Red Helmet (15 page)

Song allowed a patient sigh. “Preacher, be reasonable. I don't like this place and the people here don't like me. I just don't fit in. You've heard the gossip, haven't you?”

“I never believe gossip.”

“But you've heard it, right? I'm a pure snotty little witch, correct? That was yesterday. Today I'm probably being called a pure drunken, snotty little witch who rolls around in cow poo. How do you expect me to recover from that?”

Preacher shook his head and stood up. “I have failed in my mission.”

Song also stood, though slowly so as to not move her head too quickly. “I'm sorry.”

“May I suggest something, Song? I have discovered it works nearly every time when a marriage is in trouble.”

“Prayer?” she supposed.

“Makeup sex.”

This time Song couldn't help it. She laughed, even though it hurt her head to do it. “I like you, Preacher, even if you do hear heavenly voices telling you to do strange things.”

“Those heavenly voices are the result of prayer. You should try it. When's the last time you prayed?”

“I can't remember. Do you think God would get rid of this hangover if I asked Him?”

“Probably not. Hangovers are like rainbows. They exist to remind you of something important.”

“Oh, believe me, Preacher. It's working.”

“But you can pray for other things. Your marriage, for instance, and perhaps the grace to give the people of Highcoal another chance. We're not so bad, once you get to know us. We all have our little idiosyncrasies, but, for the most part, we're not completely crazy.”

“Good-bye, Preacher.”

“Good-bye, Song. Remember, when life deals you a bad hand, don't throw it in. Play it like it's four aces.”

“Sounds like a sure way to lose, Preacher.”

Preacher shrugged. “That depends on how bad you want to win.”

“Thanks for the cosmetics.”

“Don't forget my advice about the makeup you-know-what. And the prayer. God would like to hear from you. He has a plan for you, you know. He has a plan for all of us.”

“If so, I think I'd like for Him to change it. So far, it's not working.”

“Give it a chance. Put Him in the lead.”

“I'll give that some thought. Thank you for coming, Preacher,” Song said, and meant it.

I
T WAS LATER
that afternoon that Song rose from her bed at the honk of a horn and looked out the window. It was Squirrel Harper driving his tow truck with Cable's roadster behind, Young Henry in its driver's seat. When Song came outside, Squirrel doffed his battered old hat.

“All cleaned up, ma'am. I even got that scratch off the bumper.”

While Squirrel beamed at her and Young Henry watched, Song inspected Cable's car and was amazed at its restored, pristine condition.

“I had Chevrolet and
Ford scrub on her good,” Squirrel said. “Does it please you?”

“Absolutely,” Song said. “Just tell me how much. Whatever it is, it's worth it.”

“Why, there's no charge, ma'am. My boys and me, we were happy to do it for you.”

Squirrel and Young Henry disconnected the tow bar on the roadster, and Squirrel climbed in his truck. He gave her a thoughtful look. “If there's anything else I can do for you, ma'am, you got it. All you need to do is ask and me and my boys, we'll be along to help you.”

Song was a bit astonished. “Squirrel, why are you being so nice to me?”

“Why, because you're a nice lady. You're about as nice a lady as I reckon I ever knowed, outside of my boys' mother. Cable is surely lucky to have you. You take care, now, you hear?”

“You too, Squirrel.”

“I reckon I will,” he said. “Just like I know Cable will take care of me. I'm going back to work in the mine.”

“Aren't you a little too . . .” Song stopped herself before she completed the question, which she realized was impertinent.

But Squirrel finished it for her. “Too old?” He grinned. “Well, Cable needs help, so I reckon I'll load some coal for him, at least until he gets some youngsters trained. My boys are thinking about taking a red cap class so's they can learn to mine some coal too. Coal mining's honest work, Mrs. Jordan. Truth is, I've missed it. It gets in your blood, I reckon.” He gave her a little salute. “I'm glad you came to Highcoal, ma'am. You're good for us, you might say. You've shook things up and that, like Martha Stewart says, is a good thing.”

“You know who Martha Stewart is?”

“Sure. She spent a little time in one of our jails, you see. I think she halfway liked it. We sure liked her being here. It was an honor, just like having you here.”

And with that, Squirrel drove off, his tow truck rattling until it was out of sight. A tear trickled down Song's cheek and she wiped it with the back of her hand. Young Henry eyed her curiously.

“Are you sick, ma'am?”

“Oh, I don't know, Young Henry. Maybe I'm just feeling sorry for myself, and maybe angry at myself too. Lots of people have been nice to me here and I've been trashing them left and right. I don't know what's gotten into me. I'm not a bad person. I guess I'm just sad—nothing's what I expected.”

“Yes, ma'am. But things will get better, I swan. I mean, if you try to make them better.”

Song gave that some thought. “You're a wise man, Young Henry.”

“I played one in the Christmas play, ma'am. A wise man, that is. I brought the gold to the baby Jesus.”

“Typecasting,” Song said, then headed inside to use the makeup Preacher had brought her and to get ready to make things better between a West Virginia man and a New York woman.

Thirteen

C
able returned just before eight p.m. Song had called Mole on the mine phone and asked him to let her know when her husband left the mine. Mole suggested twenty dollars ought to do it, and Song agreed to his extortion.

The dining room table was set with fine china, wildflowers in a vase, candles, and food from Rhonda's basket. This time it was fried chicken, hush puppies, baked beans, and coleslaw. Not exactly romantic dinner fare and laden with carbs, but Song put aside her misgivings and treated it like it was a meal from the finest restaurant in New York. She'd also opened the bottle of fumé blanc.

“What's this—” Cable began, dropping his hat on the banister post.

Song put her finger on his lips, then kissed him. “My way of apologizing for what happened yesterday,” she said.

He wrapped his arms around her and sank his nose into her hair. “Mmm . . . you smell good.”

She laughed. “You didn't like my perfume yesterday, eau de cow poo?”

“You are the only woman I know who could make even cow poo smell good.” He touched her hair. “So soft,” he marveled.

“Old Roy installed a water softener and a hot water heater today. I'm in business in the bathroom. And Preacher's wife sent me some Mary Kay.”

Cable took her in his arms and kissed her again, delicately at first, then with passion. She responded, running her hands across his back, pulling him into her before stepping back. “I'm as hungry for you as you are for me, Cable,” she said. “But first, let's eat, drink, and talk.”

“Talk,” he said. “All right.”

“It won't be bad, I swan,” she promised as they sat down.

Cable was pensive during the meal, no matter the topics Song brought up, such as a discussion of the crystal stemware Rhonda had purchased for the house, which were exquisite and obviously handmade.

“They have glassblowers at Tamarack,” Cable said. “That's where she got them, probably.” He fell into silence, then looked at her. “Are you really going back to New York Wednesday?”

“I have to, Cable.”

“I'm sorry about nearly everything.”

“I know. So am I. It's all right.”

“This is a good place to live,” he said fervently. “Won't you give it a chance?”

“I have given it a chance, Cable. Mostly alone.”

Cable looked away and shook his head. “I won't make excuses. I had a choice all week. Be with you or do my job. I chose to do my job. It's part of who I am.”

Song reached across the table and took his hand. “I heard about the orders you can't meet. Tell Atlas Energy to go to blazes, Cable. We can live in New York. You can go to work for Hawkins-Song. We can have a wonderful life.”

“I can't leave my miners. They depend on me.”

“You'll leave them if they fire you.”

He pulled his hands away. “They're not going to fire me because I'm going to deliver that coal.”

“And in the process, you're going to wear yourself out.”

“No, I won't.” He closed his eyes and took a breath. “I will confess I'm tired. It's been a tough month.”

Song stood and walked around the table. She made him turn his chair around, then crawled into his lap and wrapped her arms around him. “I love you with all my heart and soul,” she said simply. “That's the truth.”

He kissed her hard, then swept her into his arms and carried her upstairs. He gently placed her on the bed and began to undress her. She stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“I thought you were tired,” she said.

“Not for this,” he said, and proved it.

Afterward, she curled into his arms and wept tears of confusion. He turned her face to his and gently kissed her. “I love you so much.”

“What are we to do, Cable? Tell me. What?”

“All I know is I can't live without you.”

She held him as tightly as she could. They kissed, then made love again. Later while Cable slept, Song looked up into the darkness and wondered what had just happened.

Fourteen

H
er
luggage finally arrived, and for the church service, Song chose a gold silk shantung ensemble she'd brought in case she might be attending a party. How idiotic that was, she now realized. There were no swanky parties in Highcoal, only work and church. Still, she knew she would look dazzling in it.

But when Cable saw her, he frowned. “A bit fancy for Highcoal. Preacher's eyes will pop out of his head during the sermon, I can tell you that.”

“Are you saying I should change?”

“Not at all. Come on or we'll be late.”

In the church, the pews were packed, and men swiveled their heads as she walked arm in arm with Cable down the aisle to the front. The women looked too, and then they looked around the church to catch each other's eyes. Rhonda was in a back pew with Young Henry.

“Gol-lee,” Young Henry said, loud enough to be heard three pews away. “She is
hot
!”

“You're in enough trouble as it is, Young Henry,” Rhonda growled. “Don't push it.”

“Why? What did I do?”

“Let's see. You wrecked Cable's car, you got Mrs. Jordan drunk, and you stole my truck.”

“It was Omar who got Mrs. Jordan drunk,” Young Henry pointed out.

Rhonda pinched his arm. “Don't argue with me, boy.”

Omar and his wife were sitting nearby. “I was only trying to steady her nerves,” he defended himself while his eyes were riveted on Song. “I must say. That is a most wonderful dress Mrs. Jordan is wearing this morning.”

“Take care, husband,” his wife said, “that it is only the dress you are admiring.”

“All you husbands best put your eyeballs back in your heads,” a woman growled low, but audible enough that most of the church assembly could hear her. A hundred or more female heads vigorously nodded in agreement.

The choir, dressed in maroon robes, regally marched down the aisle, and then Bossman entered the pulpit and offered a prayer. A spirited hymn by the choir followed. Everyone swayed to the music, while the piano player in front, a woman in a big red hat, banged away. Song stood close to Cable, feeling out of place, holding the hymnal but not joining in with the boisterous joy that seemed to fill the church. There was another hymn, another prayer from Bossman, and then Preacher entered in grand fashion. He was dressed in a maroon and gold robe, and armed with a big black Bible and his sermon.

Preacher's message proved to be on the responsibilities of marriage, and Song had little doubt it was aimed like an arrow directly at her.

“My text today comes from First John, chapter three, verse eighteen,” he intoned. “‘Let us not love in word, neither in tongue; but in deed and in truth.' Husbands, wives, how often have you said to your spouse, ‘I love you,' without any thought other than to fill a lapse in your conversation, or as a temporary farewell, or sometimes—don't say it's never happened!—to avoid having to talk about something you'd just as soon not talk about?”

Preacher smiled down at his wife and six children, the oldest ten years old. The children were squirmy but attentive. His wife, a plump young woman who wore carefully applied makeup, was a beam of sunshine. Song envied her role within a happy family.

Preacher went on. “Oh, Lordy. If there's one of you married folks here today who has never strayed, either in thought or deed, in your marriage, who has never said words of love to your partner simply out of habit, you have my permission to stand up and walk out right this second, and God be with you.”

There was a murmur from the congregation, but no one walked out. Preacher tapped his Bible. “There's a lot of trouble in the Good Book—God doesn't shy from it—so marriage is naturally included. Proverbs says a virtuous woman is a crown to her husband, but she that shames him is as rottenness in his bones. Now, ladies, you know what that means. When you go out while your man is in the mine, and you're dressed like you belong in the Bunny House in Beckley, even though you're only going to Omar's or even the Wal-Mart, why he'll hear about it and it's going to make him ashamed in front of his buddies. There's no reason to do that. Take a look at Mrs. Jordan here. That's what you should aim for. Elegance, not looking like trash.”