“Inventory teams,” he said. “From about a dozen holding outfits.”
“Why are they here?”
He looked at me carefully with his sad eyes. “I forgot. You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“The company’s going to be sold, Sonny. Lock, stock, and tipple.”
35
BOBBY’S PLAN
MONDAY, JULY 17, 1961, was the first day back to work after miners’ vacation. At the mine, the foremen were all crowded into Dad’s office while common miners, such as myself, milled around uncertainly in front of the man-lift.
Johnny, just back from Myrtle Beach, was listening to Bobby tell about his vacation in Lebanon, Tennessee, where his grandmother had a farm. He’d also spent some time on Holston Lake. “Fishing was great,” he said. “I caught about a hundred crappie.”
“Did you cook them up?” Johnny asked hungrily.
“Sure did. Never a better eating fish in the world.”
I was startled that they both seemed so calm. “How can you talk about fish when the mine’s being sold?” I demanded.
“It don’t change our job, Sonny,” Johnny said. “We still got to lay that track down.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” I said. “What if they sell the mine and fire us all?”
“There you go again,” Bobby said. “Ever the pessimist.”
“Sonny, you got to get your tail unwrapped this morning,” Johnny said. “It’s always this way after miners’ vacation. Your dad’s got to tell his foremen his plan to get production up and running. We won’t do much today except inspect and repair. Most likely, Dwight Strong will have us walk the track, just to check out the job.”
“No track laying today?”
“Nope. But tomorrow we’ll hit it as hard as we can.”
“Can’t wait,” I said, thinking how sore my muscles were going to get all over again.
Bobby shook his head at my sorry attempt at sarcasm. “Your mother gave me an impossible job.”
I heard the thumping of boots on wooden steps and saw the foremen coming out of Dad’s office. They raised their hands as they did. “Gather around,” each of them called their men in turn.
We gathered around Mr. Strong. “Boys, we’re going to spend the day pulling maintenance on the equipment and inspecting the face.” He looked at Johnny. “Johnny, you take Bobby and Sonny and walk the line, see what you got to do yet.”
Johnny nodded compliantly, but I piped up. “What about the Caretta team? Are they going to lay track today?”
Mr. Strong smiled. “Worried about your bet? No, they’ll walk their end of the line, too.”
“What about the mine getting sold, boss?” one of the continuous miner operators asked.
“It’s not a done deal,” Mr. Strong answered. “There’s still a few i’s to be dotted, t’s to be crossed.”
“But it’s going to happen, ain’t it?”
Mr. Strong shuffled his boots in the gob. “Most likely.”
“I hear the company that’s going to buy us is Southern United. They been known to shut a mine down, pull out all its equipment, and sell it for scrap.”
“I don’t know, Jarrow,” Mr. Strong said. “I’ve heard the same thing, but as far as I know, it’s a rumor. There’s no sense worrying about it. We’ll know when we know.”
We descended the shaft once more, caught the man-trip, and got off where we’d laid our last rail. It felt a bit like a homecoming. I breathed in the air whistling down the main line. It smelled of electric motors, coal dust, and gob, the perfume of the mine.
Johnny pointed his light down the track. “If the Caretta team’s walking their end, we’ll walk until we meet them.”
It was some hours later when we saw a trio of lights approaching us—the Caretta boys.
Garrett Brown greeted us. “Hey, Johnny. Hey, boys.”
“Garrett,” Johnny growled. His light crawled across Delmar and Chinky. “Boys.”
“Sonny,” Delmar said. His cheek bulged with a big chaw. “Got my three hundred dollars ready?”
“I wouldn’t spend it just yet,” I said. I tucked my tongue in my cheek to make me look tough. He laughed, don’t ask me why.
“Bobby,” Chinky Pinns said, and spat.
“Chinky,” Bobby said, and spat, too.
We stood crouched under the roof, just contemplating each other’s air. “Well, ain’t this something?” Garrett finally chuckled. “I wondered when we’d run into you boys. The lime mark’s about a half mile back that way.” He tossed his thumb over his shoulder.
“How many rails you got to go?” Johnny asked.
“Two hundred and twenty-two,” Garrett said. “How about you?”
“I forgot to count,” Johnny said.
Garrett laughed. “You’re ashamed to say. Maybe you ought to go ahead and give up.”
“Why should we give up?” Bobby snapped. “We’re going to kick your butts!”
“You pissant,” Chinky hissed. “You want to try to kick my butt right here and now?” He raised his fists.
Bobby scuttled in, rolling up his sleeves, but Johnny put his fingers to his mouth and whistled. “There ain’t going to be no fighting,” he said. “It’s against union rules.”
Bobby and Chinky gave each other the evil eye, then backed off. Garrett laughed, then turned and waved his hand. “Come on, boys. I’m tired of smelling Coalwood. Let’s get back to Caretta.”
We watched them go, their flashing lights gradually growing dim until they disappeared around a curve. “Come on,” Johnny said.
“Where are we going?” I demanded.
“Let’s see how far away the lime mark really is.”
We walked on. When we got to the mark, Johnny said, “I counted two hundred and ninety-eight rails from where we left off at miners’ vacation to this mark. We’re averaging eight a day.” He looked at me.
I did a quick mental calculation. “About thirty-eight man-days to go,” I said.
Johnny squatted, took off his helmet, and ran his hand through his hair. “How many rails did Garrett say they had to go?”
“Two hundred and twenty-two,” I said. “They’re averaging about the same we are. That means they’ll be to the lime mark in about twenty-eight shifts. They’re going to beat us by ten full days. My God, we’re going to be embarrassed all over this mine.”
“What if we laid ten rails a day?” Bobby asked. “Two hundred and ninety-eight rails divided by ten is equal to twenty-nine point eight. We’d have a fighting chance if we did that.”
“Ten rails a day?” I shook my head. “Eight is almost killing us as it is.”
“But I’ve got a plan,” he said. “I came up with it while I was fishing. All we have to do is approach this job from a different direction—backward.”
I rolled my eyes. “Right. Sure.”
“Let the man talk, Sonny,” Johnny said.
“What keeps us from doing ten rails a day?” Bobby asked.
I was really in a prickly mood. “Time, energy, and you talking all the time?” I suggested.
“No,” he said, ignoring my jape. “It’s because all the rails have to be in place before the man-trips can go out at the end of the shift. I’ve noticed we start to pace ourselves toward the end of the day to make sure we don’t have a rail out when the shift is over. But what if we pulled out the spikes on ten sections first thing in the morning, rolled off the rails, then started working backward to the first one? We’d have to do it. We’d have no choice. We’ll also be moving toward our supplies, not away from them.”
I laughed. “And what happens if we don’t make it? Excuse me, Mr. Bossman. I guess we kind of let your man-trips wreck.”
“Hold on, Sonny,” Johnny said. “Maybe Bobby’s on to something. If we work backward, and move toward where the hoot-owl shift stacks our supplies, the job will get easier as the day wears on, not harder.”
“That’s right,” Bobby said. “The way we do it now,
we start off fast because the new ties are right where we need them. We’re also fresher. But we slow down toward the end of the shift because we have to haul the ties farther and farther when we’re the tiredest. We also slow down because we’re afraid to knock out another rail and not get it laid back in time.”
“That’s my whole point!” I cried. “We’ll end up wrecking the man-trips!”
Bobby was unruffled by my outburst. “Pessimism is just your middle name, isn’t it?”
“It’s Hadley, actually.”
“What did your parents have against you?”
“That I got born, far as I can tell.”
“Now you’re being melancholy.”
“More cynical, I thought.”
“No, melancholy is the adverb, I’m pretty certain.”
“Actually, it’s an adjective.”
“Who cares? We’re seven hundred feet down in a coal mine with a slab of sandstone that weighs a billion tons hanging an inch over our heads!”
Bobby had a point. Even I could see that.
“We’ll try going backward tomorrow,” Johnny said, interrupting our banter. “Eight rails, just to see if it works.”
“It’ll work,” Bobby said. “All we have to do is get lucky. If something, anything at all, slows the Caretta boys down, we’ve got them.”
I was astonished at my two crewmates. We were headed for disaster, that’s all I knew. I had never been so certain of anything in the entire history of my life and I said so, just to make sure they knew it.
“Maybe so, but it’s worth a try,” Johnny said.
“Then it’s agreed?” Bobby asked.
Johnny flashed his light in my eyes. “Sonny, are you with us or not?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No!” they chorused.
The next day we laid eight rails going backward, then stood around with time on our hands at the end of the shift. We could have easily laid at least one more. “What did I tell you?” Bobby bragged.
“We need to send you fishing more often,” Johnny said.
“How about the rest of the summer?” I suggested.
Bobby laughed. “Thank you, Sonny. I appreciate your willingness to admit when you’re wrong.”
I had indeed been wrong, and I knew it would make me a better man to confess it, but I still didn’t. There was no use giving Bobby more of a swelled head. The way I saw it, I was doing him a favor.
When I got back to the Club House that evening, I was startled to see the chairs set up again in the parlor. Floretta’s look told me all I needed to know.
It was time for the second testimony, and this time, I was certain, Dad was going to have to sit in the dock.
36
THE SECOND TESTIMONY
FLORETTA 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.”
THE 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 c
hair, 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.”