Coal River (5 page)

“No!” Percy said, cutting her off. He glanced nervously at Emma. “Now, either pay up or leave.”

The woman stopped rocking. “Well, I hope you can sleep while my babies cry themselves to sleep tonight ’cause of their empty stomachs!”

Percy’s features softened. “You know I don’t make the rules.”

The woman turned to leave, urging her daughter forward by the shoulder. The baby started wailing, his face purple. The woman saw Emma and stopped, her eyes blazing. “If your husband don’t work for the mining company and you can buy your goods elsewhere, you better do it!” she said. “They don’t call this the pluck me store for nothing!”

Behind Emma, the boys tore the lids from the candy jars, grabbed handfuls of licorice and lemon drops, then bolted out the side door. Percy raced around the counter and chased them outside. The woman watched him leave, then considered Emma with narrow eyes. She hesitated for just a moment, then grabbed the bread and milk, put it in a cloth bag hanging from her forearm, and hurried out of the store. Less than a minute later, Percy stormed back inside, red-faced and panting.

“Those good-for-nothing scoundrels!” he said.

Aunt Ida came in through the main entrance, her forehead lined with concern. “Heavens to Betsy!” she said, fanning herself with a paisley fan. “What’s all the commotion?”

“Those damn breaker boys!” Percy said. “Every payday they come in here and cause trouble.”

“Well, why do you let them get away with it?” Aunt Ida said. “You’re in charge, remember?”

“I try not to, Ma,” Percy said. “But I don’t have eyes in the back of my head. That’s the other reason I need help. I can’t watch everybody!”

“When Emma is done learning what I need her to do at the house,” Aunt Ida said, “I’ll send her over to help you out.”

“The sooner the better,” Percy said. He stomped around the counter, stopped at the register, and noticed the bread and milk were gone. “Shit!”

Aunt Ida’s eyes went wide. “What now?” she said.

Percy shook his head, the veins in his forehead bulging. “Nothing,” he said. “I just remembered something I forgot to do. Do you need anything special today?”

“I was hoping you could show Emma where everything is so she can find things on her own next time,” Aunt Ida said.

“Not today,” Percy said. “I’ve got work to do.”

“Now you listen here, Percy Francis Shawcross,” Aunt Ida said. “One minute you’re cussing for no good reason, the next you’re saying no to your mother. What would your father think? One hand wipes the other, remember? You want me to make sure Emma can help you out, then you best help me out when I ask.”

“Yes, Ma,” Percy said. He made his way back around the counter, his face long.

Aunt Ida handed Emma the list. “I’ll be outside, finishing my visit with Sally Gable,” she said. She headed toward the door. “Seems her son married a nice girl over in Wilkes-Barre, and they’re already expecting.” Before disappearing into the thinning light outside, she called over her shoulder, “Nothing makes a mother prouder than seeing her son marry a nice girl!”

Percy watched her leave, his hands on his hips. “Son of a bitch,” he said under his breath.

“What is it?” Emma said, pretending she didn’t know why he was upset.

“That damn woman stole the bread and milk she was trying to buy,” he said.

“No, she didn’t,” Emma said. “I figured I might as well start making myself useful, so I put the bread back on the shelf and the milk back in the icebox.”

Percy sighed heavily, relieved. Then, as if coming to his senses, he squared his shoulders. “Listen,” he said. “Don’t touch anything else around here unless I tell you to.”

“I thought you wanted my help.”

He snatched the list from her hand and headed toward the rear of the store. “I do. But you don’t work here yet, do you?”

“No,” she said, staying put. “I don’t. And I’m fairly certain I can figure out a way to make sure I never do.”

He stopped and turned to face her, throwing his hands in the air. “Jesus,” he said. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . this job isn’t as easy as my father thinks. And now, seeing you after all these years . . .”

“Do you think any of this is easy for me?” she said.

“No,” he said. “I can’t imagine it is. I didn’t mean to—”

“Listen,” she said. “We’re going to have to figure out a way to get along. At least until I can figure out how to get out of here. So, please, don’t do it again.”

He moved forward and put a hand on her shoulder. “I want you to know how sorry I am about what happened with your brother last time you were here. I should have apologized back then, but I didn’t know what to say.”

She brushed his hand away and made her way down the aisle. “There’s no point in talking about that now,” she said. “All the apologies in the world won’t change what happened.”

“I know,” Percy said. “I just want you to—”

She turned to face him. “Can we please talk about something else?”

He shrugged and went to the end of the aisle to start gathering the items on his mother’s list. “Like what?”

She followed him. “What did that woman mean when she said I should shop somewhere else if my husband doesn’t work for the mining company?”

He took a tin of lantern oil from the shelf and headed toward the register. “Miners and their families have to shop here.”

“Why?”

“The mining company owns the store.” He grabbed a basket and moved down the center aisle.

She went with him. “So?”

He looked at her as if she thought the world was flat. “The miners would be out of a job if they shopped anyplace else.”

“Why?” she said. Then the answer came to her, and she made a face. “You mean they’re forced to shop here? I’ve never heard of such nonsense!”

“It’s always been that way.”

“I only lived here for a few months, remember? And I was ten. I didn’t pay attention to things like that.”

Percy pulled two bags of dried beans from a shelf. “Then you’ve got a lot to learn about this place,” he said. “And I’m not just talking about this store.”

“What can you tell me about the breaker boys?” she said. “Aunt Ida won’t tell me who they are.”

He frowned, took the basket to the front of the store, and set it on the counter. “The breaker boys work in the breaker.”

“Doing what?” she said. “Some of them can’t be any more than six or seven years old!”

“Sorting coal.”

“Every day?”

“Of course every day,” he said. “Every day except Sunday. That’s the only day the colliery isn’t running.”

“I heard there was an accident, and a boy was killed. Is their job dangerous?”

“It can be.”

“Is it legal?”

“The Bleak Mountain Mining Company isn’t doing anything different than the rest of the collieries in this state,” he said.

“What about school?”

He shot her that look again, as if she’d just fallen off a turnip truck. “There’s no school for miners’ children in Coal River.”

She gaped at him, trying to recall if she’d seen miners’ children wandering around in the middle of the day the last time she was here. She couldn’t remember. “Why not?” she said. “Aren’t there state laws requiring all children to get an education?”

He looked troubled. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s been the same around here for as long as I can remember. Half of them barely know English, let alone how to read and write. How would anyone teach them anything?”

She shook her head, unable to believe what she was hearing. What kind of people put young boys to work in a coal mine instead of sending them to school? Some way, some how, she had to find a way out of this Godforsaken place. Then she had another thought.
Maybe, if I’m able to get out from under Aunt Ida’s thumb for a bit, I can find a way to teach the miners’ children something, even if it’s just how to write their names.

A little while later, she helped Percy carry Aunt Ida’s purchases out to the horse-drawn wagon. The sun was hanging just above the horizon, casting long shadows across the road. When they had loaded and covered the bags and parcels in the back of the wagon, Emma grabbed the wooden armrest and hoisted herself into the bench seat. On the driver’s side, Aunt Ida rearranged the thick folds of her skirt and picked up the reins.

Percy squinted up at them. “Go straight home, now,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Aunt Ida said, her words tinged with sarcasm.

“Why didn’t the driver bring you?” Percy said.

“You know I like driving the wagon,” Aunt Ida said. “Besides, the driver was busy helping Cook make sausage in the summer kitchen.”

“But everyone knows who you are,” he said. “And with everything that’s going on—”

“Don’t worry about me.” Aunt Ida patted her skirt. “I can handle myself.”

Until now, Emma hadn’t noticed the slight bulge beneath one side of her aunt’s dress.

Percy’s brows shot up. “That better not be what I think it is.”

Aunt Ida grinned. “Your daddy’s pistol?” she said. “Darn tootin’ it is. And don’t you be telling him I’ve got it either. If something happens, you’ll both be glad I didn’t listen.” She sat up straight and flicked the reins. The horse flinched and started moving, its sides and hindquarters covered in dried sweat. Percy shook his head in frustration, then waved and watched the women make their way down the dusty road.

Emma gave Percy a quick wave, then turned forward. “What do you mean if something happens?” she said. “What could happen?”

Aunt Ida made a pshaw motion with one hand. “It’s nothing for you to worry about,” she said. “You heard your uncle and Percy talking. There’s a lot of unrest with the miners these days. As usual, they blame everyone in charge.”

“But they wouldn’t,” Emma said. “I mean . . . they wouldn’t actually hurt someone, would they?”

Just then, a group of shouting boys ran across the road in front of the wagon, their worn knickers and scuffed shoes making them look like a band of orphans. One of the boys was using crutches and hopping along on one foot, the empty leg of his trousers tied closed. In what seemed like slow motion, he turned his head toward Aunt Ida and Emma. It was the boy from yesterday, Albert’s twin. Up close, he looked ravaged and childish at the same time, like an ancient, tortured soul trapped inside a young body. He hesitated in the middle of the road and fixed his eyes on Emma.
You let your brother die.

Despite the heat, Emma shivered, unable to pull her eyes from his.
How does he know?

Aunt Ida yanked back on the reins, jerking the horse to a stop. “You good-for-nothin’ boys, watch where you’re going!”

Albert’s twin dropped his eyes and made his way across the road. Emma slumped in her seat as if released from a trance. She shook her head to clear it.
I must be imagining things,
she thought.
That boy doesn’t know anything about me. It’s just a coincidence that he looks like Albert, nothing more. I need to get ahold of myself before I drive myself mad!

Aunt Ida snorted in disgust and got the horse moving again, her lips twisted in an angry pucker. Then another boy ran across the road, jumping out of the way at the last second. He laughed and stuck out his tongue, then turned and caught up to his friends.

“Are they breaker boys?” Emma said.

“I’m afraid so,” Aunt Ida said.

“Percy told me what they do and how dangerous it is. Can’t Uncle Otis do something to help them?”

A dark look passed over Aunt Ida’s face, but she kept her eyes on the road. “I told you before, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Not talking about something doesn’t make it go away.”

“Please!” Aunt Ida said. “Stop asking me about them. That’s your last warning!”

“But it isn’t right!”

Aunt Ida ignored her and snapped the reins harder. Emma turned in her seat to watch the breaker boys join a gang of older boys in a dusty alley between the tobacco shop and a saloon, flocking around them like playful puppies. The older boys held out cigarettes and chewing tobacco while the younger ones reached into their pockets for change, pushing and shoving to be first in line. After paying the older boys, the younger boys—some as young as six—lit cigarettes and corncob pipes, or shoved chewing tobacco between their gums and cheeks.

“Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing?” Emma said. Suddenly it seemed hard to breath.

Aunt Ida clucked her tongue. “It’s a shame those miners don’t have better control over their children. They’re like a pack of wild animals if you ask me! But some people are just not meant to be civilized.” She picked up a whip and lashed the horse’s rear end, forcing the already overheated animal to trot faster.

CHAPTER 5

F
ollowing a century-old Coal River tradition, the Fourth of July festivities were held in the village green near the center of town, where Main Street split off Railroad Avenue and Murphy Lane. American flags and colored bunting festooned the Pennsylvania Boarding House and Hotel, Herrick’s Apothecary, Judd’s Blacksmith shop, Abe’s Livery, and the United States Post Office; the red, white, and blue swags like billowing sheets hung from every roof and window. More flags hung from the streetlamps and surrounded the village gazebo, where a twenty-piece band played patriotic tunes beneath streamers and banners. After the one-o’clock parade, the villagers would meet for a picnic in the park, and later that evening a dance would be held in the hall next to the pavilion.

By one thirty, the sun was a blazing fireball in the sky, the afternoon temperature climbing to even greater heights than the previous few days. Hundreds of people swarmed the grounds—men in morning jackets and afternoon suits, women in pastel-colored gowns, boys in fancy trousers and shiny shoes, girls in white pantaloons and sailor dresses. The smell of sausage, beer, and roasted peanuts filled the air, along with the snap of firecrackers and the sounds of several foreign languages. Members of the Coal and Iron Police roamed the crowd, truncheons and revolvers on their belts. A few carried rifles strapped to their shoulders. In sharp contrast to the fancy clothes worn by the upper class, clusters of single men, bands of boys, and mining families wandered through the gathering in patched trousers, worn dresses, and tattered shoes. The youngest children were in bare feet.

Emma had tried to get out of attending the celebration by claiming the heat was making her stomach queasy, but Aunt Ida was having none of it. If Emma was going to live with the Shawcross family and be treated to all the rewards of being kin, the least she could do was accompany them to the festivities. Besides, it was imperative to make an appearance so the townsfolk could see she was a normal young woman. If she stayed hidden at home, it would only fuel the spreading rumors. The last thing the family needed was for anyone to think she was someone to be avoided and feared.

Now, Emma strolled beside her aunt through the village green, a white parasol balanced on one shoulder. Aunt Ida had chosen every aspect of Emma’s outfit—from the ivory tea dress with a lace collar to the white, patent leather Mary Janes. After all, it was important for Emma to look like a civilized young lady on her first family outing, not a cursed girl who brought bad luck, or a hooligan who grew up passing out theater programs on the streets of Manhattan. Uncle Otis was the mine supervisor, and the Shawcross family had a reputation to uphold. But Emma had refused to pin up her hair, insisting it was too hot to wear a heavy roll of curls sitting on the nape of her neck. She could still hear Aunt Ida tsk-tsking when she had appeared on the front veranda with a long braid down her back. Of course, Aunt Ida was dressed to the nines in a yellow tea gown with a white sash, jeweled galloons, and a wide-brimmed hat festooned with peacock feathers. And Uncle Otis and Percy were wearing their best suits.

Emma wondered what the townsfolk would think if they saw Uncle Otis huffing and puffing at the dinner table every night, worrying that the fires in the culm banks would spread to the breaker and complaining that the miners and mules were more cantankerous than normal. What would they say if they saw him at the end of the meal, slumped in his seat like a hot, sweaty child, letting his wife mollycoddle and wait on him? Every evening it was the same— Aunt Ida took his whiskey glass, unbuttoned his collar, wiped his face with a wet napkin, and had Percy help take him up to bed.

Between Uncle Otis’s drinking problem and what happened earlier that day, Emma had enough information to ruin the Shawcross reputation in five minutes flat. All the peacock feathers and pinstripe vests in the world wouldn’t change the truth once it came out. Then again, no one in Coal River seemed to care about the boys getting hurt and killed inside the breaker. Why would they care what happened to her? She put a hand to her sore cheek, wondering if it was still red, and thought back to when they left the house that morning. Aunt Ida had insisted they take a family portrait, goading Uncle Otis until he went back inside to get his Folding Pocket Kodak. They could stand on the porch steps, her aunt said, and get a nice picture with the house in the background.

“We’re all dressed up,” she said. “And the light is just right. Let’s take the picture before you and Percy get to rabble-rousing and mess up your fine clothes.”

“It’s too hot,” Percy said with a groan.

“And I’d have to go back inside and all the way upstairs to get the camera,” Uncle Otis said. “Just get in the Lizzie so we can be on our way.” He flicked his hand, as if dismissing a servant.

“Now you listen here, Otis Shawcross,” Aunt Ida said, putting her fists on her hips. “You insisted on spending all that money to buy that fancy new camera, and now you never use it. It’s been sitting in the bedroom closet for the better part of a year collecting dust! What on God’s green earth are you saving it for?”

Uncle Otis shrugged.

“Well, go inside and dig it out so Emma can take our picture!”

Uncle Otis did as he was told, but not without cursing under his breath. He emerged a few minutes later with a camera and a roll of film, his face red and his hair disheveled, as if he’d been digging through linens and hanging clothes. Aunt Ida directed Percy onto the steps and stood beside him, waiting while Uncle Otis loaded the film, pulled out the lens panel, and showed Emma how to take a picture.

“Hold it steady like this,” he said, demonstrating. “Then look through here and push this exposure level.”

“All right,” Emma said, moving to take the camera.

He pulled it out of her reach. “And whatever you do, don’t break it,” he said. “It was expensive.”

“I won’t,” she said.

Reluctantly, Uncle Otis gave her the camera. Then he climbed the steps, stood beside his wife, and raked his fingers through his thinning hair. Percy stood on the other side of his mother. Just then, Cook came around the side of the house, a crate of canning jars in her arms. She set down the crate and hobbled over to Emma.

“Let me take the picture,” she said. “You get on up there and stand beside your kin.”

“That’s not necessary,” Uncle Otis barked. “Just push the button and get it over with, Emma.”

“I can do it,” Cook said. “So Emma can be in the picture too.”

“We’re taking a family portrait,” Aunt Ida said. “She can pose for her own afterward, if she’d like.”

Cook gave Emma a weak, wavering smile that was both kind and sad.

“It’s all right,” Emma said. “They’re not my real family.” She reached out to touch Cook’s arm and thank her for her kindness, and somehow the camera slipped from her grasp. In what seemed like slow motion, it fell through the air, then hit the dirt with a solid thump. Emma’s stomach dropped. Before she could retrieve the camera, Uncle Otis flew down the steps, his eyes wild, and shoved her out of the way. He picked up the camera. Then there was a loud crack, and Emma was on the ground, not at all sure how she’d gotten there. She tasted blood and looked up to see her uncle standing over her, his arm raised. He blinked and lowered his hand. Percy hurried down the steps.

“Are you all right?” he said. He helped her up.

She touched her burning cheek, her chin trembling, and nodded.

Percy gazed at his father, contempt flashing in his eyes. “It’s just a camera,” he said.

Uncle Otis ignored him. “I told you to be careful!” he snarled at Emma. “Now go wait in the car! And for Christ’s sake, don’t touch anything! Just get in and sit still!” He handed the camera to Cook, then stomped back up the steps. Cook took the picture, gave the camera back, picked up the crate, and disappeared around the side of the house. Otis took the camera inside, and Percy and Aunt Ida climbed into the Tin Lizzie.

“I don’t know what it is with your father and that camera,” Aunt Ida said to Percy. “I swear one of these days I’m going to sell it and buy myself something useful, like a bolt of satin or a new brooch.”

“I heard he won it playing poker down at the Pennsylvania Hotel,” Percy said. “Sally Gable’s husband, Grover, had to ante it up when he ran out of cash.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me,” Aunt Ida said. “Those two always had an old rivalry. Never understood that either.”

“They say it’s because Grover proposed to Sally before Pa had the chance,” Percy said.

Quicker than a whip, Aunt Ida spun around and slapped Percy across the face. “Don’t you ever talk about your father like that!” she shouted. “He wouldn’t be caught dead with that whore. And he never proposed to anybody but me!”

“Sorry, Ma,” Percy said, rubbing his cheek.

Now, up ahead on the village green, Uncle Otis waded through the crowd, waving and nodding as if he were royalty surrounded by his loyal subjects. Percy walked beside him, carrying picnic baskets filled with fried chicken, potato salad, deviled eggs, and Aunt Ida’s famous angel food cake with strawberries. Cook had made all the food, but Aunt Ida had instructed Emma ahead of time that if anyone asked, she’d been slaving over a hot stove since five that morning.

As they headed toward the pavilion, Emma searched the gathering for familiar faces, hoping the boys who’d tormented her brother all those years ago had moved away. She couldn’t remember their names, but she could still see their curled lips and spiteful grins when they taunted Albert. She could still see their blanched cheeks and frightened eyes when he fell through the ice. Did any of them regret what they’d done? Did they ever give Albert a second thought? Or did they just go on with their lives, forgetting the innocent boy they killed? Over the years she’d pictured different reckonings for each bully. One grew up to be a sweaty drunk, living out his days in a saloon. One was a criminal, in jail for robbing a bank. A third was a panhandler living out on the streets, everything he owned lost in poker games. The worst scenario belonged to the boy who threw the locket out on the ice. She pictured him locked away in a state asylum, driven mad by nightmares and guilt.

But now that she had seen Percy face-to-face and knew firsthand that there had been no repercussions for what he’d done, the thought of seeing his friends at the Fourth of July celebration filled her stomach with dread. She couldn’t bear the thought of seeing the boys responsible for Albert’s death playing croquet in cuffed trousers and panama hats. She didn’t want to see them escorting wives or girlfriends toward the picnic pavilion, or holding their children up so they could see the band in the gazebo. Albert never had the chance to do any of those things. And he never would. How in God’s universe would it be fair for the boys responsible for his death to be happily living out their lives? How would it be just that they never had to pay? She took a deep breath and pushed the thought away, wishing she’d brought the vial of laudanum with her instead of leaving it hidden beneath her bedroom mattress.

They passed an open expanse of grass, where groups of breaker boys were playing football and tag. Other boys sat on the sidelines, cheering on the teams. Briefly, Emma wondered if the boy who looked like Albert’s twin was over there, observing her, hidden among the others. Then she noticed that the majority of the boys on the sidelines were either missing entire limbs, a hand, or part of an arm. A young boy with no legs and a scarred cheek sat on a wooden crate, watching the others run and play. His face was filled with misery. A lump formed in Emma’s throat, and she looked away.
There are so many.
Maybe, when it came to innocents dying and suffering, there was no such thing as fair or just.

Blinking back tears, she followed her aunt past a group of children having a sack race, then tried to keep up as they made their way around a gathering of men holding a weight-lifting contest. The ground near the men was soft and wet underfoot, soggy with tobacco juice and spilled beer. Lifting her skirt to keep the hem from getting soiled, Emma stepped around beer bottles and empty peanut bags. In the center of the circle of men, a bearded man in a gray shirt and red suspenders lifted a huge barbell over his head, his face dripping with sweat. The other men erupted in cheers, their fists in the air. Emma flinched, startled by the sudden commotion. She walked faster.

She was nearly past the group of men when a beer bottle dropped at her feet, gurgling dark stout into the grass. A man stepped out of the crowd and bent over to pick it up, blocking her way. He snatched up the bottle before all the beer ran out, then straightened to his full height and turned to face her. He was big as a draft horse, his grimy jersey and bib overalls stretching over his chest as if they were two sizes too small. He grinned at her, revealing crooked, tobacco-stained teeth, then took off his wool cap and ran plank-thick fingers through his stringy hair. His hairline was stained black with coal dust.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said in a thick Irish brogue. “Sorry for blocking yer way.”

Emma nodded and lowered her eyes, making a move to skirt around him. He grabbed her arm with a beefy hand.

“What’s the matter?” he said. “Ye too fancy to talk to a poor bloke like me?”

Emma’s heartbeat quickened. She shook her head. “No,” she said, pulling her arm from his grasp. “I’m just trying to keep up with my aunt.” She searched the crowd for peacock feathers.

“Yer aunt?” he said. “Shouldn’t a pretty lass like you be with a handsome fella at a nice party like this?”

Several of the other men turned around to watch the exchange. One of them called out, “She wouldn’t ride ye to battle, ye big dolt!” Everyone laughed.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Emma said. “I must be on my way.”

The giant Irishman took a long swig of stout, grimaced, and wiped his chin with the back of his wrist. “Ye know,” he said. “The higher a monkey climbs a tree, the further up its arse ye see.”