Red Helmet (14 page)

Song climbed into the truck, pulled the door shut, and vaguely waved down the road. “Take me home, Young Henry.” Then she giggled. “You know, I think I'm a little drunk.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Young Henry replied, waving away the fumes of the ouzo mixed with the odor of cow.

“What did that man mean when he said I bet four days?”

“It's stupid,” Young Henry said. “People are betting how many days you're going to stay.”

“But I'm here for a week. Why didn't you tell them?”

Young Henry shrugged. “I told you it was stupid.”

As they passed the mine, Song spotted Cable walking across the grounds, his head down, his hands behind his back. He was in an obvious hurry to get wherever he was going. “Stop, Young Henry!” Song commanded.

Startled, the boy hit the brakes. “What's wrong?”

“Gotta talk with my husband. Right now. Not gonna wait!” Song flung open the door. “You know why?” When the boy didn't say anything, she said, “'Cause I love him. What do you think of that, Young Henry?”

“I don't think now's the time, ma'am,” Young Henry replied.

“Oh, what do you know?” Song demanded, and slammed the door shut. “You're just a boy!”

Song walked unsteadily through the gate and headed for the low brick building she'd seen Cable enter. All of a sudden, everything was crystal clear. She loved Cable and he loved her. He was absolutely right. Why make an easy thing hard? This problem of location could be worked out. Maybe they'd share their time between New York and Highcoal.
Yes, that was it!
Why hadn't she thought of that before? She also realized that she was, well, very, very needful for Cable in a quite physical way. With tears of joy, sudden knowledge, and wifely lust, not to mention ouzo, filling every fiber of her being, she ran up the steps and burst inside. In a room to the right was a little man in a white helmet pecking at the keyboard of a desktop computer. At her sudden appearance, a shocked expression crossed his molelike face. Song knew instantly who it was.

“Mole! It's you. It's me. Song. Where's my hubby? Where's that Cable man?”

“Cable? Why, he's in his office, ma'am. You're Mrs. Cable? Hello, good to see you at last. But are you well? You look a little peaked.”

“I'm wonderful, Mole!” Song cried, and threw open the door. Cable was sitting at a big desk. He looked up and, for some reason, his eyes widened. She only had eyes for him too.

“Sweetheart!” She ran to him and threw herself into his arms, which almost tipped him out of his chair. She began to cover his face with kisses. “I love you, love you,
love you
! Need you too. Take me now, Cable, right here on this
desk!” She threw herself back and began to unbutton her blouse.

“Song . . . ,” Cable said, easing her off his lap. “Um . . . this isn't the time.”

Song felt no warmth from Cable. In fact, she sensed that she somehow had made him unhappy. Then she knew what it was, and laughed.

“Oh, 'cause I stink!” she cried. “I'm earthy, that's all. You like your women earthy, don't you, Cable? I wrecked your car—well, I didn't, Young Henry did—and then I sat in this cow poo . . . it's all so messed up in my mind, but . . .
what
is it
? Why are you looking at me like that?”

The expression on Cable's face was so severe and unyielding, it was nearly enough to sober her up. Nearly.

Cable cleared his throat, and said, “We're having a meeting, Song.”

“
We
?
”

“My foremen, my engineers, the owners of the mine, and Governor Godfrey.”

It was as if an alien world had suddenly coalesced out of a fog. Song turned and saw the grimy and thoroughly astonished faces of a dozen men wearing white helmets, plus those of several men in dark suits and the oh-so-perfect condescending, Botoxed face of the governor of West Virginia.

“You'd better go now. Get yourself cleaned up,” Cable said.

Song lifted her chin and blinked at the faces. “I'd like to 'pologize for my 'pearance and for what I jus' said and also for being alive. I jus' wanted a word with my husband, y'see.”

Then Young Henry was there to take her by her hand. “She was in a bad accident,” he explained to the assembly as he led her out of the office and down the steps and into the dirt. Faintly she heard Cable ask, “Did she say she wrecked my car?”

“How deep is the mine, Young Henry?” Song asked.

“About eight hundred feet down the shaft, ma'am.”

“Should be enough,” she said. “'Scuse me while I throw myself down it.”

Young Henry tugged her toward the gate just as Bum stepped out of the bathhouse. “Hey, girl. I heard you were born rich. What's that like?”

Even through the muddle of drink and chagrin, Song's New York smarts clicked into gear. “Pretty nice. I heard you were born stupid. What's that like?”

Bum reddened as a storm of guffaws erupted from the bathhouse. “Guess she got you told, Bum!” someone yelled.

His mouth pinched, his small eyes burning into Song, he said, “You go on now, girl. You'll hear from ol' Bum one of these days.”

“Cable should fire that man,” Song muttered as Young Henry steered her through the gate.

“Bum and Mr. Jordan were best friends in high school,” Young Henry said.

“He's still a monster.”

“Yes, ma'am. And now you done got him mad at you. Anything else you want to do in town today?”

“Guess I've done it all. Take me home, Young Henry.”

“That's what I've been trying to do the last hour, ma'am. I surely have.”

THAT NIGHT WHEN
Cable came home, Song had gone to bed, sleeping the sleep that ouzo provides. When she rose, bleary-eyed from drink and teary-eyed with shame, she saw evidence that he'd slept on the couch again, but there was otherwise no sign of him. A quick check revealed his truck was gone.

But it's Saturday.
Song lurched into the kitchen and consulted the calendar for confirmation. When she picked up the mine phone, Mole answered.

“Where's Cable?” she demanded.

“In the mine.”

“It's Saturday.”

“We run a shift on Saturday, ma'am.”

“Tell me, Mole, what do the women in this town do since their men are always at work?”

“Why, I guess they take care of their kids, ma'am.”

“And if they don't have kids?”

Mole was silent for a long second, then said, “Wives around here either got kids or are working to get some.”

“So they just stay at home?”

“They also go to church.”

“Is that any kind of life?”

“I ain't heard no complaints lately.”

Song slammed down the phone, the sound making her head feel like it was going to burst.

“I hate this place,” she whimpered, sinking to the floor. “I really, really do.”

Twelve

T
hey next person to visit Song arrived in a pink Cadillac with fins that looked like they belonged on a giant shark and enough shiny chrome to cause temporary blindness. When it stopped, the smell of burnt oil wafted across the porch where Song was sitting. She had been moping there since her call to Mole. While she waved the vapors out of her eyes, the man Song had last seen working on the sign in front of the church stepped out of the Cadillac. He identified himself, with a slight bow, as the Reverend Theodore Edwards. “They call me Preacher,” he said. “The inevitable nickname.”

Song winced in pain with every word, regretting yesterday's encounter with Omar's ouzo.

Preacher was short, portly, and had a face the same color as his car. He also had sad but hopeful eyes. He looked up at Song, who was standing on the porch with her hand on one of its columns, mainly to stabilize herself. Despite a night's sleep, many ibuprofen tablets, water, and coffee, the effects of the ouzo were still pronounced. It was vicious stuff.

Preacher doffed his hat, which was actually a black miner's helmet. He was wearing khaki work clothes, a thick leather belt, and heavy boots.

“Mrs. Jordan, as you surely know, I lead the Highcoal church. I trust I'm not disturbing you.”

Song fully expected to be preached at, and she wasn't in the mood, not even close. When she didn't reply, he said, “I'm off to work shortly, so I swan I won't take more than a minute of your time.” He held aloft a brown paper bag and then handed it up to her. “My wife sent along this complimentary sample set of cosmetic products.”

Pleased, Song accepted the bag, then nodded toward the pink Cadillac. “Did your wife win that Cadillac by selling Mary Kay?”

Preacher chuckled. “Oh no, ma'am. The missus would never be able to sell enough in a little town like Highcoal. But to show her how much I appreciate her enterprise, I went out and bought this Cadillac for her. It was white, but Squirrel painted it pink.”

“Well,” Song said, “that was sweet of you, and I'm certain your wife appreciated it. Now, Preacher, I must confess I don't feel very well, so, if you don't mind, I think I'll go lie down for an hour. Or the rest of the day.”

Preacher nodded toward the rocking chairs. “I understand, I really do, but do you mind if we sit and talk for a spell? I promise to be brief.”

Song hesitated. Then, recognizing the futility of putting the preacher off, she said, “Okay. Five minutes. No more.”

Preacher nodded, then climbed up the steps and sat down in one of the rockers, taking a red bandana from his back pocket and mopping the sweat from his forehead. Obviously the Cadillac did not have air conditioning. Song sat down on an adjoining rocker and held her head while waiting for whatever came next.

“May I call you Song?” Preacher asked, “or would you prefer
Mrs. Jordan?”

“Song will do,” she sighed.

“I like your name. It sounds, well, musical.”

Song lifted her head. “I used to sing a lot when I was little,” she confessed. “My dad couldn't shut me up.”

“Is that why you're called Song?”

“No. It's my mother's family name.”

Preacher nodded and smiled agreeably. “Anyway, I should like to hear you sing some time. When you're feeling better.”

Song couldn't resist a question. “Tell me, Preacher, do you actually work in the mine or do you just go inside to preach?”

“Not much time for preaching, I fear. Today they need somebody on the rock dust crew, and I can use the money. The missus and I have six children, three boys and three girls. It would be difficult to make it on a preacher's pay. As for the mine, the men think I'm lucky to have around. They figure the Lord will keep me safe, and them too. I hope they're right.”

“I hope they're right too,” Song said. “Now, Preacher, you promised to be brief.”

“Indeed I did, and I shall. People here use me as a resource in many ways, not just for spiritual matters. Do you understand what I'm getting at?”

Song raised her eyebrows, which also hurt. “You're Highcoal's version of Doctor Phil?”

“Precisely! If there's anything I can perhaps help you with . . .”

Song slowly shook her head, lest her brain shatter. “Nothing immediately comes to mind.”

“I heard you were a bit unsettled yesterday.”

“Unsettled? Yes, I suppose I was. Let's see. I was in a wreck, sat in cow poo, and Omar got me drunk. Then I embarrassed myself in front of Cable's foremen, the mine owners, and the governor of this great state who, shall we say, has known my husband in the biblical sense. Yes, I guess you could say I was unsettled, Preacher. And your point would be?”

Preacher had the pained expression of a man who knew his plans were not going well. “I've counseled Omar on the strong drink he keeps under his counter. It's wicked stuff. Not that it isn't good, mind, but it's not for everybody and certainly not in the middle of the day.”

“I applaud you for your wisdom,” Song said, settling into the rocker with her eyes closed. A fly landed on her nose and she could not summon the energy to wave it away. Surreptitiously, Preacher did it for her.

“About the meeting you interrupted,” Preacher went on, then waited until Song opened one rather bloodshot eye. “There's something I think you should know. After the governor left, the owners in attendance thoroughly chastised Cable and his foremen. It had nothing to do with you, dear lady. The mine, you see, has not been producing enough of a certain kind of coal.”

Song allowed Preacher's words to filter through her foggy brain. When it finally did, she opened both of her eyes, and said, “Wonderful news. Let me tell you a secret, Preacher. I'm going to do everything in my power to convince Cable to move to New York City. If he manages to get himself fired, I would be a happy woman.”

“But, my dear, Cable
must
stay here! The people of Highcoal depend on him. If Cable was to be sent packing, Atlas would bring in another manager who would push production and forget safety entirely. Men might die, families would be broken, the town would suffer in so many ways beyond counting. I prayed about this and the answer was for me to come and speak to you.”

“Let me see if I've got this straight. God sent you to me so that I would keep Cable in Highcoal?” She would have laughed, but it would have hurt her head too much. “I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Preacher, but apparently the Big Guy Upstairs hasn't been paying attention to the situation. Cable and I aren't agreeing on much of anything right now.”

“He loves you, you know,” Preacher said.

“Then he has a funny way of showing it.”

“God?”

“Cable. Stay focused, Preacher.”

“So you won't help him?” Preacher asked.

“God?”

“Cable.”

“Well, sure. I'll help him move.”

“Oh, that is so sad!”