Those Who Favor Fire (41 page)

“What we did then,” he said, “was send up a plane, take some infrared pictures, and make a thermal map. Like we’ve done before over the tunnels. And what we found was just exactly what we expected to
find: that the fire has branched out in a southeasterly direction—in
this
direction”—he stamped his foot—“even though there aren’t any tunnels leading into town and even though we thought there wasn’t enough coal left around the southernmost tunnels to let the thing spread this way. But it must have worked its way out to a helluva coal seam that sent it branching out into Caspar’s Hollow.

“Which means that Belle Haven proper is a sitting duck. Because there are no tunnels underfoot, we can’t tell you where the fire will eventually hit. We’ll take some pictures, by and by, but we’ll be seeing where the fire
is
, not where it’s going. It will no longer be a predictable, traceable fire. It will no longer be the fire that’s way over there on the edge of town, out in the fields, anywhere but
right here
. It will be like a jack-in-the-box, poppin’ up. Boo!” He threw his arms up in the air. “There’s quite a lot of coal down under
this
end of town, you know. Quite a good bit. And all it’s going to take, you see, is one little ribbon of coal bringing the fire across that last bit of distance between Caspar’s Hollow and here.” He breathed deeply.

“And then there’s another angle to this thing,” he continued. “If the fire’s headed this way, what’s to stop it from hitting Fainsville to the south? Just two miles south. Hop, skip, jump … 
kaboom
! That fire decides to pick up speed, and Fainsville’s a goner, too. And don’t forget, folks, that between here and Fainsville there is a vast, virgin coal deposit. It’s been sitting down there, safe and cold, and no one’s ever worried much about it because it’s a good piece from the Belle Haven mines and there’s more clay than coal in between. But it’s an awfully big lot of coal. Enough to keep that fire going forever and ever, Amen.

“It’s too bad that coal wasn’t mined. And the coal straight down underfoot, too. Would’a been, I guess, if the company had gotten to it before they went belly up. Maybe not. Who cares.” He flapped a hand. “The point is, it’s too close for comfort. Now that the fire’s taken this new turn away from the tunnels, it’s like a rogue elephant. And you shoot rogue elephants.” He grinned. “Which is where I come in.”

Mendelson took another deep breath, and when he spoke again, it was more loudly than before. “Before very much more time passes—maybe a month, maybe a year—some of you are going to die. Your cellar walls will collapse. Your yards will cave in. Hydrogen gas, highly combustible stuff, and carbon monoxide, which will poison
you to death, will come pouring up through the dirt like something right out of the Bible. Only you won’t see it,” he added mildly. “In the wintertime, when you close your windows, it’ll be like nailing a lid on a coffin. Tap, tap, tap. Good night, Irene.”

A man in the front row crossed his legs, uncrossed them, folded his arms over his large belly. “How come that’s never happened out over the tunnels?” he asked. His neighbors nodded.

Someone said, “That’s right.”

“Because out there”—Mendelson knocked a knuckle on the left side of the drawing—“the coal doesn’t amount to much.” He spoke as if to children. “Over here”—he ran his hand over the place where they were sitting—“there’s just loads.

“Now,” he said. “Is that clear?” He smiled at their silence.

“The monitors we sent around’ll give you some warning, but I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts half of you never even turn ’em on.” He sighed heavily, turned to look at the man by his side, who had, from time to time, taken a step forward, opened his mouth as if to speak, and then settled back again as Mendelson carried on.

“I suppose what you do with those monitors is up to you. Whether you stay in Belle Haven or leave is also up to you, at the moment. But if the fire reaches the coal straight down below here—and I, for one, am sure it will—you’ll have to go. You
will
. On foot or in boxes, one way or the other.”

“We understand.” From where she was sitting in the front row, Angela could see that some of Mendelson’s fingernails were very long. “We understand that there could be trouble,” she said. “But the fire isn’t here yet. The monitors sound like a good idea. We’ll need to know if the fire ever makes it this far. But maybe it won’t. Or maybe it won’t get here for another dozen years. And yet here you are saying we’re going to die soon.” She lifted her shoulders. Opened her hands. “People get killed in cars every day, but we all drive them. People drown, we still swim. It’s the way of the world. So I’m still waiting to hear why you think
we
should leave when
you
ought to be out there putting the goddamned”—she caught her breath—“putting the fire out.”

“Well, I’m trying to tell you. I really am,” he replied, smiling at her. “It’s not easy, trying to explain some things to people who won’t listen to reason. And you’ll appreciate that I’ve been trying to ease my way into the nuts and bolts, ’cause if you all can’t even agree that
there’s a problem, you’re sure not going to agree with the solution. But maybe I should just get on with it, let you all go home to bed.”

He looked around the auditorium as if he might want to remember the sight.

“As I said, Fainsville may soon be at risk—and there’s no way we can let the fire hit the big coal between here and there. A lot of other small towns may soon be at risk. Belle Haven,” he said, lifting his eyebrows high on his head, blowing out some air. “Belle Haven is beyond salvation. It simply isn’t going to survive this. And if we let the fire get past here, it will gather such strength that we’ll never be able to stop it.”

He let this sink in, heard the crescendo of whispers, and began to speak again. “But, I’ll say it again, that’s where I come in. My men and I. What we plan to do is dig a trench.” There was a sound from somewhere in the room, which he ignored. “A very long, very deep trench—four hundred fifty feet deep, five hundred feet across, a mile long. Now,
that’s
a trench.” He chuckled. “Maybe we’ll dig several trenches. Wherever they’re needed. Cut the fire off and let it burn itself out. That’s it. That’s what we’re going to do.”

“So go ahead!” Earl yelled from the back of the room. “Get on with it. Don’t you think we want to stop the fire before it gets here? Hell, that’s what you’ve been trying to do all along, and we’ve never once objected!”

“Jesus H. Christ!” Mendelson said, running his hands through his hair. “For the last time, listen. Listen!” He pointed at his ears, became red in the face, slapped the flat of his hand against the flip chart. “Belle Haven is
done
. Finished. Kaput. How many times do I have to say it?” He lowered his voice some. “It’ll take quite a while to dig this trench, it’s going to be
that
deep. So, one”—he held up a finger—“we’ve got to dig it a good distance from the fire so we’ll have time to get it finished before the fire travels that far. And two”—he held up another finger—“we’ve got to dig it where it will keep the fire from reaching the big coalfield south of town, now or ever. There’s only one way we can kill both birds with one stone.” He stopped to let this sink in.

“Do you mean that you’re going to dig the trench
south
of town and just let the fire come and get us?” asked a boy along the aisle who could not have been more than twelve or thirteen.

“I’m afraid I do.” Mendelson nodded. “And once that trench is
dug, it’ll act just like a wall. The fire will hit that wall and maybe pile up, maybe burn out, maybe make a run straight back this way. I’m afraid I can’t tell you for sure.”

Rachel rose to her feet and took a step up the aisle toward the stage. “What have
you
got to be afraid of?” she said. “You’re a contractor, aren’t you? How much money have you made over the last twelve years? You say you’ve tried every way you can to put the fire out. Now,
that’s
nonsense, if anything is. You were the one who dug that first trench. You could have had the fire out before it spread too far, but you failed. There were dozens of miners who had worked in those tunnels who knew, who
told
you, that you had to keep digging and you had to dig faster, shifts around the clock, no time off, no holidays, no goddamned lunch breaks. You had enough men. You could have had it out before it got anywhere near us, Mendelson. But you did too little, too late. And now look at us.

“Stopping the fire would have meant stopping the gravy train,” she said. “Stopping the fire would have put you out of a job. Digging this new trench, on the other hand, will keep you and your people busy for a long time to come. And once you’ve dug that trench, you’ll no doubt mine all that lovely coal. That’s the real issue here, isn’t it, Mendelson? There’s a fortune down there waiting to be made, and you’re the one who’s planning to make it. You and Uncle Sam.”

Mendelson folded his papers and slipped them into his breast pocket. “Night, everybody,” he said, waving. “It’s been fun.”

“Everybody knows something’s got to be done for us,” Rachel said as he walked past her, down the aisle toward the doors. “Everybody knows the government’s going to have to spend some money on us. So they figure, why not make back thirty, forty, sixty million while we’re at it? Dig the trench north of here, save the town, and what does the government get? A few hundred votes, maybe. Dig it south of here and make a killing. There’s no profit in trying to save this town. Right?”

Mendelson stopped, turned to look down the length of the room. “Right,” he said.

From where he sat in a shadowy corner, Joe watched Mendelson’s departure. The man wore his clothes well, was lean and shaven, held his head up, did not slink. He looked capable and calm. He was clean. He had not lifted a hand against anyone. But as Mendelson walked toward the back of the auditorium, Joe found himself breathing
lightly, through his mouth, as if newly aware of a stench. He, too, had noticed Mendelson’s long fingernails. He had seen, through Ian’s screen door, Mendelson’s eyes. Joe knew all about contradictions, knew how it felt to harbor them, knew that they were as much a part of human chemistry as blood, marrow, and elation. But Mendelson’s incongruities were less savory than most, less acceptable, like a froth of grime on a bar of white soap, and Joe looked upon him with great unease.

He heard the door close as Mendelson left and watched Rachel standing in the aisle, her arms hanging at her sides, one foot pointing in. Then, as the people around her rose suddenly to their feet and began loudly to debate the proportions of their predicament, Rachel seemed to melt down to nothing, as if drawn in all directions, diluted, and absorbed by their immediate, collective need.

        “Why didn’t you want to go, Gran?” Rusty and Dolly sat side by side on the couch, waiting for
M*A*S*H
. She was drinking a Dr Pepper out of a bottle. A slice of pizza drooped in her hand.

She had been married for nearly twenty years before having Angela, against all odds, and was therefore a much older grandmother than she might otherwise have been. But she had a knack for putting herself in other people’s places. She was a quiet woman who listened well and thought before she spoke. And she had won Rusty’s confidence as well as his heart. He never lied to her.

“You first,” she said.

“I was going to go.” Rusty went into the kitchen, came back with a sack of ginger snaps and some milk. “Want one?” He tipped the sack her way.

“Maybe later,” she said. She was thin, like her daughter, but darker, her hair the color of cinders and ash.

Rusty settled down with the sack in his lap. “I would have gone,” he said. “But Mom didn’t really want me to. She said there wouldn’t be any kids there.” He put a cookie into his mouth, whole. “I know some kids who were going with their parents, but I let her decide. I guess she’s got a reason for wanting me to stay home.” He dunked a second cookie in the milk. “Well, actually”—he turned his head and grinned at her—“I didn’t want to go. Mendelson’s a creep. And I’d rather stay here with you.”

Dolly dusted the crumbs from her hands.

“Took the words right out of my mouth.” She drank the last of the Dr Pepper. “We probably should have gone, though. Your mother talks tough, but the fire’s got her scared.”

Rusty huffed with impatience. “I don’t see why,” he said. “It took years and years for the fire to come a mile. It ought to take years for it to come the rest of the way into town.”

“Ought to.” Dolly held out her hand for a cookie. “Two words that don’t amount to a hill of beans.”

“You two eating all the cookies again?” Angela stood in the doorway, unaware of the catastrophe of her face.

“Never, my girl,” Dolly said, rising. “Come sit down here. I’ll make some coffee.”

Angela sat down, eased off her shoes. “What’s on?” she asked, looking at the TV.

“
M*A*S*H
, in a minute.”

“Good.” She reached for a cookie.

“So what happened?”

“If it’s okay with you, Rusty, I’d just as soon not talk about it right now.”

He hadn’t wanted to hear about it anyway, knew that he would soon enough, but he said, “Why not?”

Through his father’s long absence, through the perpetual struggle to make ends meet, through housemaid’s knee, the parching of her skin, the way her body was slowly bowing to gravity, Rusty had only very rarely seen his mother as she was now. When he turned to her, all innocence, for his answer, he was unprepared for the sight of her, immobile, her hands in her lap, her head nodding heavily, her face slack with worry and fatigue.

“Never mind,” he said quickly. But she either had not heard him or intended, by her silence, to pardon his mistake. It was, more than anything, this silence, this distance, that finally convinced Rusty he had something to fear.

In the morning, toting eggs and home fries to early risers, Rusty heard about the trench. A sentence here, there, and, later, straight talk from Joe told Rusty what his mother had not. The talk startled him, silenced him, sent him out in search of Mendelson and his crew.