Tears dripped from his nose. “Jack,” he said in a tiny voice.
“Is Clayton your father?”
He shook his head. Emma looked at the older boy, a question on her face.
“His father is dead,” the older boy said. “Killed in a cave-in last year. Clayton looks after him now.”
“Are you Sawyer?” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where is Jack’s mother?”
“Dead too,” Sawyer said. “From the fever, six months ago.”
Sadness tightened Emma’s chest. Jack was an orphan, just like her. “What will happen to him now that Clayton has been arrested? Where will he go?” She stood and turned to Aunt Ida, wringing her hands. “We have to help this poor boy!”
Aunt Ida shook her head. “Maybe from now on you’ll listen to me and stay out of trouble! Now come along. It’s not our place to get involved in such things. I’ll have Percy take you back to the house. You’ve caused enough problems for one day.” She reached for Emma’s wrist, but Emma ripped it away.
“You might be able to ignore this,” Emma said. “But I can’t.” She pointed at Jack, who was still crying on the floor, his head in his hands. “He’s just a baby! Who’s going to take care of him?”
A woman in a faded paisley dress stepped forward. She was rail thin, with high cheekbones and haunted eyes. “Don’t you worry none about that,” she said. “We take care of our own. Always have, always will.”
Otis and Percy took Emma by the arm and pulled her away. Her eyes filled as she looked over her shoulder at the boys. Sawyer helped Jack to his feet, and they disappeared into the crowd.
CHAPTER 6
After the dance hall brawl, Uncle Otis warned Emma never to talk to Clayton again or he’d send her to the nearest poorhouse. He refused to tell her how long Clayton would be in jail, but Percy later admitted it would likely be for only one night. The fear was that if Clayton didn’t show up for work the next morning, some of the miners would sabotage the colliery. Disgruntled miners could cause all sorts of mischief, Percy said—obstruct loaded coal cars, misplace switches, plunder the warehouse—and there was little chance they’d get caught doing anything. No one knew for sure who Clayton’s followers were, but Hazard Flint was determined to find out.
The next evening, Emma walked to the Company Store so Percy could teach her how to run the register and show her the stock room. On her way down the hill, she passed simple, clapboard homes set in openings in the woods, their neat gardens and fenced-in yards like rooms in a house. Women worked among the vegetable gardens, pulling weeds or watering seedlings, while others hung freshly washed clothes on a line. According to Percy, the homes belonged to workers higher up the chain than the rest of the miners, men like the fire boss, the inside boss, and the members of the first-aid and rescue corps.
When she reached the store, Percy showed Emma the customer ledger and explained how to keep track of the miners’ purchases, how much their wages were, and how much they owed. A quick glance through the ledger showed that many of the miners spent nearly their entire salary in the store week in and week out, and occasionally even exceeded it.
“What happens when they owe more than they make?” she said.
Percy shrugged. “It depends,” he said. “If someone does it on occasion, the balance is carried over to the next payday. If they do it more than two weeks in a row, I can’t allow it to continue. And it won’t be long before that miner is looking for a new job.”
“But you get the money eventually, don’t you? Why would you let someone get fired for trying to provide for his family?”
Percy’s eyes raked the store, looking to see if anyone was listening. Two women were examining the brooms and wire-bristle brushes, while a third held up a pair of red long johns to check the buttons and seams.
He kept his voice low. “Not all miners have families, and even if they do, not all of them worry about their wives and children first. Some drink their wages away at the pub before their wives get a hold of their paychecks. It’s not my job to worry about how a miner spends his money. And I don’t make the rules.”
“But when a woman comes in here with two hungry children, how can you turn her away? And the prices.” She snatched a loaf of bread from the shelf and shook it at him. “A loaf of bread didn’t cost this much back in Manhattan!”
He shot her a wide-eyed look, warning her to keep her voice down. “The prices aren’t up to me,” he said. “And Mr. Flint checks the books once a month. If I lower the prices or let miners’ bills go unpaid, I’ll be out of a job along with the miners. And I’d get my father in trouble too.”
“Maybe Mr. Flint should pay the miners enough to make a decent living, then he wouldn’t have to worry about them not having enough to pay their bills!”
“I said be quiet!” Percy took her by the elbow and herded her inside his office, a worried look on his face. “Will you please watch what you say? This is not fun and games!”
“I agree,” she said. “This is not fun and games. And I’m sure you don’t have to tell that to the miners’ children who go to bed hungry every night.”
“Just go outside and wait for me. I’ll be closing up in a few minutes.”
“With pleasure,” she said, and marched out of the store.
But instead of waiting on the porch or climbing into the passenger seat of the Tin Lizzie, Emma started walking. She lifted her chin and pushed stray strands of hair out of her face, letting the breeze caress her hot skin. The sun was starting to sink below the ridgelines, and the mountains stood gray in the gathering dusk. She could almost smell the coming night.
With no particular destination in mind, Emma wandered through town, past the weathered storefronts and the post office, past a hog pit and Abe’s livery stable. Men tipped their hats as she walked by, while the women stopped and stared. Either they were shocked that a young woman would be out alone at this hour, or they knew she was the cursed girl who put a pox on Charlotte Gable and started the fight at the dance hall.
In Manhattan, her parents had allowed her to wander the streets as long as she stayed in their neighborhood. It was ridiculous that Aunt Ida, or anyone else, thought it improper or unsafe for her to walk unaccompanied in this small mountain town. Even when she was with someone, there was an expected way of doing things. She could hear her aunt now, warning her to adhere to a modest and measured gait, instructing her to keep her eyes straight ahead and not turn her head to one side.
She turned right onto Sullivan Lane with the intention of following it toward the Pennsylvania Hotel, then stopped, surprised to find herself on an empty street in front of the town jail. She recalled passing the massive stone structure once or twice the last time she was here, but had forgotten where it was until now. The square, two-story jailhouse was built on higher ground and surrounded by a retaining wall. It loomed above the surrounding buildings like a medieval fortress. A watchtower sat on top of the flat roof, and the tall, narrow windows were covered with black bars. For some reason, the jail made her uneasy. It was as if the pain and misery suffered within emanated through the gray stones and penetrated her skin, like heat from a rock on a sunny day. She couldn’t imagine Clayton in one of the cells, sitting on a hard cot and worrying about Jack. She hoped Percy was right, and Clayton had been released.
She thought about going over and pounding on the massive front door, to see if they would let her in or tell her if Clayton was still there. But before she could make a decision, a flock of grackles appeared in the graying sky and landed on the jail roof, crowding the stone cornices, jostling for space and filling the air with raucous natter. Then, one by one, they grew quiet, and it seemed as if they were looking down on her with their beady black eyes. In the near silence, a soft, rhythmic thump echoed along the sidewalk off to her right. It got closer and closer. At first she thought it was the thud of her heart getting louder and louder, but then she felt it, a slight vibration in the planks beneath her feet. Out of t
he corner of her eye, she caught sight of a boy, his pale face floating above black clothes as he made his way toward her. She turned to look, knowing full well it was Albert’s twin, the breaker boy with the missing leg. He stopped beside her, leaning on wooden crutches stained black by coal dust. She forced a smile, fighting the urge to run.
“Hello,” she said. “My name’s Emma. What’s yours?”
The boy said nothing. He just stood there, staring up at her, his face grave.
“Can I help you with something?” she said.
“He is here,” the boy said. His voice was raspy and hoarse, as if it took all of his effort to speak.
“Who is here?” she said. She looked toward the jailhouse. “Are you talking about Clayton? Is he still locked up?”
The boy shook his head.
She glanced up and down the sidewalk. They were alone. “Who are you talking about then?”
“Albert.”
She flinched as if slapped. “Albert?” she said. Alarm rushed through her like a jolt of electricity. At the same time, gooseflesh rose on her arms. “How do you know . . .”
“You have to help,” he said.
“Help who? Albert?”
The sky and sidewalk seemed to tilt around her, and her legs nearly gave out. Again, the notion that Albert was alive filled her head. Could he be trapped somewhere in Coal River, waiting for me to find him? Then, for the thousandth time, she pictured his coffin being lowered into the cold ground. No, that’s impossible. He’s gone and he’s never coming back.
“Why are you just standing there, doing nothing?” the boy croaked.
Briefly, she wondered if the laudanum could leave lingering effects that caused hallucinations. Or maybe this was a nightmare, brought about by being back in this dreadful place. She bit down on the inside of her cheek until the coppery taste of blood slid over her tongue. No, she was awake. How in the world did this strange boy know Albert? How did he know she had stood by and done nothing while her brother drowned? And what did he want? Then she remembered that the entire town was talking about her. This was nothing more than a cruel joke.
“Who put you up to this?” she said, trying to keep her voice even.
He stared at her for a long time, the center of his eyes as black as washed chalkboards. She could almost see little white reflections of herself in his irises. Something cold and hard flashed behind those eyes. Then he turned and went the other way, his crutches thumping on the sidewalk as he disappeared. Emma wrapped her arms around herself and hurried across the street, her eyes filling. What in the world is going on? she thought. Why he is tormenting me like this?
The sidewalk became a blur, and she nearly bumped into a priest from the nearby parish. It was Father Delaney, the priest who’d given the eulogy at Albert’s funeral. Back then he was white-haired and wrinkled, but now he looked like a man on the verge of death. A handful of silver hairs sprouted from his age-spotted head, and deep, zigzagging cracks lined his sunken face.
She swallowed hard. “I’m so sorry, Father. Please, excuse me.”
“Are you all right, miss?” Father Delaney said. “Do you need help?” The sharp aroma of alcohol wafted from his wet lips like a fine mist, and his rheumy eyes were bloodshot.
“No, thank you,” she said. “I . . . I just need to pay more attention to where I’m going.”
“Go in peace, my child,” he said. He held up a withered hand and watched her hurry on, blessing her from afar.
I’ll never find peace in this place, she thought. She ran two more blocks, then stopped to catch her breath. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand why she kept seeing that boy, or why he would say something about Albert. Someone had to be playing a trick on her. It was the only thing that made sense. Maybe they were so afraid of her “curse” that they were trying to scare her into leaving. Maybe Charlotte Gable wanted her to think she was imagining things so she wouldn’t tell on her and Uncle Otis. Or maybe Frank wanted revenge because she didn’t want anything to do with him. And yet, from the very first moment she saw the boy, something about him made her uncomfortable. And then there was the fact that she hadn’t told anyone about seeing him. It had to be more than a prank or a coincidence. She glanced over her shoulder, suddenly worried he was following her. The sidewalk and street were empty. She raked her hair away from her face and kept walking.
Three blocks over, she passed McDuff’s Ole Alehouse, a two-story saloon with a timber veranda and curtained windows. Ragtime music floated out from the glowing interior. A group of older boys sat on the porch, playing cards and drinking beer from tin growlers. On the dusty lawn, men and boys gathered in a circle, yelling and swearing at two roosters fighting in a wire pen. A woman came out of the swinging doors and sauntered over to a young man on a bench, her hair loose on her bare shoulders, her lips red as blood. She bent over to show off her cleavage, smiling and running her fingers through the young man’s hair. He grinned and pulled her close to grab her breasts.
Uneasy, Emma picked up her pace and moved to the other side of the road, sidestepping wheel ruts and horse manure as she crossed. Some of the boys outside the saloon looked only about thirteen or fourteen, while others looked younger still. Aunt Ida had said that the miners didn’t have control over their children, but letting them go to a tavern? It was carelessness and downright neglect. Where were their mothers? Then she had another thought, one that made her skin turn cold. Maybe they were all orphans, let loose to do as they pleased. Maybe the people who took them in didn’t have the time or resources to do anything more than put a roof over their heads and give them something to eat. Maybe the boys were risking their lives in the breaker every day to pay for beer, cigarettes, cockfights, and prostitutes.
A few minutes later, she passed two buildings with broken windows and missing shingles, and wished she’d gone a different way. Gruff voices emerged from the dark alley between the buildings. She couldn’t make out every word or see anyone in the shadows, but she could tell it was two men, arguing and threatening each other. She slowed, wondering if she should turn around. Then a man shouted, and the alleyway filled with the sounds of fighting—heavy breathing, fists meeting muscle and bone. Then the metallic rasp of a knife being pulled from a sheath, a grunt, and a man’s strangled groan. Terrified, Emma raced to the other side of the road, turned down a side street, and hurried toward home.
When she reached her aunt and uncle’s, Percy was in the driveway, leaning against the Tin Lizzie, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Where have you been?” he said. “I told you to wait outside the store.”
“I wanted to walk home,” she said.
“All right,” he said. “But do you know what would have happened if I had gone in the house without you?”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”
“What do you want me to say? I’ll say it.”
He shook his head in disgust, uncrossed his arms, and moved away from the car. “I don’t want you to say anything,” he said. “I just want you to remember that my parents expect me to keep an eye on you when you’re working at the store. If you get in trouble, we’ll both pay.” He headed toward the house.
“Wait!”
He stopped and turned to face her, scowling. “What?”
“Do you know a young boy with black hair, freckles, and a missing a leg? He uses wooden crutches and—”
“A lot of boys around here use crutches.”
“I know,” she said. “But this one is different. He looks. . . .” She hesitated, unsure how to describe him without using the words haunted and old. Then she remembered something. “The first time I saw him, he was with an elderly woman with white braids. She walked with her back hunched, like she was about to bend over.”
“Oh, you mean Michael Carrion,” he said. “His grandmother Tala is Indian. She’s worn her hair in braids for as long as I can remember. Although I don’t see her around as much as I use
d to.”
“How did he lose his leg?”
“The same way all the boys around here lose their limbs. In the breaker. Why are you asking about him?”
She shook her head, unable to meet his gaze. If she told him the truth—that either someone paid Michael to tease her, or he could read her mind—Percy would think she was crazy. And if he told Uncle Otis and Aunt Ida, they’d have reason to get rid of her once and for all. She’d heard stories of women being sent away to public asylums for lesser things. Like the wife of one of the theater owners, who was sent to Willard State for kissing another man and never returned. Emma wanted to get out of Coal River, but not like that.
“It’s not important,” she said. “I just ran into him on my way home, and he said something I didn’t understand.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was saying things that didn’t make sense.”
“But that’s impossible,” he said. “Michael can’t talk.”
“Because of his accident in the breaker?”
Percy shook his head. “No, because he hasn’t spoken a word since he was born.”
A chill crawled up Emma’s back, raising tiny bumps of flesh on her neck. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Michael was born a deaf-mute.”
The early morning air was thick with humidity when Emma left her uncle’s and made her way down the steep hill into town, the soles of her shoes crunching on the gravel road. Katydids and crickets clicked and buzzed among the poison ivy and long grass, and mosquitoes buzzed around her ears. Robins and sparrows flitted through the blue sky like black arrows. For the hundredth time she wondered why God filled the Earth with so many beautiful things, only to let them die so soon and unexpectedly. It didn’t make sense.
Every time she saw a bird or other small creature—a squirrel, a chipmunk, a rabbit—her first thought was how, despite being beautiful and perfectly designed to live in this world, despite being born with the instinct to do what was necessary to survive, their life spans were incredibly short, their tiny bones and fragile skulls easily crushed by a wagon wheel, their tender flesh torn from their skeletons by bigger animals. She wondered if the field mouse, as it gathered seeds and nuts for the coming winter, realized a fox or eagle could snatch it from the grass without warning. If the eagle soaring above the fields knew a hunter could shoot it down. If the squirrel crossing the road knew an automobile could run it over. Or did the birds and animals go about their lives happy and carefree, unaware they could end at any second?