Sky of Stone (27 page)

36

THE SECOND TESTIMONY

F
LORETTA RUSHED
me off to take my shower, ordering me to return to help her finish preparing the parlor. When I got back, I found Tag in the kitchen with her. “Just got back from John Eye’s,” he said. “Hate to tell it, but he says most of the bets are for the Caretta boys.”

“He doesn’t know what I know,” I said, smugness personified.

“Sonny ain’t going to lose my Alexander Hamilton,” Floretta said.

“I hope you’re right,” Tag said. “I’ve got five bucks down myself.”

“The last of the big-time spenders,” Floretta laughed. Then she said, “Get on with you, Sonny. Finish putting up the chairs. The C.O.W. ladies will be here soon, mooing for their iced tea and cookies. I got to get Miss Rita’s supper to her, too.”

“Rita’s back?” I asked nonchalantly.

“Yes, she’s back.” She gave me a look. “Leave her be, Sonny.”

I ignored her. “How about Doc Hale? Is he back?”

“I don’t expect him till the weekend.”

“Doc Lassiter?”

“I ain’t seen him. Why, you sick?”

“Sonny thinks he’s a detective, Floretta,” Tag said.

“You mean like in a Mickey Spillane book?”

“I’m trying to find out who broke Nate Dooley’s wrist,” I said.

“I’m sure he broke it all by himself,” Floretta said entirely too quickly.

Floretta knew more than she was saying. I could see it in her face. But who didn’t know more in Coalwood than me? “Mickey Spillane would go nuts in this town,” I said.

She contemplated me. “I do believe you growed some more over miners’ vacation.”

“I had to buy new work clothes again yesterday,” I said, trying not to sound too proud about it.

“Your mama is not going to know you, uh-uh, not at all.”

“She’ll know me,” I said confidently. “I’ll be the one she’s yelling at.”

T
HE ARRANGEMENT
in the Club House parlor was the same as it had been for the first testimony. Mr. Fuller glowered at his table up front. Jake sat off to the side in a straight-back chair. Mr. Amsteader, the federal inspector with the wooden leg, and Mr. Mutman, the state inspector with the fat belly, sat up front, surrounded by the C.O.W. ladies. Mrs. Mallett chattered in Mr. Amsteader’s ear like she was sure he wanted to hear everything she had to say. She even put her hand on his leg once, although I don’t think he noticed it since it was his wooden one.

By dusk, people were gathering, and it didn’t take long before all the seats were filled and the extra people gathered on the porch. Somebody opened the parlor windows so they could hear.

I found myself a position at the arched portal between the foyer and the parlor where I could keep good watch on the proceedings. Beside me, Tag leaned in his most nonchalant manner against the wall. Then Mr. Bundini and Dad came inside. In his yellow sport coat, Mr. Bundini looked for all the world like he was going to a party. Dad was wearing his khaki work uniform. He carried his old canvas snap-brim hat. Mr. Bundini gave me a big grin. “There’s that track layer,” he said heartily, and moved on to press some hands.

Dad edged past me. “Good luck,” I said.

He gave me the eye. “You and Jim dug a fine grave for Dandy. I went up and looked at it. He was a good old dog.”

“Yes, sir. I hope you had a good time at the beach.”

“I did. Your mother says hello.”

Dad moved to an empty chair that had been reserved for him on the front row. He and Mr. Fuller traded nods, then he sat down. Mr. Bundini sat beside him but continued to converse with folks over his shoulder. Somebody must have told him a joke, because he burst out laughing. He even slapped his knee, which made me a little angry. My father was about to get crucified. I couldn’t imagine how anybody could laugh at a time like that. For his part, Dad didn’t seem much concerned, either. He took his daily log from his shirt pocket and started reading it.

Then I watched Mr. Fuller watching Dad. His expression was one of benign patience, like a cat that had already caught his mouse but hadn’t killed it yet. He tapped on the table with the soup ladle Floretta had once more provided him. “Shall we begin?” he asked silkily. When nobody paid attention to him, he banged the ladle a little harder. “Shall we begin?”

The conversational noise slowly subsided. Mr. Bundini was the last one to stop jabbering. “Thank you, Martin,” Mr. Fuller said with a smile that would make milk curdle.

“I’d like to slap that man silly,” Floretta muttered. She was standing behind me.

Mr. Fuller’s head jerked in her direction. “I’ll have quiet here,” he demanded.

Floretta grumbled under her breath, then fell silent. Mr. Fuller frowned at us as if we were criminals, then went back to his business. There were two books on his table, one a loose-leaf notebook with a green binder and the other the Bible. He touched the notebook. “I have a transcription of the last testimony,” he said. “If anyone needs a review before we begin, I shall be happy to read any part requested.”

Nobody said anything except Mr. Bundini. “Get on with it, Amos,” he said.

“Thank you, Martin. I call Homer Hickam to the chair.”

Dad stood, put his hat on his chair, and walked to the table. He put his hand on the Bible. Jake stood up. “Homer, do you swear to tell the truth, so help you God?”

Dad glanced at Jake. Jake blinked but held Dad’s eyes.

“I do,” my father said, and sat down.

Mr. Fuller leaned back, regarded Dad as if he had never seen him before, then stood up and walked around the table. He looked out over the audience. In my estimation, he was clearly puffed up. He asked a few quick questions of Dad, establishing who he was. Dad survived them. If there was one thing Dad knew, it was who he was.

“Now, Homer,” Mr. Fuller said, “let me take you back to the night of May the third, 1961.” He spoke carefully, with a pause between each word. It was clear he was winding himself up for something important.

“Amos,” Dad interrupted, “you don’t have to take me back anywhere. Just ask me what you’re going to ask me.”

“I think we should establish the scene,” Mr. Fuller said.

Dad’s good eye radiated confidence. “Let me do it for you. It was early in the morning, it was dark, it had just stopped storming, the fans had come on after being down all night, and Tuck Dillon and I were at the man-lift, getting ready to inspect his section for a buildup of methane.”

Mr. Fuller rocked in his black leather shoes, which squeaked sharply in the hushed room. “Why just Tuck’s section?” Mr. Fuller asked. “What about the rest of the mine?”

Dad leaned forward, clearly eager to answer the question. “Because I was afraid his section wouldn’t be properly ventilated in time for the day shift.”

“And why was that?”

Dad clasped his hands, interlacing his fingers. “When the storm hit and we lost power, I sent men to every fan to find out their status. When power was restored, I found out that only one fan, the one that provided most of the ventilation to Tuck’s section, was still not operating. That was the number three fan up Snakeroot Hollow. I got an electrician—Fred Hardin—and we started troubleshooting. It turned out a company power line had been knocked down. It took us a while to find it and fix it.”

“When did you call Tuck?”

“After power to the fan was restored. About three-thirty in the morning.”

“What did you tell him?”

For the first time, Dad hesitated. He seemed to go over something in his mind, then said, “I told him to go inside and check his section for methane.”

“But first you wanted him to meet you at the number one tipple, isn’t that right?”

“Yes. That’s right.”

“Why didn’t you just wait until the day shift and inspect Tuck’s section then?”

“I needed to clear Tuck’s section before I could get production going.”

“So after this huge storm and all the fans were down for hours, you figured to start production on the shift immediately after it was over?”

“Yes. That’s my job.”

Mr. Fuller rocked in his shoes again and they squeaked again. He looked down at them, rocked some more, and they squeaked some more. “When was Tuck supposed to meet you at the mine?”

“As soon as he could. I met him around four o’clock or so. We dressed out and prepared to go inside to do the inspection.”

“But
you
didn’t go,” Mr. Fuller said.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Tuck Dillon was a competent foreman,” Dad replied in a reasonable tone of voice. “He knew perfectly well how to inspect for methane. I trusted him to do it by himself.”

“Then why did you get your lamp and your tag if you weren’t going in with him?”

Dad sat back and cleared his throat. “I meant to go, but after I was sure Tuck had all the facts, I decided it wasn’t necessary.”

“And what facts might those be?”

“The probability of high concentrations of gas in his section.”

“Is that dangerous?”

“You know it is, Amos.”

“I do, indeed. Did you warn Tuck about the gas? Tell him to be cautious?”

“I—yes, we discussed all that.”

“And what was he supposed to do if he found gas?”

“He was to let me know. If there were major buildups, I’d have to arrange for ventilating curtains or maybe even some stoppers before the regular shift went inside.”

Mr. Fuller rocked and squeaked. I longed to take an oil can to his shoes. “So even though you were all prepared, had your work clothes on, your hard-toe boots, your belt, your lamp, your tag hung on the board—after all that, you decided not to go inside. Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Were you sleepy?”

There were a few titters from the C.O.W. ladies. They covered their mouths. Floretta grumbled something behind me.

“Sure, I was tired,” Dad admitted, casting his gaze at the audience. “It had been a long night.”

“So you were tired.”

“I said I was. Yes.”

Mr. Fuller frowned, as if in deep thought. “Let me make certain I understand you. Is it your testimony that because you were tired, you decided to let Tuck Dillon go inside alone to fireboss his section?”

Dad’s cheeks reddened. I could tell Fuller’s question had touched a nerve. “Tuck didn’t need me,” he said.

“Homer,” Mr. Fuller said, “is Tuck Dillon dead?”

“You know he is.”

“How did he die?”

“There was an explosion.”

“Why was there an explosion?”

“A spark from his motor.”

“From his electric locomotive?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Fuller put his hands behind his back, then paced over by the window that looked out on the town green in front of the post office. He stared through it. “Tuck Dillon drove his electric locomotive into a section that you told him was probably filled with pockets of explosive methane?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Fuller turned about. “And you still testify that he was
competent
?”

Dad’s lips hardened into a straight line. “Tuck Dillon was one of the best foremen who ever worked in the Pocahontas coalfields.”

“Yes,” Mr. Fuller said, “and I’m sure he was also a fine father and a regular churchgoer. But that doesn’t change what he did. He killed himself by doing something stupid.”

“Tuck Dillon was not stupid,” Dad said. His right hand clutched the armrest of the chair.

Mr. Fuller nodded, then walked back to the table. He put his hand on it, as if he needed it to keep him upright because he was in such deep thought. Then he straightened and walked until he was standing behind Dad. His hands went up as if he was going to put them on Dad’s shoulders, but then he seemed to have second thoughts. He dropped them along his sides. “I believe you, Homer,” he said in a soft voice. “In fact, I have inspected Tuck’s employment record. It is very impressive. Highest marks on his foreman’s exam, a member of the West Virginia Mine Rescue Association. He even contributed several articles on safety to its quarterly. Tuck Dillon was not stupid. He was well educated in mine safety. In fact, you trained him yourself, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Dad said. His hand on the armrest twitched.

“What else did you teach him?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Have you not given lectures to all your foremen from time to time about a variety of subjects?”

“I suppose.”

Mr. Fuller opened up the notebook and withdrew two sheets of yellow legal paper. “I found these remarks in the company file. You gave them last year to the new Olga Coal Company foremen. Do you recall what you said?”

Dad shifted in the chair but remained silent.

“Tell you what,” Mr. Fuller said. “Let’s not tax your memory. Why don’t you just read what you said?”

Dad frowned and looked at Mr. Bundini. Mr. Bundini nodded, and Dad took the yellow sheets from Mr. Fuller. He withdrew a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket, squinted at the paper, then closed one eye. He squirmed until finally he seemed to be in the posture he needed to read. “The qualities of a foreman,” he read aloud.

“That’s the name of your talk, correct?”

“Yes.”

“The
qualities
of a foreman. Read on, please.”

Dad eyed Mr. Fuller, then cleared his throat and read:

If you are going to be an Olga Coal Company foreman, you must make a decision. Are you for the company or are you for the union?

At this, Dad looked up. I followed his eyes as they landed on Mr. Dubonnet. Mr. Dubonnet’s face was grim. Dad went back to reading:

I am not saying to be anti-union, but certainly you must be pro-company. John L. Lewis said to his union officers that if you eat my bread, you sing my tune. The same is true for the management side. You may not agree with management but as long as you are a foreman, you must side with the company.

Dad put the papers down on his lap and said, “The rest is just a list of attributes I think a foreman should have.” Then he coughed the deep, phlegmy hack of a miner, a rasp, as familiar as it was, that made me cringe. He reached in his back pocket and drew out a blue bandanna and pushed his mouth into it.

“Keep reading, please,” Mr. Fuller said softly.