nightly lectures and angry rants. How would she get through this without her brother?

“While she’s living in this house,” Uncle Otis said, “she must wear the proper mourning clothes!”

“Her mourning dress is too big,” Aunt Ida said. “Even the outfit she’s wearing now is too loose. I don’t think her parents made enough money to buy proper attire for the poor thing. God rest their souls.”

Emma opened her mouth to respond, but Uncle Otis interrupted.

“Then have a new one made for her! It’s bad enough she’s sitting at my table with no respect for her dead parents. I won’t tolerate it in public.” He yanked his napkin from beneath his silverware, wiped his brow with it, then stuffed it into his vest like a bib.

“The rules are changing, Uncle,” Emma said, her fists in her lap. “In the city, women are turning away from wearing black during mourning. Now, it’s gray or purple, or even mauve. My mother only wore a mourning dress for a week after my brother died. Albert knew she loved him, so it didn’t matter what she wore.”

“Maybe it’s that way in the city,” Uncle Otis said. “But this is Coal River, and I won’t have you bringing disgrace to our family.”

“Of course she won’t, dear,” Aunt Ida said, patting the tablecloth beside her husband’s plate. “I’ll make sure she has a proper mourning dress for going out. If you really think that’s the right thing to do.”

Uncle Otis scowled as if tasting spoiled meat. “Have you lost your mind?” he said. “Of course it’s the right thing to do.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Aunt Ida said. “I’m starting to think it might be a bad idea for Emma to go waltzing around town in her funeral garb.”

“Horseshit!” Uncle Otis said. “I won’t listen to such talk!”

Aunt Ida pursed her lips. “Please,” she said. “There’s no need for foul language.”

Uncle Otis sighed heavily. His shoulders dropped, and he gazed at his wife, his eyes suddenly soft. “I’m sorry, my pet,” he said. “You know I trust your opinion, but this time you’re wrong. You can see that, can’t you?”

“Just hear me out before you say another word,” Aunt Ida said. “You know how miners are. They’re a superstitious lot. And there’s already been gossip at the Saturday ladies’ luncheon that Emma might be bringing bad luck to Coal River.”

Emma winced as though struck. “Me?” she said. “But why?”

Uncle Otis rolled his eyes. “You’ve got to stop listening to those old hens,” he said to his wife. “They haven’t got anything better to do than tittle-tattle and peck at one another.”

Aunt Ida shook her head. “No, no,” she said. “It’s not just the ladies over at church. Mary Fergus said she heard Asa Clark talking to the fire boss over at the post office. Seems he’s worried about checking the mines before the workers come in. Everyone thinks Emma is cursed, on account of her brother drowning in the river and her parents dying in that horrible fire. They’re worried she’s bringing it with her to town.”

Emma swallowed and looked down at her plate. Pinpricks of light from the chandelier reflected off the silverware and china. It was hard enough being forced to come back to this place, hard enough struggling to get through every minute. Now the whole town was turned against her?

“Albert wasn’t the first person to drown in Coal River,” she said.

“True enough,” Aunt Ida said. “But he was the most recent. And now your parents are dead too, and they died in such an awful way. . . . Well, it seems you’ve been labeled something of a bad omen.”

“But that’s absurd,” Emma said. “I—”

“Mother is right,” Percy said. “Miners are suspicious. They sit in the same spot every day to eat lunch, or with the same friends in the same seat on the cars going into the mines. They refuse to move or start a new shaft on Fridays. Some think it’s bad luck for a woman to enter a mine because she might put a curse on it. They say it’s bad enough to work so close to Satan’s domain without a possible witch practicing black magic on them. Some even think it’s bad luck to meet a woman on their way to work in the morning. They’ll turn around, go back home, and start over.”

“Surely you don’t believe all that,” Emma said.

“What does it matter if I believe it?” Percy said. “The miners do. Those men hear sounds in the mines and immediately think they’re hearing ghosts.”

“It might sound like a lot of poppycock,” Otis said, “but don’t dismiss the miners so quickly. They have their wisdom. Even about rats.”

“What about rats?” Emma said.

“Miners never kill a rat in a mine because they can hear the sound of splintering timber and cracking rock before humans can. If the men see rats panicking and heading up the slopes, they follow. Rats will always abandon a mine if a cave-in is about to happen or poisonous gases are present.”

“Same with mules,” Percy said.

“Right,” Otis said, nodding. “Mules have an instinct for impending disaster. Many a mule has lead a miner to safety just in time.”

“I don’t know about the miners,” Aunt Ida said. “But you brought Emma here the same day the new immigrants arrived. Some of the foremen and their wives are starting to wonder if you’ve got the mine’s best interest at heart. We need everyone to see Emma as the innocent girl she is, a victim of life’s circumstances. She should pretty herself up a bit and dress in light, carefree materials, like a young woman on the cusp of a new life.”

Uncle Otis tapped his fingers on the table, thinking. “But everyone knows she’s in mourning,” he said. “What would we tell them?”

Aunt Ida reached for her wineglass, smiling like a fox. “We’ll tell them Emma’s parents were stars of the stage. We’ll say they went to all the big city fashion shows and were on top of the latest styles. You heard Emma. People in the city don’t dress in black these days. No one around these parts will admit they’re not up-to-date on those things. You leave everything up to me. I’ll get everyone to come around.”

Uncle Otis shrugged. “All right, dear,” he said. “I’ll let you handle this.”

“That’s right,” Aunt Ida said. “Sometimes I wonder what you would do without me.” She smiled and tapped her cheek, indicating Otis should give her a kiss. He stood, leaned over the table, and did as he was told.

Percy glanced at Emma, embarrassed by his parents’ display of affection. His ears turned red around the edges.

Uncle Otis directed his attention back to Emma. “On account of the rules changing, you have my permission to stop wearing black.”

Emma nodded, her nails digging into her palms. She had planned on waiting a few days before attempting the plan she had come up with on the train, but maybe this was the perfect time.

“I feel horrible causing so much trouble for all of you,” she said. “But I might have a solution if you’re willing to listen.”

Uncle Otis raised his eyebrows. “This ought to be good,” he said. He took a sip of wine and set down his glass, looking at her expectantly.

“What is it, Emma?” Aunt Ida said. “Have you come up with a way to help everyone take a liking to you?”

Emma cleared her throat, ignoring her aunt’s remark. “Back in Manhattan, I was working in the theater box office and attending classes part-time to become a teacher. I really don’t want to be more of a burden to you than I already am, so I thought, if I could get a little help . . . to go away to normal school—”

Aunt Ida coughed, as if choking. “You want to go away to school?” she said, eyes wide. “Do you have any idea how much that costs?”

“Yes,” Emma said. “But you’re already spending so much money by taking me in and putting a roof over my head. You’re having clothes made for me, and sharing your food. I’m certain there’s a normal school here in Pennsylvania. It might be cheaper to send me there than to—”

Aunt Ida leaned back in her chair and laughed, a small bitter sound, like a baby pig caught in the mud. “Well, don’t you worry about that,” she said. “You’re going to help out around here. You didn’t think we were going to house you and feed you for free, did you? How are you going to earn your keep if we send you off to school?”

“I could pay you back when I’m finished,” Emma said, struggling to keep her voice even. “After I got a teaching job. I could—”

“Maybe she brought a suitcase full of cash with her on the train,” Uncle Otis said, laughing.

“Or maybe, because we live in a real house and have nice things, she thinks we’re made of money,” Aunt Ida said.

“Of course she does,” Uncle Otis said. He eyed Emma. “Just like her parents thought we were made of money when they left her and her brother here for four months while they had a high time of it in Manhattan.”

Aunt Ida’s face fell. A hot coil of anger twisted beneath Emma’s rib cage. She started to respond, but her aunt interrupted.

“Oh no,” Aunt Ida said, wagging a finger at her husband. “You leave my sister out of this. I won’t stand for you speaking ill of the dead in my house.”

“Your house?” Uncle Otis said. “Last I checked, I was the one going to the mines six days a week!”

“Here we go,” Percy said, rolling his eyes. He finished the wine in his glass.

“Now, you listen here, Otis Shawcross,” Aunt Ida said. She leaned toward him, practically coming out of her chair. “You might go to the mines every day, but while you’re gone, I’m here running this household and making sure you have clean clothes on your back and warm food in your belly. So don’t you sit there and act like I’m eating bonbons all day while you—”

“Enough!” Emma shouted, slapping both hands on the table. Uncle Otis and Aunt Ida stopped short, their shocked faces snapping toward her. “Please! I’m sorry I brought it up!”

Aunt Ida settled back into her chair. “Well, I’m sorry you brought it up too,” she said. “It’s just a ridiculous notion. From now on, think before you speak.”

“Your aunt is right,” Uncle Otis said. “You can put going to school right out of your head, young lady.”

Emma chewed on the inside of her cheek, blinking back tears. Maybe she should ask for a train ticket back to New York. Maybe she could find a job there as a maid or a waitress, and look for a roommate to share a cheap room. She berated herself for not doing that in the first place, before ever stepping foot on the train. Then she remembered waking up in the hospital, learning her parents were dead, and being given a choice between the poorhouse and Coal River. She had been in shock, indifferent to what happened next. Besides, the doctor wouldn’t have released her to wander the streets alone. And no one would have hired a penniless girl wearing a donated, oversized dress, let alone paid her enough to rent a decent room. She had seen the seven-cent lodging house on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. She had seen the back alleys of the tenement houses, and the beggars outside the pauper barracks. Surely, she would have ended up in one of those places, or worse. She had come back to Coal River because there was no other choice.