“Oh, thank goodness!” Song cried, although her relief was short-lived. Several tons of coal, its momentum unchecked, erupted from the truck and fell like a black tidal wave on top of Cable’s car. Song ran toward the buried vehicle, but slipped at the edge of the ditch and went sprawling face-first into mud. Young Henry helped her up and then supported her as she limped to the road.
“Them coal trucks sure can build up a head of steam,” the boy marveled.
The truck driver, a mountain of a man in bib overalls, climbed out of the cab and lumbered over. He grinned in recognition when he saw Young Henry.
“Hey, boy! Where’d you get that little car I done buried under my coal?”
“It’s Mr. Jordan’s. And this is his wife, Mrs. Jordan.”
The driver peered at Song through coke-bottle glasses. “I’m Foureyes, ma’am,” he said, then put his hand over his nose. “Par’m me, but you kinda stink.”
“I’m sorry. I think I sat on a cow . . . thing.”
“Ten-four, ma’am. You surely did. You really married to Cable? I got to say you ain’t much like I pictured a wife of his’n.”
“Because I’m Asian-American?”
“Uh-uh.” He patted his chest. “The way I heard it, Cable likes ’em big along here.”
Song, rising above her despair, lifted her muddy chin. “Are you hurt in any way, Mr. Foureyes?”
“Not yet, but I probably will be. Cable’s gonna kick my tail for dumping coal on his car.”
“I got an idea!” Young Henry chirped. “Squirrel Harper details cars and he owes Mrs. Jordan a favor. He could clean that car up, sure as spit.”
“Might work,” Foureyes agreed. “If you had a way of calling him.” He looked at Song. “Cell phones don’t work around here, you know.”
“Really?” Song rolled her eyes.
Young Henry was momentarily stymied, but then he brightened. “You could tow it yourself. That big old truck oughta be able to tow a battleship.”
“Oh, would you please, Mr. Foureyes?” Song begged. It was her only hope. She was having enough trouble with Cable without him finding out she had buried his car beneath several tons of coal.
Foureyes gave it some thought, then shrugged. “All right, ma’am, I’ll do it. But you have to do one thing for me.”
“What is it, Mr. Foureyes?” Song asked, in her sweetest voice.
“Stand downwind. I can hardly breathe, you smell so bad.”
WHILE SONG, CHAGRINED and mortified, stood some distance away, Foureyes and Young Henry dug out Cable’s car from beneath most of the coal and found a length of chain in the coal truck suitable for towing.
“Aren’t we going with him?” Song asked as the truck trundled away with the roadster rolling behind.
“No, ma’am. We have to fix Mr. Spratt’s fence. We busted it down, after all.”
“You busted it down.”
“You were with me.”
“I could just pay him for the damage.”
“Yes, but that’s not the way we do it in West Virginia. You break something, you fix it. You don’t just throw money at it. That ain’t considered polite.”
“An interesting philosophy.” Song shrugged, then chuckled. Sometimes, when everything goes wrong, it’s best to laugh. Her father had taught her that. Of course, he’d also taught her that after laughing, figure out how to end up ahead. “All right,” she said. “Let’s fix the fence.”
The fence, though in pieces, fit back together like a jigsaw puzzle, so it didn’t take long. When they were done, the cow wandered over and produced another cow pie as commentary.
“Well, that’s done,” Song said, wiping the muddy sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, leaving a long smear. “But how are we going to get home?”
“I reckon we put out our thumb, ma’am. Somebody will pick us up.”
Song considered his plan. “Other than Foureyes and us, there’s been no traffic,” she pointed out.
“That’s because most folks are at work.”
“We can’t stand beside the road all day, Young Henry.”
“We could walk,” he said, “but it’s four miles to your house, and pretty much straight up that there mountain.”
“I’m discovering there’s always a mountain to cross around here,” Song sighed.
“But Highcoal’s not far,” Young Henry said thoughtfully. “And I know a shortcut. If we go there, Mom will loan me her truck and I can drive you home. Simple as pie.”
Song shook her head. “There’s no way I’m going into Highcoal where everybody will see me looking and smelling like this.”
“Nobody will see us.”
“How so?”
“We’ll sneak through backyards and stuff.”
Song considered her options. She really didn’t have any, except the one. “All right. But nobody sees me or even gets close to me, got it?”
“Got it.”
Young Henry led her across the meadow where the milk cow had gone back to grazing. Along the way, Song stopped and broke the heels off her shoes, which she’d seen somebody do in a movie. Surprisingly, it helped. They soon reached a creek, where Song insisted she wash out her skirt while Young Henry went behind some bushes and hid his eyes. She got her skirt as clean as she could, then wrung it out, and put it back on.
“How do I look?” she asked Young Henry. He perused her, and his expression told her everything.
“That bad?”
“You look kind of rumpled, you might say.”
“Thanks, Young Henry,” she grumped. “How else am I supposed to look after being in a wreck? One that you caused by driving too fast, by the way.”
The boy’s lower lip went out. It was trembling. “I already said I was sorry.”
“I know you are,” she said. “It’s okay. Honest. Nobody sees me in Highcoal, right?”
His lip stopped trembling. “Right.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
Young Henry led her through the woods, then across another meadow, another creek, and then up a rocky cliff where she slipped and fell, scraping her knees.
“Are you all right, ma’am?”
“I seem to be bleeding, Young Henry.”
He inspected her scraped legs. “They’re not bad. I get scabs on my knees all the time.”
“Yes, but you’re not a newlywed.”
“What difference does that make?”
“Never mind. Lead on.”
Young Henry led on until finally he led her across a ditch and Song saw they were on the outskirts of Highcoal, marked by a row of houses. Young Henry climbed out of the ditch with Song doggedly behind him, and they sneaked through backyards until they finally reached the rear of the church where there was a small graveled parking lot. In it sat several cars, one of them a black limousine.
“Just over there’s the Cardinal Hotel, ma’am,” Young Henry said, pointing across the road. “Ma’s truck’s in the back. I’ll go get it. You hide here, maybe behind one of those cars until I get back.”
“A good plan.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
It would have indeed been a good plan if they’d time to execute it, but before they could take a step, the back door of the church opened and three women stepped out. They were laughing heartily, but the laughter stopped when they saw Song and Young Henry, both staring back at them like startled cats.
Young Henry instantly chirped, “Hidy, Mrs. Carlisle, Mrs. Petroski, Mrs. Williams! How y’all doing?”
“Well, hello, Young Henry,” one of the women greeted him. “And who’s your playmate? Looks like she’s been playing in the mud!”
“Why, this is Mrs. Jordan, ma’am!”
Song cringed.
“Mrs. Jordan?”
“Yes, ma’am, she is, I swan.” Young Henry turned to Song. “Ma’am, this is Mrs. Carlisle in the blue dress, Mrs. Petroski in the other blue dress, and Mrs. Williams in the, ah, bluest dress.”
“I’m going to kill you,” S
ong muttered.
“We’re on the church board,” the woman introduced as Mrs. Williams said. “You’re the woman who married our Cable?”
“That would be me,” Song confessed. “I’m sorry for how I look, but I’ve just been in a wreck.”
“Very nice to meet you, I’m sure,” Mrs. Carlisle said uncertainly. “A wreck, you say? Are you all right?”
“Yes, but I need to go home. Young Henry was just going after his mother’s truck.”
“Well, we won’t hold you then,” Mrs. Carlisle said. “I expect we’ll see you and Cable in church on Sunday?”
“Oh, sure. I’ll be there.” Anything to get away from these women.
It was then that another woman stepped out on the porch. Impeccably dressed in a chic suit, the woman was tall, blonde, and had an impossibly small waist balanced by large, perfectly formed breasts highlighted by a low-cut blouse. (Song immediately wondered who her surgeon was.) Her big eyes, so blue Song was certain they had to be contacts, inspected Song and Young Henry, then asked, with a smile demonstrating very white teeth, “Who are these delightful children?”
“That one is Young Henry,” Mrs. Williams said. “He’s Rhonda’s son. The other . . . well, that would be Cable’s wife.”
The woman’s eyes widened. She cocked her head and her blonde, lustrous hair (surely enhanced) fell across her perfectly sculpted cheek. Although she was obviously curious, no querulous lines appeared in her forehead. Botox, Song immediately thought.
“Did you say Cable’s wife?” the dazzling woman asked.
“She and Young Henry have been in an accident,” Mrs. Williams explained.
The woman walked down the steps. “Your first name, dear?” she asked, smiling faintly before her perfect nostrils flared. She had apparently detected the remnants of cow still clinging to Song.
“Song.”
“What nationality are you, dear?”
“American. What nationality are you?”
“Presently West Virginian.” She turned to the trio of women. “I enjoyed our meeting. I believe your activities will make a difference. Let me know how my office can assist.”
“Oh, indeed! Yes! Thank you! By all means!” came the chorus.
The woman gave a final glance at Song before walking regally to the limo. A driver hopped out and opened the door for her. She didn’t acknowledge him, just sat in the back seat, then gracefully swung her lovely legs inside. She looked straight ahead as he closed the door.
Song watched the show, then asked, “Who was that?”
Mrs. Carlisle answered, “That’s Governor Godfrey, Mrs. Jordan. Here on a visit. She’s a wonderful woman.”
Song watched the limo turn onto the road. “So I hear.”
And she’s also tall, blonde, and surgically enhanced in all the right places,apparently just the way my husband likes his women!
Eleven
After saying good-bye to the three friendly but bemused church ladies, Song decided she might as well go to the store and see to her cosmetics. How, after all, could anything worse happen to her now?
Young Henry led her along a fortunately empty street. She went inside the store and walked up to the counter where a bald man with warm brown eyes and a neatly trimmed beard awaited her. He wore an expectant expression, and she introduced herself.
He replied, “My name is Omar Kedra, Mrs. Jordan. May I be so bold as to ask if perhaps you have been in some sort of recent accident?”
“Actually, I was in a car wreck, then I sat in cow poo. Later, I fell in a ditch and then off a cliff.”
“I see. Then everything is perfectly explained. May I offer you perhaps a drink of a most excellent drink known as ouzo? You seem to have need of a bracer.”
“Thank you, Omar.” Finally—someone who understood the travails of the day. “You may, indeed.”
“I fear it has a kick,” Omar apologized as he drew from beneath the counter a bottle that held a clear liquid. He filled a crystal glass and slid it across to her.
Song tossed back the contents, then slid the glass back. “Hit me again,” she said, and he did. She took a swallow. “Very nice.”
“Now,” Omar said, “I believe I see some color returning to your cheeks. That is a good thing. What else might you need? Laundry detergent, perhaps? Or bath salts?”
Song went for broke. “Do you by any chance have Tracie Martyn skin products? Or Clinique?”
Omar chuckled deeply. “Ah, extremely nice choices, indeed. Clinique is known the world over for its quality. And Madonna herself uses Tracie Martyn. I have heard that Susan Sarandon uses those products as well.”
“I adore Susan Sur, uh, sur . . . Sarandon and all she stands for,” Song said, surprised at the difficulty in pronouncing the woman’s name. She was also feeling warm and oddly benevolent. The world, it seemed to her, was a fine place, where nothing bad could possibly occur.
Omar perused her. “So you admire Miss Sarandon? Her philosophy too, I presume? That must mean you are of the liberal persuasion. I am president of the Highcoal Patriotic Club and your husband was president last year.”
“What is the Patter, uh, oddick Club?” she slurred.
“In a very short fashion, we are a group of conservative men and women who, I tremble to tell you, consistently vote Republican.”
Song finished the glass of ouzo, then stared at Omar. “Cable is a Republican?”
“Oh yes, indeed, madam. A loyal Republican, indeed. Although I must say he does stray a little to vote for Senator Jay Rockefeller, who is a big Democrat. He knows the senator personally, and so believes in his good quality.”
“My husband is a Republican! I can’t believe it!” Song had to grip the counter to hold herself up, her knees suddenly weak. “This is, well . . . astonishing!”
“Oh, madam. I have distressed you! May I pour you another little finger?”
Song nodded, then took another swallow of the fiery liquid. She had married a Republican. On top of everything else, why had she and Cable never discussed politics?
“Madam?” Omar said, interrupting Song’s fuzzy thoughts. “May I assist you further?”
Song tried to get back on track. “What cosmetics do you have, Omar?”
“I have a product known as Coal Country Woman. It is made right here in West Virginia.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Oh, my dear. You must understand. Coal Country Woman is all the rage amongst the women of Highcoal and is a most excellent line of cosmetics. But if it does not suit, perhaps you could visit Susan, the preacher’s wife, who represents the line of cosmetics known as Mary Kay.” Omar searched under his counter and produced a business card. “If you call this most enterprising woman, she will attend to you in your very home.”
Song took the card. “I’m sorry we do not see eye to eye politically,” she said, every word perfectly slurred.
Omar grinned, displaying an excellent set of healthy teeth. “Yet we are friends! And you are married to someone who does not believe anything that you believe! Only in America is such a thing possible!”
Song realized she was exhausted and possibly somewhat drunk. “You have been most helpful,” she replied, carefully enunciating since her tongue seemed to have thickened to the size of the milk cow in the pasture. Then, thinking to salvage at least something of her encounter with Omar, she added, “I just want you to know I respect and admire the Muslim faith.”
“Do you? I am a Lebanese Christian,” Omar replied. “A Muslim man murdered my grandfather. Of course, my grandfather murdered that man’s brother. It is so nice to live in Highcoal where hardly anyone murders anyone else. May I show you perhaps some shampoo for your hair?”
A few minutes later, Song exited the store carrying a brown paper bag that contained a large bottle of Coal Country Woman shampoo, Coal Country Woman soap, Coal Country Woman deodorant, and Coal Country Woman Guaranteed to Make Your Skin Soft as a Calf lotion. At the curb, Young Henry was waiting for her in his
mother’s truck. Between Song and the truck was a crowd of townsfolk, including several off-duty miners identified by their black helmets. They gawked at her, and some held their noses.
“Don’t pay them no mind, ma’am!” Young Henry cried. “Hop in!”
Song threaded her way through the townsfolk, listening to their buzz: “That’s Cable’s new wife? I heard she’s snotty. But why’s she so dirty? What’s that smell? She ain’t like I pictured. She looks more like a boy. Is she Oriental? She looks Oriental. She’s Japanese, I think. No, Chinese! I bet four days, how about you?”
Song climbed into the truck, pulled the door shut, and vaguely waved down the road. “Take me home, Young Henry.” Then she giggled. “You know, I think I’m a little drunk.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Young Henry replied, waving away the fumes of the ouzo mixed with the odor of cow.
“What did that man mean when he said I bet four days?”
“It’s stupid,” Young Henry said. “People are betting how many days you’re going to stay.”
“But I’m here for a week. Why didn’t you tell them?”
Young Henry shrugged. “I told you it was stupid.”
As they passed the mine, Song spotted Cable walking across the grounds, his head down, his hands behind his back. He was in an obvious hurry to get wherever he was going. “Stop, Young Henry!” Song commanded.
Startled, the boy hit the brakes. “What’s wrong?”
“Gotta talk with my husband. Right now. Not gonna wait!” Song flung open the door. “You know why?” When the boy didn’t say anything, she said, “’Cause I love him. What do you think of that, Young Henry?”
“I don’t think now’s the time, ma’am,” Young Henry replied.
“Oh, what do you know?” Song demanded, and slammed the door shut. “You’re just a boy!”
Song walked unsteadily through the gate and headed for the low brick building she’d seen Cable enter. All of a sudden, everything was crystal clear. She loved Cable and he loved her. He was absolutely right. Why make an easy thing hard? This problem of location could be worked out. Maybe they’d share their time between New York and Highcoal. Yes, that was it! Why hadn’t she thought of that before? She also realized that she was, well, very, very needful for Cable in a quite physical way. With tears of joy, sudden knowledge, and wifely lust, not to mention ouzo, filling every fiber of her being, she ran up the steps and burst inside. In a room to the right was a little man in a white helmet pecking at the keyboard of a desktop computer. At her sudden appearance, a shocked expression crossed his molelike face. Song knew instantly who it was.