Coal River

  Lost in her thoughts, it took a moment for Emma to notice the old woman. When she did, she stopped short, her breath catching in her chest. It was Tala, sitting at a spinning wheel in a front yard, her bare feet going up and down on the treadle, her white hair pulled back in one long braid. Emma tried to remember if she had left food at that particular house, but couldn’t recall. So many of the shanties looked the same. She stood on the path, the gunnysack twisted in her fingers, wondering if she should tell Tala that Michael had spoken to her. Surely, the boy’s family would want to know. Maybe they could try to get him to speak more. Or maybe they already knew he could talk. Then she remembered Francesca’s words. They say he is not right in the head.

  Was it possible that Michael was insane? Maybe that’s why he said things that didn’t make sense. Maybe she had read something into his words that wasn’t there. Still, that didn’t explain why he had mentioned Albert. There was only one way to find out. She took a deep breath, forced a smile, and proceeded across the path toward Tala.

  “Good morning,” she said hesitantly.

  Tala glanced up with rheumy brown eyes, nodded once, and went back to her spinning. With gnarled fingers, she pulled gray fibers from a mass of wool, her feet pumping up and down, and fed them into the spindle. Up close, her skin was dark and lined with deep creases and folds, as if she were carved out of wood. The nubs of two yellow teeth hung between her thin lips.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” Emma said. “But I was wondering if I could ask you about your grandson, Michael.”

  Tala kept spinning, her face set in concentration. Emma squatted next to the wheel.

  “Is it true that he can’t speak?” she said.

  Tala nodded in rhythm with her foot.

  Emma tried to breath normally. All the lines she had prepared to say flew from her head like pigeons from a coop. “I thought you would want to know that he spoke to me.”

  Tala stopped spinning and fixed her gaze on Emma, her eyes suddenly hard and clear. She set down the ball of wool and struggled to push herself up from her stool. Emma straightened, nervous sweat breaking out on her forehead. She made a move to help Tala stand, but stopped short, unsure if her assistance would be welcomed. Was Tala angry or shocked? It was impossible to tell. Just then, a young, dark-haired woman hurried out of the shanty, concern lining her brow. She wiped her hands on her apron, came down the steps, and helped Tala to her feet.

  “What is it, Grandmother?” the woman said. “Are you all right?”

  Emma recognized her from the store. She was always alone. “I’m sorry,” Emma said. “I’m afraid I’ve upset her.”

  “How?” the woman said. “What did you do?”

  Uncertainty clawed at Emma’s throat. Was this Michael’s sister? Would she be upset too? Would she accuse Emma of lying and tell her to go away? Briefly, she wondered if she should leave the women in peace. It was clear they were struggling, and taking care of Michael couldn’t be easy. But she needed to know why he had said her brother’s name. And they would want to know Michael could speak, wouldn’t they? Choosing her words carefully and leaving out the part about Albert because it was too much information all at once, Emma told the younger woman her story, then waited for a response. The woman searched her face, as if trying to decide if she was telling the truth.

  “I’m sorry for upsetting your grandmother,” Emma said. “But I thought she would want to know. If you’re a relative of his, maybe you can work with him, try to get him to talk more.”

  “I’m Michael’s sister, Simone,” the woman said. “And I’m sorry, but you must be confusing him with someone else.” She turned away to help Tala toward the porch steps.

  “Please,” Emma called after them. “He knew my dead brother’s name!”

  Simone stopped and turned to face her. “I’m sorry about your brother, but Michael is my brother, and I need to protect him. He’s been through enough.”

  “I understand,” Emma said. “And I promise I don’t want to hurt him, or you. I’m just trying to figure out why he spoke to me and how he knew my brother’s name. Please, it’s my fault Albert is dead.” Her voice cracked on the last words.

  Simone gazed at her for a long moment. Then, finally, she said, “Come inside.”

  Emma and Simone sat at her kitchen table while Tala listened intently from a rocking chair. Simone explained that her grandmother was there to use the spinning wheel while Michael was working. In the spring, summer, and fall, her grandmother and Michael lived in a makeshift shanty in the woods. In the winter, they stayed with her sometimes, but only when the snow got too deep and the temperatures went below freezing. Simone wanted them to stay with her year-round, but they refused, insisting they could take care of themselves. Thankfully, Michael was good at setting traps for game, and Tala knew how to identify edible mushrooms, roots, leaves, and berries. She traded herbs for food, and the small amount of money Michael earned in the breaker bought other things they needed to survive. Simone did their shopping because they tried to avoid going into town. The self-imposed exile came about two years ago, after her and Michael’s parents were killed in a carriage accident.

  “Michael tried to run away after they died,” Simone said. “So our grandmother took him into the woods.” She rested her chin on her hand. “And they’ve been there ever since.”

  “Why did he try to run away?”

  “He was scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “A lot of people were cruel to him, yelling and throwing rocks, calling him names. He didn’t understand what was going on.”

  Emma’s face grew warm with shame, remembering how goose bumps crawled across her skin when she thought about Michael. “He’s just a boy,” she said. “Why would they do that?”

  “People are afraid of things they don’t understand,” Simone said. “The only reason everyone leaves him alone while he’s working in the breaker is because Mr. Flint told them to.”

  Emma’s eyebrows shot up. “Mr. Flint protects Michael?”

  Simone shrugged. “He needs Michael to sort coal. And my brother doesn’t get distracted like the other boys because he can’t hear and doesn’t speak. He’s a good worker.”

  Emma nodded. Of course. What other reason would Mr. Flint have? “But why are people afraid of Michael?”

  Simone sat back in her chair, one thumb rubbing her knuckles. “It’s a long story. Are you sure you want to hear it?”

  Emma nodded.

  “All right,” Simone said. She leaned forward. “Our maternal grandfather was from France. He was well known there because he had a gift. Some respected him while others scorned him. They thought his abilities came from the devil.”

  “What kind of gift?” Emma said.

  “Some call it mediumship. Others call it possession. Our grandfather called it channeling.”

  The hairs on the back of Emma’s neck stood up. “Do you mean speaking to the dead?”

  She had heard stories about this in New York. Once, a stagehand had told her about visiting a medium to connect with her dead son. The medium had said she could channel loved ones who had passed on to the other side, and the stagehand’s son would be able to speak through her. But the stagehand’s late husband came through instead, an overbearing man who used the session to tell her to cut her hair and stop wasting money on fresh flowers. Afterward, the medium explained she couldn’t always control who came through. She said the dead longed to be heard and would use any means possible to do so.

  Simone nodded. “Our mother inherited those abilities, but she didn’t want to admit it. And we were never allowed to talk about it because our grandfather disowned her when she married our father, who was half Indian, and went back to America with him.”

  “I don’t understand. What does this have to do with Michael?”

  “We think Michael inherited the gift from our mother. He’s only used it once that we know of, but everybody heard about it when it happened. That’s why he tried to run aw
ay.”

  “When what happened?” Emma said, her skin tingling in anticipation.

  Simone took a deep breath and closed her eyes, as if building up the courage to continue. When she opened her eyes again, they were glassy. “The day our parents were killed, someone overheard Michael tell the carriage driver to check the axle before they left.”

  “So they heard him speak?”

  Simone nodded. “Yes.”

  “For the first time?”

  “Yes. The only time.”

  “And that made everyone afraid?”

  “No,” Simone said. “They were afraid because Michael obviously knew what was going to happen. The axle broke, the carriage went over a cliff, and our parents died. After that, rumors started spreading that Michael was channeling our late grandfather. Or he was possessed by him. And that’s why he could speak.”

  Emma gasped, wondering if what Simone said could possibly be true. After Albert died, she used to talk to him all the time, begging him to give her a sign that he was all right. But he never did. And after a few years with no response, she stopped trying. Could Albert finally be speaking to her through Michael? Could her brother be the one asking her to help the breaker boys?

  No, she thought. That can’t be it. There has to be another solution. Aunt Ida said everyone in Coal River was gossiping about her brother’s early death. Maybe Michael had overheard someone talking about it. Maybe he had overheard Simone and Tala discussing it. Maybe mentioning Albert’s name was his way of letting her know he meant no harm. Of course. That had to be it. He could have heard about Albert anywhere. The idea that her brother was communicating from beyond the grave through Michael was foolishness. Wasn’t it?

  CHAPTER 13

  Two hours after church on a Sunday afternoon, Emma sat up in bed, her back propped against a pillow, trying to read while Percy fumbled through Fur Elise on the piano in the parlor below and rain swept across her bedroom window. Over the past week, she had claimed she was tired after dinner every other night, then snuck out the back door up to the miners’ village to teach her new students. Luckily, her aunt and uncle were still so angry with her, they’d barely meet her gaze at the dinner table, let alone care if she disappeared into her room after helping Cook clean up. If Emma had known she was going to be ignored for going up to the mine and being seen with Clayton, she would have done it sooner. Things were certainly easier that way.

  Class was held in the living room of the girl with The Wizard of Oz book, who was picking up words faster than Emma thought possible. Using papers and pencils stolen from the Company Store, Emma had started teaching the children to write, beginning with the first few letters of the alphabet. After writing lessons, she read from The Wind in the Willows, and the children were spellbound. Even the twins, who sometimes complained that they were too tired to learn, sat silently listening to the story. By Emma’s third visit, three more women had brought their children to the house for instruction, for a total of nine students. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Along with teaching the children to read and write, Emma wanted to gain the trust of their parents. If they knew she had their children’s best interest at heart, maybe, when the time came to protect the breaker boys, they would stand beside her. So far, the women said, their husbands had either been out, too preoccupied to question what was going on, or were grateful that their children had an opportunity to learn.

  Then, two nights ago, as she was leaving a shanty on Hazel Patch Road, she saw Jack, the orphan who lived with Clayton. He was playing on a porch four doors down, spinning a wooden yo-yo over the railing. Briefly, she thought about going over to say hello. But she wanted to talk to Clayton first because she was afraid he wouldn’t approve of her impromptu school. She wanted the chance to convince him that Jack deserved some education too, before he made up his mind based on gossip and hearsay.

  Whether Michael was trying to help her, or, by some miracle, Albert was guiding her, she had no idea. But she felt like she was on the right path. She thought about asking Simone to arrange a meeting with Michael, then decided that if Albert were really trying to communicate with her, he would find a way. And if Michael had more to say, she would run into him sooner or later. So far, things had happened naturally. It seemed like a mistake to force it. For now, teaching the children was the right thing to do, and it felt like another step closer to finding a way to stop Mr. Flint. If she had to bide her time until then, that’s what she would do.

  But then, last night, after stealing bills one by one from Percy’s dressing table over the last several days—a feeling of dread building up in her chest because she was certain she’d get caught sooner or later—she had finally taken the money up to Francesca, only to learn that Nicolas had died the previous evening. When she arrived at their house, she found Francesca in the back room, curled up in a fetal position on the cot next to her dead son, delirious and inconsolable. Nicolas looked like he was sleeping, his eyes closed, the white skin of his hollow cheeks smooth as silk. His struggling, short breaths were stilled, the pain on his face erased. Someone had crossed his thin hands over his chest, and laced a rosary and a tiny bouquet of wildflowers between his fingers. The twins were at the kitchen table, staring silently into bowls of thin soup. Even in their grief they were beautiful, with flaxen hair and cornflower blue eyes. Emma left the money with Francesca’s husband, who was smoking on the back stoop, staring out into the night. Without a word, he took the bills, nodded, and turned toward the dark again.

  Now, desperate to stop the miserable thoughts inside her head, Emma tried reading one of Aunt Ida’s books. It didn’t work. She couldn’t get past the first page, her mind constantly drawn to the heartbreaking image of Francesca and Nicolas lying side by side, each as bone thin and white as the other. Finally it was raining, the rain Francesca had prayed for so her garden would grow. But it had come too late.

  Sitting in her room, listening through the floorboards to Percy playing the piano, the thought of that beautiful boy being buried in the cold, hard ground was almost more than Emma could take. Along with grief, burning anger at Mr. Flint and God and the entire world churned in her stomach like a bowl of hot tar. She fought the urge to throw the book across the room, or storm downstairs and smash Aunt Ida’s piano with her bare fists. But getting mad wasn’t going to do any good. The only thing that would help was putting an end to child labor in Coal River. Maybe, if she got all the mothers to refuse to let their boys work, someone would take notice. Maybe if Clayton could organize a strike, things would change. Maybe . . . maybe . . . maybe it was too late for all of them.

  Emma put the book down and buried her face in her hands, hope collapsing inside her. Then the doorbell rang downstairs, and Percy stopped playing. A minute later, hurried footsteps sounded along the narrow corridor leading to the bottom of the servant quarter stairs.

  “Emma!” Aunt Ida shouted up the stairwell. “Come down here this instant!”

  Emma sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, wondering why her aunt sounded irritated. She thought about ignoring the request and making her aunt come up to get her, then wiped her eyes, pushed her feet into her shoes, and went into the hallway. Aunt Ida was at the bottom of the steps, her lips pursed.

  “What is it?” Emma said.

  “There’s someone at the door to see you.”

  “Me? Who is it?”

  “Come see for yourself,” her aunt said. “I, for one, can’t wait to see what this is all about.” She turned and went down the hallway, the back of her hair flat from napping on the parlor lounge.

  Emma hurried down the staircase, trying to imagine who it could be. If it were Frank, Aunt Ida would have been happy. If it were Clayton, she would have ordered him off her property. Maybe it was one of the miners’ wives. Maybe it was Pearl or Francesca. Maybe someone needed her help.

  Or maybe it was Michael.

  No, it couldn’t be. If Aunt Ida saw a one-legged breaker boy on her porch, she would have shooed him away w
ithout even asking what he wanted. Besides, Michael had no idea where she lived, did he? And how could he have asked for her, unless he was with his sister?

  Aunt Ida was waiting in the kitchen, her arms crossed.

  “Who is it?” Emma asked again.

  Aunt Ida lifted her chin, sniffing in disapproval, and led her through the dining room toward the front entrance. Male voices floated in from the foyer. One was Percy’s, but Emma didn’t recognize the other. Her aunt entered the foyer and stepped aside, watching Emma’s face as she revealed who was at the door. Emma stopped in her tracks, confused.

  It was Frank Bannister.

  “Good day, Miss Malloy,” Frank said, his tone serious. He stood in one spot, his police hat under his arm, his face void of emotion. Percy stood opposite him, his eyes worried, his lips pressed together in a hard line. This wasn’t a social call.

  “What can I do for you?” Emma said, her heartbeat picking up speed. Had Frank told Mr. Flint that she was the woman who saw them murder those men? Was he going to take her to the mansion and let Mr. Flint’s henchman shoot her? Carry her body down to the river and toss it in?

  “We’re missing about ten breaker boys,” Frank said. “Their mothers seem to think you’ve been filling their heads with nonsense, and now they’ve run off.”

  Aunt Ida gasped.

  “I can assure you,” Emma said, “if those boys have run off, it didn’t have anything to do with me.”