Red Helmet (12 page)

Ten

W
hen Song came downstairs the next morning, the couch was empty except for the quilt. After fixing coffee, she tried the kitchen telephone again. To her everlasting joy, this time it worked, and her father—her wonderful, dear, though sometimes ruthless, father, Joe Hawkins himself—answered his phone.

“Song!” She imagined his handsome face, his silver fox hair and moustache, and his delighted grin. “So good to hear from you! But where've you been? I've left a dozen messages on your cell. How goes it, daughter? What's it like in wild and wonderful West Virginia? I believe that's their slogan down there.”

“Wild, but not wonderful,” Song replied, then gave her father a quick rundown of all that had transpired. “Maybe I made a big mistake with Cable, Daddy,” she concluded, on the verge of tears.

Her father was silent for a long second, then said, “Listen, honey. You know I like Cable, but this marriage . . . well, it
was
quite a surprise to everybody. More than one person has asked me what you were thinking.”

Song put a hand across her eyes. “I know, I know.”

“I can have a car and a driver pick you up in a matter of hours. What's the closest town of any size?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, I'll find out. Just give me the word and you'll be on your way home.”

Song considered the offer, which was tempting. “I promised Cable I'd stay a week. Anyway, I don't think I should run away. I've got to figure things out.”

Hawkins got to the heart of the matter. “The question, it seems to me, is can you give him up?”

“I can't live here. That much I know. The town hates me. Not only that, it's ugly and backwards. Cell phones don't even work here.”

“So what's your next step?”

“I've got to convince him to transfer to New York.”

“And if you can't, what then?”

Song pressed the phone hard against her ear and lowered her head. “I don't know, I don't know,” she moaned.
“It's such a mess.”

“There is such a thing as an annulment,” Joe Hawkins said.

“I know, Daddy,” she whispered.

“I can fix it for you, daughter. Hell, if it comes to it, I can kidnap Cable and drag him up here. You just name it and I'll see it done.”

“I love you, Daddy.”

“And I love you, pretty girl. Never doubt it.”

“And who else do you love?” she teased. “Are you still going out with that redhead?”

“Monique? No, she didn't have enough energy to keep up with me.”

Song laughed and it felt good. “Let's see. I think you're thirty years older than her, right?”

“Thirty-two, actually.”

“You're amazing, Daddy.”

“Yeah, maybe. So many women, so little time.”

“You're a rogue, that's what you are.”

“Well, Song, I love women. I can't help it. But if your mother was still alive, I wouldn't look at anyone else. She was a fantastic woman in every way. She filled my heart the way I hoped Cable would fill yours.”

“Cable always says I shouldn't make easy things hard. But this isn't easy. I don't care what he says.”

Hawkins chuckled. “You two are quite the pair.”

“I guess we are.” It was a lament.

Their talk shifted to business—her office was struggling without her—then Song told him how much she loved him again, and he told her he loved her even more, and they hung up. Nothing had been solved, but at least she'd been able to get a few things off her chest.

“Now what?” Song asked herself, but she had no real answer. “A mess, a mess, it's all a mess.”

She poured herself a fresh cup of coffee, then went out onto the porch and sank into a rocker to contemplate the view, which unfortunately hadn't changed. It was still Highcoal, the mine, and the mountains. She was studying the montage when Young Henry came whistling up the driveway.

“Morning, missus.” He tipped his baseball cap to her. “Pretty day, ain't it?”

“Pretty day, isn't it?” she corrected him, as matter of course.

“Oh, I know,” the boy said. “I was just using the West Virginia vernacular.”

Young Henry went on while Song laughed at herself. The boy was cute and clever, and she really liked him.

She went upstairs and looked in the bathroom mirror and was startled at her appearance. She was looking decidedly tired and drawn. If she and Cable were going to talk and settle things, she supposed it might go better if she didn't look like a hag. There had been no word of her missing luggage.
Cosmetics
, she thought.
I need cosmetics
. But where to get them? There seemed but one answer—the store that, according to Cable, had everything. Omar's Dollar and Cents Store.

Song changed into a chic blue skirt, a white blouse, and strappy heels, figuring she might as well take a turn at impressing the townsfolk. She didn't care what they thought, but Cable did. The whole idea was to lure him to her bidding, especially now that he'd had a night of sleeping alone.

She went out, climbed into the Porsche, and stared at the instrument panel, the stick shift, and the three pedals on the floor. It looked like the cockpit of a jet plane. She was flummoxed. There was no way she could drive it. She sought out Young Henry and found him manning a shovel in the stable.

“I need to go to the store. Any idea how I could do that?”

The boy gawked at her. “Go-oll-ee,” he said. “You sure are pretty, ma'am.”

“Why, thank you, Young Henry,” Song said, quite pleased.

Young Henry mulled over her question. “If you want to go to Omar's, you should take Mr. Jordan's car,” he concluded.

“Yes, but I don't know how to drive it.”

Young Henry mulled some more. “Folks that don't have a car usually just hitchhike. If you call them, the constable or Preacher will come get you if they got a minute. Of course, you usually have to listen to Preacher preach. Come to think on it, he's working in the mine today, anyway. The constable, he might come. Good thing about him is he tends to be quiet unless he thinks you been busting out streetlights with a BB gun or something like that. Then he's likely to fuss at you.”

“I don't think I want to hitchhike, and I don't want to call the constable either, even though I've never even seen a real BB gun. Any other ideas?”

“Well, first off, I don't understand why you can't drive Mr. Jordan's car.”

“In the city we have taxis, subways, buses, and trains,” she explained. “I don't have to drive, so it's been awhile, and then only with an automatic.”

Young Henry puzzled over that, then said, “Mom lets me drive her truck all the time. She gets busy and there's nobody else to pick up stuff for the hotel. I drove all the way to Bluefield a month ago. Surely that little car can't be no harder to drive than the old truck.”

“Do you have a driver's license?”

“I'm only twelve, but a West Virginia boy does what a West Virginia boy has to do.”

Song gave his proposition some thought and concluded she had no choice. “Young Henry,” she said, “consider yourself my chauffeur!”

In all her life, Song thought she'd never seen anyone grin so large as Young Henry. His face split, jug ear to jug ear. “Dale Earnhardt, Junior and Senior,” he said to the sky and heaven, where little boys keep their dreams of adventure and conquest, “eat your heart out!”

Y
OUNG
H
ENRY SAT
on a pillow to see over the steering wheel, and he had to stretch his legs to reach the pedals, but he was a smooth shifter and soon had Cable's roadster sailing along the mountain road, heading for Highcoal.

“Aren't we going a bit fast, Young Henry?” Song asked after the boy steered through a number of curves and made the tires shriek. She wrapped her scarf tighter around her head.

“Oh, no, ma'am!” Young Henry said. “These cars are made to go fast. If you go too slow, the engine gets all full of crud and stuff.”

“Um . . . well, I trust you, I guess.”

“That's a good thing, ma'am.”

At the bottom of the mountain, there was a straight stretch, and Young Henry floored the accelerator. As the needle flicked past eighty miles an hour, he dodged an especially large pothole and lost control. The little car jumped a ditch, knocked down a wooden fence, then skittered across a meadow of slick, green grass until finally stopping beside a startled milk cow. The cow mooed irritably, emptied its large intestine, and walked away, its head held aloft in bovine dignity.

Young Henry's bloodless fingers were wrapped like claws around the steering wheel. “I didn't really mean to do that,” he said.

During the unexpected detour, Song had been so terrified her mind had gone blank. Now she crawled out of the car and sat on what she thought was grass, but was actually a fresh and steaming cow patty, which she didn't see and was too shaken to smell. Somehow she had lost her scarf and her hair was in her eyes. Young Henry knelt beside her, carefully keeping out of the cow patty. Song looked at him, her eyes wild and wide.

“Now, just breathe easy, ma'am,” he said. “There you go. Breathe in and out. Good! Oh, that's so much better. Maybe you'd like to get up? You're sitting in cow poo, you see.”

Song found her voice. “Cow poo?”

“Yes, ma'am. Like the stuff that comes out of cows.”

Song tried to gather her wits, a difficult project after looking death in the face. “You know, Young Henry,” she finally managed, “I don't believe I've ever sat in cow poo before. West Virginia certainly is wild and wonderful.”

“Yes, ma'am. I reckon it is.”

Song took Young Henry's hand and the boy drew her to her feet. She looked at the cow dung on her skirt and wrinkled up her nose at both its appearance and stink.

“It's really awful stuff, isn't it?”

“I guess that's why cows like to get it out of them. But come look at the car. It's hardly scratched, I swan.”

Song wobbled over to the roadster. There was indeed only a scratch on its bumper. “Thank goodness. Cable loves this car,” she said. Her wits returning, she looked around for a source of water. “I've got to wash the stink off me,” she said.

“There's a creek not far away.” Young Henry motioned with his hand.

Song considered the creek, then changed her mind about the washing. “I should go home,” she concluded.

“No problem,” Young Henry said. “All I have to do is get the car back on the road and I'll have you back in no time atall. You just stand over there. No ma'am, not there! Oh, look, you've stepped in the cow poo with your nice shoes.”

“Only a couple hundred dollars,” she said faintly.

“Really, ma'am? You can buy a pair just like them in Omar's store for about thirty bucks.”

“Young Henry, let's discuss the price of shoes at a later time.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Young Henry climbed into the car, revved its engine, popped its clutch, and went for it, wheels throwing up clumps of turf as he steered it through the hole in the fence, across the ditch, and back up on the road.

Song watched from her place on the grass as a massive coal truck rounded the curve and roared relentlessly toward Young Henry and the car. Brakes squealed and smoke erupted from the truck's tires as Young Henry dived out of the car just seconds before the collision that, miraculously, did not occur. The huge steel bumper of the truck, nearly as big as the car, stopped only inches away from it.

“Oh, thank goodness!” Song cried, although her relief was short-lived. Several tons of coal, its momentum unchecked, erupted from the truck and fell like a black tidal wave on top of Cable's car. Song ran toward the buried vehicle, but slipped at the edge of the ditch and went sprawling face-first into mud. Young Henry helped her up and then supported her as she limped to the road.

“Them coal trucks sure can build up a head of steam,” the boy marveled.

The truck driver, a mountain of a man in bib overalls, climbed out of the cab and lumbered over. He grinned in recognition when he saw Young Henry.

“Hey, boy! Where'd you get that little car I done buried under my coal?”

“It's Mr. Jordan's. And this is his wife, Mrs. Jordan.”

The driver peered at Song through coke-bottle glasses. “I'm Foureyes, ma'am,” he said, then put his hand over his nose. “Par'm me, but you kinda stink.”

“I'm sorry. I think I sat on a cow . . . thing.”

“Ten-four, ma'am. You surely did. You really married to Cable? I got to say you ain't much like I pictured a wife of his'n.”

“Because I'm Asian-American?”

“Uh-uh.” He patted his chest. “The way I heard it, Cable likes 'em big along here.”

Song, rising above her despair, lifted her muddy chin. “Are you hurt in any way, Mr. Foureyes?”

“Not yet, but I probably will be. Cable's gonna kick my tail for dumping coal on his car.”

“I got an idea!” Young Henry chirped. “Squirrel Harper details cars and he owes Mrs. Jordan a favor. He could clean that car up, sure as spit.”

“Might work,” Foureyes agreed. “If you had a way of calling him.” He looked at Song. “Cell phones don't work around here, you know.”

“Really?” Song rolled her eyes.

Young Henry was momentarily stymied, but then he brightened. “You could tow it yourself. That big old truck oughta be able to tow a battleship.”

“Oh, would you please, Mr. Foureyes?” Song begged. It was her only hope. She was having enough trouble with Cable without him finding out she had buried his car beneath several tons of coal.

Foureyes gave it some thought, then shrugged. “All right, ma'am, I'll do it. But you have to do one thing for me.”

“What is it, Mr. Foureyes?” Song asked, in her sweetest voice.