Everybody knew where to plant themselves. Mr. Fuller took his place at the table. Jake came in late, pushing through the crowd. His hair was in disarray, and his work uniform looked like he’d been sleeping in it. He went to his chair in the corner. He glanced at me, gave me a nod and a wink. I nodded back. All I’d done was tell him what I knew, or at least suspected. He’d sobered up fast and headed out. Where he’d gone, what he’d done, I wasn’t certain. All I knew was he’d been gone all week, doing what he needed to do. I had high hopes.
Mr. Amsteader and Mr. Mutman, the inspectors, came in and found their seats. Dad and Mr. Bundini came in last. Dad’s expression was hard to judge. Grim but resigned, I thought.
Jake pulled up his chair and sat beside Mr. Fuller. Their heads moved together. Jake was doing all the talking, Mr. Fuller vigorously shaking his head. Jake got up and walked to the window and looked out on Coalwood Main. I studied his profile. He seemed composed. And he was definitely stone-cold sober.
Mr. Fuller banged the ladle on the table. “Let’s have order,” he said, which wasn’t difficult since hardly anybody was talking.
“We are here to conclude this business,” he said, “and make final recommendations. I’ve talked things over with the federal and state inspectors and I believe we are in agreement about the particulars.”
“We don’t know all the particulars,” Jake interrupted, turning from the window. “Not yet. I’d like permission to call another witness.”
Mr. Fuller banged the ladle down, although the room was as silent as a graveyard. “I told you the time for testimony is over, Jake,” he said.
Dad spoke up. “He’s right, Jake. You’ve got all you need.”
“Just one more,” he said, holding up his index finger. He ignored Dad and looked at Mr. Bundini.
Mr. Bundini nodded. “Go ahead, Jake,” he said.
“I’d like to call Mrs. Nate Dooley.”
Dad leaned forward, whispering furiously into Mr. Bundini’s ear. Mr. Bundini raised his eyebrows, then shook his head and put a restraining hand on Dad’s arm. I silently pleaded with Mr. Bundini to make my father be still.
Floretta was standing behind me. She poked me in the ribs with her finger. “This is your fault,” she said.
Dad stood up, pulling away from Mr. Bundini’s hand. “Jake, in a hearing on mine operations, you don’t have the right to call somebody who doesn’t work for the company.”
Mr. Bundini tugged at Dad’s sleeve. “Sit down, Homer,” he said firmly.
“Martin, you don’t know everything,” he said.
“I know more than you think I do,” Mr. Bundini snapped. “Now sit down. I’m your boss. Remember your own lecture: To give orders, you have to know how to take them.”
Dad sat.
“Mrs. Nate Dooley,” Jake said again, and Mrs. Dooley made her way in from the foyer. She wore a thin cotton dress with printed flowers on it and carried a lace handkerchief in her birdlike hands. She was wringing it like a dishcloth.
Floretta released a long sigh. “That poor woman.” She poked me again.
“I had to do it,” I hissed at her.
“God’s going to get you for this, boy.”
“I think He already has.”
“Hand on the Bible, please,” Jake said, pointing at the Good Book.
Mrs. Dooley was sworn in. She subsided in the chair and began to twist the hanky into knots.
Jake led Mrs. Dooley through the particulars of her identity. His voice was gentle but insistent, hers a mere whisper. Finally, he asked, “Mrs. Dooley, what does your husband do for Olga Coal Company?”
Her lips trembled. “He’s responsible for cleaning the bathhouse at the number one tipple.”
“How long has he had that job?”
“Since 1948.”
“Who gave him that job?”
Her voice got stronger. “Captain Laird.”
“Your husband has had that job for thirteen years. How many times, during all those years, has he actually cleaned the bathhouse, would you say?”
Dad erupted. “Jake, stop it.”
Mr. Bundini clutched Dad’s arm. Jake glanced at Dad, then continued. “How many times, Mrs. Dooley?”
“As often as he could, Mr. Mosby,” she answered, a bitter edge creeping into her voice. Her back was straight as a ruler.
“What kept him from going every day?”
“My mister was hit by a tram in the mine, got his head bumped against a crib. It left him . . . different.”
“So he can’t actually do his job, can he?”
Mrs. Dooley lowered her eyes, and shook her head.
Mr. Fuller seemed to come out of a trance. His head jerked up. “A secret man? Is your husband a secret man?”
“Some call him that,” she spat out. She looked into the silent audience, then down at her feet. “But mostly, he’s a good man who gave everything to his company. The Captain said—”
“The Captain doesn’t work here anymore!” Mr. Fuller growled.
“Amos,” Jake said quietly, “this is my witness.”
Mr. Fuller sat back after a sharp look from Mr. Bundini. Dad had dropped his chin into his cupped hands.
“Who would you say was your best friend in this town? Who helped you the most over the years?”
“Until he got killed, our next-door neighbor—Tuck Dillon,” said Mrs. Dooley, without hesitation. “My mister—Nate—always liked Tuck. They were almost like brothers. Tuck never had a brother, so Nate was it for him.”
“So Tuck helped Mr. Dooley—Nate—when he could?”
“Yes. He helped me give him his bath, and when Nate wandered, I’d call Tuck and he’d go after him.”
“Wandered?”
Mrs. Dooley allowed herself a cautious smile. “Every so often, Nate would realize who he was. Doc Lassiter says it’s like he’s got a short circuit in his brain. Sometimes a spark will jump across it and he’ll think he needs to go up to the tipple and go to work. Usually, the other miners would keep him safe. He wasn’t able to hold his thoughts together for too long, you see. Tag would bring him home most times, and Tuck sometimes did, too.”
“Mrs. Dooley, did Nate wander on the night of May the third of this year?”
I silently willed her to answer the question the way I was certain it had happened.
She nodded. “Yes. I thought he’d gone to bed. He does that sometimes when he gets scared. Thunder and lightning scares him, and there was enough of it that night. But when I checked on him, he was gone. Out the back door, I think. He’s done that before, just run away because he got scared. I called Tag, but his mama said he was out patrolling. So then I called Tuck.”
“About what time was that?”
“Eleven o’clock, thereabouts. Tuck said he’d go out and look for Nate. I told him to look up at the tipple first. Nate always felt safe there, for some reason. When I didn’t hear from Tuck for a while, I got nervous and called Loren—Mrs. Dillon. She said Tuck wasn’t back.”
“What did you do then?”
“I waited. What else could I do? The rain was fierce.” Mrs. Dooley raised her voice, as if she had to talk over the rain she was hearing in her mind. “Then Loren called—I don’t know what time—said Mr. Hickam had called the house wanting Tuck to go in the mine with him. She said she told him Tuck was probably already up at the tipple looking for Nate. I thought I’d better get on up there and see what was going on. If Tuck needed to go inside the mine, somebody would need to bring Nate home. I called Tag and this time he was home.”
I looked to my right, and there stood Tag at attention. He looked like he was made out of concrete. Not a muscle twitched.
“Tag came and got me,” she said, “and off we went. We found Tuck standing by himself at the man-lift, ready to go inside. He said he’d found Nate at the tipple but then lightning had struck nearby and Nate had taken off. Tuck had to chase him up in the woods, then wrestle him back to the tipple. Tuck said he was sorry, but Nate had got h
urt. Nothing too serious. Maybe a broken wrist or a bad sprain.”
“You didn’t see Mr. Hickam?”
I glanced at my father. His chin was still cupped in his hands, and his eyes were closed.
“No. Tuck said Mr. Hickam had taken Nate off to Doc Lassiter, that we’d just missed them. Mr. Hickam was supposed to call me as soon as he got to the doctor.”
“Did Tuck say why he didn’t take Nate to the doctor?”
“Yes, but he told me not to ever tell anybody the real reason.”
I saw Dad rub his eyes, then lean his forehead against his hand.
“You have to tell us what Tuck said, Mrs. Dooley,” Jake said gently.
Mrs. Dooley looked at Dad. Her lips quivered and her eyes went sad. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hickam.”
“You have to tell us,” Jake said again.
She nodded. “Tuck said Mr. Hickam was worn out, that he had gone into one of his coughing fits—you know, those spots on his lungs and all—so he convinced him that he could handle checking for the gas if Mr. Hickam would deal with Nate. I think Tag and I must have passed Mr. Hickam and Nate on the way. I remember a car going past us.” She wiped her nose with her handkerchief. “Then Tuck rang the bell and got on the man-lift. It was the last time I ever saw him.” Twin streams of tears ran down her cheeks.
“Then what happened?”
“Tag took me home and then later Doc Hale brought me Nate. Doc Hale told me there’d been some sort of accident at the mine and Doc Lassiter and Mr. Hickam had gone on up there. Doc Lassiter had called Doc Hale to finish working on Nate’s wrist.”
Mr. Fuller came alive again. “None of this means anything except a man has drawn pay from this company for thirteen years for doing nothing and Homer Hickam knew about it. That’s a criminal offense, all by itself. It also doesn’t explain how Tuck Dillon got killed, except due to negligence by his supervisor, and that is cause to relieve him”—he pointed at Dad—“Homer Hickam—from his duties.”
“Amos,” Jake said. “Do me a favor, would you? Take off your glasses, put them in your shirt pocket, and stand up.”
“I don’t see what good that—”
“Just indulge me.”
To his credit, Mr. Fuller did as he was asked. Jake walked up to him and took the palm of his hand and thumped Mr. Fuller on the shirt pocket. Mr. Fuller was knocked back a step. “Hey!”
“Are your glasses broken, Amos?”
“They better not be!”
“But are they?”
“How can I be sure until I look?”
“Why don’t you look, then?”
Mr. Fuller reached into his shirt pocket and brought out his glasses. One of the lenses had been knocked out, and they were badly bent at the nosepiece. “You’ll buy me a new pair,” he grouched.
“Gladly, Amos.” Jake caught my eye and nodded a silent thank-you for the theory I’d given him. It was all because I’d lost my glasses that day in the mine, which had set me to thinking. “Tuck Dillon was nearsighted, although he hated to admit it. It was a gradual thing, his wife told me, and he tried to hide it most of the time. I think when Tuck got down to the landing and got in his motor, he found out that his glasses were broken, probably during his struggle with Mr. Dooley. That’s why his glasses were found broken inside his shirt pocket, not on his face or off in the gob somewhere. Tuck couldn’t see the signs to his section.”
Jake turned to the audience, then leveled his gaze on the inspectors. I stared at them, too. What were they making of all this? I would have floated another prayer up to heaven, but I figured there was a backlog by now.
“What would you do in that case?” Jake asked the inspectors. “How would you figure out where you needed to go in a coal mine if you couldn’t see?”
Floretta poked me. “I’m glad we got that boy on our side,” she whispered proudly.
“We?”
“Hush!”
The inspectors looked thoughtful but had nothing to say. Jake continued. “I know what I’d do if I couldn’t read the signs. I would count the turns. I think that’s what Tuck did. But if Tuck counted them that night, there would have been a problem.”
Jake went back to his chair, opened his notebook, and drew out a white form. “This is a completed Olga Coal Company engineering work order, signed off on the evening shift, May the second, 1961. This was the shift Homer ordered out of the mine when the storm hit. But before it left, this crew got its work finished. Their job was to put in a brick stopping and take out the turn leading into it. In other words, they sealed off a tunnel that led into an abandoned part of the mine. They also removed the sign for that turn.”
Jake paused, waiting for all he’d said to soak in. Then he continued. “If Tuck was counting signs to find where he needed to park his motor, he would have miscounted by one because of that stopper. Before the stopper was put in, there were nine signs on the way to his section. Ten West was the tenth one. I’m sure he had that memorized. He probably meant to turn into the ninth cut, the one he thought was just before his section. But because he miscounted, because one sign had been removed, he turned onto 10 West instead. He hit a gas pocket not fifty feet inside. That’s how Tuck Dillon died. It was an accident, pure and simple, and that’s all it was.”
I felt a nudge at my shoulder. I thought it was Floretta, so I shrugged it off. There followed immediately another nudge, this one more insistent. “Sonny boy. You’ve grown.”
I turned to stare at a woman as fresh and tan as if she’d just come off a sun-drenched beach. Her graying hair had a windblown look to it. Still, there was no mistaking who it was. “Yes, ma’am,” I said to my mother. “I sure have.”
“Pay attention,” she said, nodding toward the proceedings.
I went back to watching. Mr. Fuller was still fingering his broken glasses. “Homer Hickam still deserves to be fired,” he said. “He cheated this company out of thirteen years of false payments.”
“No, he didn’t,” came a booming voice in the foyer, and then a huge, wide-shouldered man pushed through the assembly and walked to the table. He was dressed in an old-style wide-lapel navy-blue suit and wore a white shirt cinched at the neck by a black string tie. His wing-tip shoes were as big as boats, and he had a nose that looked like the hooked beak of an eagle. “Homer Hickam didn’t do anything but what I told him to do,” he said. He smiled at Dad. “He knows how to give orders because he learned how to take them. From me.”
Dad rose slowly from his chair. I had never seen him look so deferential in all my life. In fact, he looked positively worshipful. I kept looking at the big man until finally it registered in my brain exactly who he was. Although he was a good bit older than when I’d last seen him, I knew him perfectly well.
Everybody did. His mark was everywhere you looked.
A big grin spread across his vast face. “Let’s talk turkey,” he boomed.
Captain Laird had come back to Coalwood.
39
TALKING TURKEY
“CLEAR THE room,” the Captain said. When most people hesitated, he put his head back and bellowed toward the ceiling—“Now!”
Such was the rush to obey him that a few chairs were knocked over by people scrambling out of the parlor. “Not you, Homer,” the Captain said. “Sit yourself down.”
My father sat and the Captain kept barking orders. “Mrs. Dooley, how do, ma’am, stay with us, won’t you? Martin Bundini, stay. You two inspector gentlemen, I beg you to leave. This is company business. We’ll be talking to you later. Elsie, come on in. You’ll sit by Homer, of course. John Dubonnet? How do, John. You can stay—this involves the union, too. Tag, shut those windows and guard the door. Thankee. Floretta, how do, dear. You can stay.”
The Captain’s eyes landed on me and they sparkled. “Almost didn’t recognize this young man. Sonny, I hear you’ve turned into a combination coal miner and rocket scientist. That’s a mighty strange mix. Catherine figured you for a writer, as I recall.”
Catherin
e Laird was my third-grade teacher, and the Captain’s wife.
“Mrs. Laird used to mimeograph my stories and send them around the school, sir,” I said, confirming that I was that boy, indeed.
“Hell, boy, she used to bring ’em home and make me read ’em, too!” He laughed his booming laugh. “I thought they were pretty good, but I always thought you wrote down more than you needed. A reader don’t need a lot of descriptions, how somebody parts their hair, what color the flowers were on the other side of the creek, all that. Just give the reader a hint and he can figure out the rest. You know what I’m saying?”
“Just a hint. Yes, sir. I’ll try to remember that.”
“So what are you going to be? Rocket scientist, or author?”
Mom sat down beside Dad. “He’s going to be both, Captain,” she declared.
The Captain considered her answer and raised an eyebrow in my direction. “Well, that’s fine. But remember, son, a cauliflower ain’t nothing but a cabbage with a college education.”
“Yes, sir. I don’t think I’ll have any trouble remembering that.”
Tag opened the parlor doors, and I was astonished to see Rita come inside on the arm of an older gentleman. She was wearing a powder-blue suit, pillbox hat, and high-heeled shoes. I’d never seen her look so elegant—or so old. She even wore a strand of pearls around her neck. She might have passed for the First Lady herself, and I halfway expected John F. Kennedy to come in next, his head down, his hands behind his back, deep in thought about tax cuts or the Russians or the moon.
Rita led her gentleman over to me. He had a walrus mustache and twinkling blue eyes, and even though I didn’t want to do it—since I figured he was her date—I liked him at first sight. “Father,” she said, “I’d like you to meet Sonny Hickam. He’s my friend.”