Red Helmet (3 page)

She wouldn't have much cared if he had told her he'd been raised on Mars by Martians. From that moment on, she wanted to be with him. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that she'd recently been rejected by another man, and not for the first time, and now here was Cable with his charming but raw masculine energy. What was a woman supposed to do with a man like that? Run away? She was astonished that he even liked her, and in complete disbelief when he told her, after they'd known each other for a few months, “I've totaled things up, and I'm pretty sure I love you.” She had laughed at the way he'd put it, but then she had sobered up. Fast. She could scarcely believe her response. “I'm pretty sure I love you too!”

Her friends made light of him after she'd brought him around. They called him “Garth Brooks,” refusing to remember his real name and constantly imitating his mountain twang. Song acknowledged that Cable's cheerful demeanor, his big dimpled grin, and his easygoing attitude were mindful of the country singer, although with much better hair, of course.

She also agreed he wasn't much like the other men she'd fallen for. He seemed at times to be of another age. He opened doors for women. He even stood when a woman entered the room. He was unfailingly polite during conversation to everyone and could not be drawn into debate about much of anything, certainly not anything that had to do with the usual arguments of the city, of the decisions
of the mayor, or the rudeness of taxi drivers, or the meaning of the latest play by a radically left (and therefore praised) playwright.

He did not, in fact, seem much curious about the world. Highcoal, the town where he'd been raised and the site of the coal mine he now managed, seemed to absorb his mind. When he spoke of either, Song noticed her friends would automatically roll their eyes, but he took no notice at all. These things worried her, not that her friends thought less of him, but that they might be right in their assessment. He was too different, yet seemed impervious to change.

But when Cable held her, Song wanted to melt into him, to be as one with his enormous strength. She wanted him, needed him, and adored him. That was all she knew. It was all she
cared
to know. Any flaws he might have could be changed. Over time, she would see to that. She would make the man into the man he could be. Wasn't that, after all, a woman's prerogative?

The morning after their wedding and their romance-interrupted business meeting, Song rose while Cable was still asleep. Just as she'd anticipated, the major problem left over from the night before still existed. She still lived in New York, and he still lived in West Virginia. She slipped out on the veranda of their beach cottage to use her cell phone to call her father, who was naturally astonished at the news of her marriage. When Cable came outside, anxious for coffee, she handed the phone to him.

“How you doing, Sir?” he said. “Pretty morning here. Sky's blue as a robin's egg, I swan. And you should just see this ocean—it's as clear as air.”

“I don't care about the ocean,” Joe Hawkins grumbled. “And I don't care about the sky. Or even the air. What I care about is my daughter. Cable, you idiot. You know I like you, but you've messed up now, son. What were you thinking? Did you get into the rum? Now, listen to me. Song isn't going to move to West Virginia. The only thing for you to do is move to New York.”

“But I can't do that, sir,” Cable protested. “I have a job to do in Highcoal and I've got to keep doing it. I'm not being selfish, not at all. The people there depend on me. Surely you understand.”

“I should come down there and thrash you is what I understand.”

“If I was in your place, I'd feel the same way,” Cable acknowledged. “But I do love Song, I really do. That's why I married her, after all.”

To Cable's surprise, Hawkins chuckled, and his voice dropped to a conspiratorial level. “I just wanted to yell at you a bit, son. You understand. Truth is, I'm glad you married her. I was afraid Song would end up with one of those girly men she's mostly dated. You at least strike me as a man's man.”

“I'm happy that's your opinion, sir,” Cable said. “So you agree she should live in West Virginia?”

“No, I don't!” Hawkins snapped. “I need her exactly where she is. She's made me a lot of money, and I want her to make me a bunch more. She's a sequential thinker, boy, which is rare in a woman. She does A, then she does B, and she keeps going until she's run through the alphabet and anybody standing in her way. Never met a man who could stand up to her. She's a bit cool and sharp-tongued with most people. Won't give them a chance. Maybe you can warm her up a little.”

“She's warm enough already for me,” Cable said, in defense of his wife who, he noticed, was wandering off alone on the beach, kicking at the sand, her head down. She didn't look very happy, not like a woman on her honeymoon should look. He wondered if he should be worried.

It was as if Hawkins was there beside him with his arm around Cable's shoulders, confiding in him. “Well, I'm glad you think she's warm, Cable. I don't know. Maybe it's because she lost her mother so young. She's kept to herself most of her life. She doesn't have many friends, just a few gal pals who live for business just like her. Most of them think men are weak and spineless. I was afraid Song would join them, be an old maid, get harder and tougher than she already is.”

Hawkins barely paused for breath. “I can tell you this much,” he went on. “You married an interesting woman. She's like her mother in that regard. That is not necessarily a good thing. In my experience, interesting women are a great deal of trouble. My daughter also generally gets what she wants. I would hate to be in your shoes right now. Surrender and get it over with, that's my advice.” Then, after welcoming Cable into the family, he hung up.

“What did he say?” Song asked when she came back from her unhappy walk.

“He said he was going to thrash me.”

She smiled. “How I love that man,” she said. “You too, of course.” She took her cell phone back. “Are you ready to talk?”

“About what?”

“Where we're going to live.”

He picked up his mask, snorkel, and fins. “I'm ready to go snorkeling.”

She scowled. “You're going to put this off, aren't you?”

Cable was honest. “Yes, ma'am, I sure am. We're on our honeymoon. Let's make it a good one. The last day will come soon enough. We'll decide then.”

But when the last day of the vacation that became a honeymoon arrived, nothing had been decided. On the ferry from St. John to St. Thomas, Song and Cable stood on the outside deck watching their magical island shrink until it disappeared in the mist of an encroaching storm. Song wondered if the magic that had brought Cable to her was also disappearing in that mist.

“Cable . . . ,” she began. “We have to talk.”

“Not yet, honey,” he said, gathering her in his arms. “Let's just savor our last moments here.”

As the rain pattered down, they took a taxi to the airport. Her plane was the first one to leave, and when they called her to the gate, he held her until, after an awkward kiss, they parted with him promising to call her, to get everything settled. “It's all going to be okay,” he said.

“But how?” she asked.

“You're my destiny,” he answered. “It has to be okay.”

She waved away the umbrella the attendant tried to hand her and walked through the rain across the apron to the airplane, allowing the raindrops to mix with her tears and hide them. She climbed the steps and looked back. He was there, holding his hat, watching her. He started to smile, but she turned away and walked inside the airplane. All the way home, she brooded and plotted and schemed, ultimately solving nothing but managing to make herself thoroughly miserable.

T
HREE WEEKS PASSED
.
Song and Cable talked every day on the phone. At first, their talks were long, detailed, but they began to get shorter. She was busy at work, and so was he. He became increasingly difficult to call. He had no cell phone, which struck Song as odd, and his home phone rang and rang. It was only at his work phone, usually answered by a man named (incredibly) Mole, that she had any chance of catching him. Though she kept bringing up their forced separation, he kept saying it was all going to work out because it had to. After a while, she realized he was trying to wear her down.

And to an extent, it worked. On a lonely day, after a string of lonely days, Song called Cable. “I miss you,” she said, which she'd said before, too many times.

“Well, honey, I miss you too,” he replied. “Tell you what. In a couple of weeks, if I'm running some good coal, I'll come up to New York for a day or two.”

“No, Cable,” Song retorted. “I want to see this little town you love more than me. I can visit for a week. How about if I fly in next Wednesday?”

“That new section is giving me fits,” he said. “Time is somewhat limited.”

It didn't matter what he said because she wasn't listening. She'd already made up her mind.

“I'll
be there on Wednesday.”

After a short pause, Cable said, “Well, come on then.” It was scarcely a declaration of his aching need for her, but she let it pass.

Arrangements were made. Song would fly to Charleston, West Virginia's capital, and Cable would pick her up and drive her to Highcoal. She would stay for a week, get to know the town, and then they'd see what happened next. Everything was incremental—judgments would be made, understandings would be forged, love would be allowed to carry them like an inexorable river to where they needed to go. First there was A, then there would be B, and so on, until she and Cable lived wherever they were going to live, as long as it was together. What Song didn't expect, could not even imagine, was that she was embarking on a journey that would not be sequential, but as chaotic as the jumbled hills of West Virginia.

Three

T
here he is!
She was so excited. It was like something out of a movie. Waiting for her at the airport gate was Cable, wearing his snap-brim hat, a blue denim work shirt, and khaki trousers tucked inside high brown leather boots, and a big
hey lady, I sure am glad to see you
grin. She ran to him and threw herself into his arms while her fellow Mountain Air passengers walked past with small smiles.

After a sweet kiss, she told him about the landing. “It was scary, Cable. The man beside me pointed at this little runway on top of a mountain and said that's where we were going to land. I thought he was joking!”

“Flat land is kind of rare in this state,” Cable allowed. “Everything is either built on top of mountains or between them.”

“Bulldozers and dynamite,” she said. “Anybody ever heard of them?”

“Well, we don't much like knocking our mountains down,” he said, conveniently ignoring the coal companies who did just that.

She had considered winging into West Virginia on one of her father's corporate jets but had decided that might be too pretentious. Now she knew she'd made a mistake. She'd packed two bags for her journey, and it soon became evident one was lost. Tired, hot, and still a little scared after the landing, the worst of her New Yorkiness came out as, “I can't believe you lost my bag!” Her face darkened as she slammed her hand down on the desk. “What kind of airline is this? The service is terrible. I expect you to make it up to me. A full refund, at least.”

“Now, honey . . . ,” Cable interceded. “It isn't this nice lady's fault. She's just trying to help.”

“When we find your bag, we'll deliver it to you,” the agent assured her.

Song was relentless. She did her own job with one hundred percent efficiency. She expected everyone else to do the same. “You act like I lost my own bag. But you lost it! I need what's in it. All my cosmetics,
and
some very expensive clothing.” She shook her head. “This is ridiculous.”

Cable tipped his hat to the agent and steered Song away. “I had more to say to her,” Song protested.

“I think you got your point across.”

“I doubt it. I have a feeling I'll never see that bag again.” Cable loaded her remaining bag into his bright red Porsche roadster. She was a little surprised. She'd expected him to be driving something like a 1973 Chevrolet pickup.

“Don't worry about your bag,” he said. “You can get what you need in Highcoal.”

“Can I get Tracie Martyn products?” she demanded.

“I don't know what that is, but Omar has a little of everything.”

“Omar?”

“He owns the store in town.”

“
The
store?”

“You only need one store if it's got everything you need.”

“That is so you, Cable,” Song accused. “Do you not understand the difference between
need
and
want
? Or the thrill of shopping?”

He pushed his hat back. “Well, there's a Wal-Mart over toward Beckley,” he offered.

“All my problems are solved.”

Her sarcasm was lost on Cable. “That's great,” he said, then made certain she was buckled up and drove the little car out of the airport. She reached into her large handbag and retrieved a scarf to cover her hair.

“What are you doing?” he asked. “I was looking forward to seeing your hair flying in the breeze.”

She leaned over and let the wind blow her hair in his face. “Now do you see why?”

“Oh, baby,” he said. “Keep doing that.”

“Don't be obtuse, Cable,” she said crossly, and bundled the scarf around her hair. She had a headache. Traveling by commercial air nearly always made her sick, one way or the other. Unbelievable. The little airplane she'd flown in on didn't even have a first class section. Everything was coach, with the seats crammed so close together there was hardly any room to breathe.