Red Helmet

  Song sat in one of the rockers on the porch and wondered what she was going to do with herself for the rest of the day. She looked at Cable’s roadster parked outside the garage. Presuming she could drive it, where would she go? To visit Cable at the mine? He hadn’t invited her there. She could cruise through town, but she’d already done that coming in, and what good would that do? Somebody might spit chewing tobacco at her and she couldn’t take any more of that! Horseback riding appealed to her. She could saddle Trixie and take a turn around the pasture. It would pass a little time, at least. She was thinking about that when a battered brown pickup truck rattled up the driveway. Every truck Song had seen so far in Highcoal had been beat-up. She wondered if they came that way.

  A woman in blue jeans, a plaid shirt, and a wide-brimmed canvas hat, not to mention a confident air, stepped out of the truck.

  “Mrs. Jordan, I presume,” she said, then without waiting for an invitation, climbed the steps to the porch and stuck out her hand. “I’m Doctor Gloria Kaminsky, or Doctor K, as they call me around here. Welcome to Highcoal. I must say, you are a lovely young woman, and I am pleased that Cable has done so well. Surprised, but pleased.”

  Doctor K shook Song’s hand vigorously, then took off her hat to wipe the sweat from her forehead, revealing a mop of bright red hair that looked as if it had been cut by a dull knife. Song presumed the doctor didn’t care much about her looks, although she had an interesting face, and a lot could be done with her hair. Her figure was a bit pear-shaped, but a little work in the gym could probably solve that.

  “Young Henry told me about you,” Song said. “He says you go inside the mine.”

  “I do, indeed,” Doctor K confirmed, plopping her hat back on, “and take care of everybody around here who’ll let me. It’s a full-time job. No, two full-time jobs. I’ve long since given up on the sleep cycle entirely.”

  “May I offer you a cup of coffee?” Song asked.

  The suggestion was greeted with an agreeable nod of the doctor’s head. “That would be much appreciated.”

  Song went to the kitchen, poured a cup for the doctor, refilled hers, and brought them back to the porch. By then, Doctor K was sprawled in one of the rockers, fanning herself with her big hat. The sun was already making itself felt, and the day was going to be a hot one. The doctor took the cup from Song, then greedily drank from it.

  “Ah. Elixir of the gods. I needed that.”

  Song’s job often required her to sit across a table from an executive and decipher, sometimes based on body language or facial expressions, the person’s characteristics, especially, their strengths and weaknesses. She saw in the doctor’s blue-green eyes a strong intellect, and in her Romanesque nose a certain nobility. But her lips twitched with what Song suspected was a sardonic sense of humor. The doctor reminded Song, in a vague way, of the actress Meryl Streep. Song suspected that here was a woman who would be interesting to have as a friend, not that she intended being in Highcoal long enough for that to happen.

  The doctor didn’t say anything, just sat there sipping her coffee with obvious pleasure.

  “It’s good of you to visit,” Song said after the silence had stretched on. “What’s it like to be a doctor here?”

  Doctor K eyed Song over the rim of the cup. “Crazy, insane, maddening—but ultimately satisfying,” she said. “I’d be pleased to wax on about it, believe me, but my time is limited. I have my rounds to make. I have an office in the back of Omar’s, but around here, a doctor still makes house calls. Anyhoo, to cases. I’m here to talk about you, not me.”

  While Song absorbed the doctor’s intention, Doctor K took another sip of coffee, then said, “I thought you should know something. There was—how shall I put it?—an event at the Cardinal Hotel this morning. Cable was involved. Don’t worry. He’s fine. So is Bashful. George Puckett’s his real name. Everybody around here has a nickname. Bashful is what he’s called because he’s anything but. Always bragging about this and that. Hits on every female in town, even me, who’s old enough to be his mother. Owns a couple of gas drilling rigs and he thinks that makes him a big man. Cable came into the Cardinal this morning for breakfast just as Bashful was holding forth on—ta-da—you. There were no punches thrown, but some pretty loud words were spoken.” Doctor K leaned forward and looked Song in the eye. “Bashful said you were snotty and a pure little witch.”

  Song frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, snotty means aloof. Pure means one hundred percent. Little in your case means, ah, diminutive. Witch means . . .”

  “I know what the words mean! But I’ve only met a miner named Bossman, a cook named Rhonda, and her son, Young Henry! How did this Bashful person decide I was one hundred percent or fifty percent or even ten percent a snotty little witch?”

  “I understand your confusion,” Doctor K said. “You have to understand in a town like Highcoal, anything anyone does is almost instantly disseminated to nearly everyone else. And, of course, a new someone in town is even more intensely studied. So, here’s the gossip on you. Bossman said he accidentally got your blouse dirty and you went on and on about it to him, then sulked in Cable’s car. Wouldn’t even say good-bye, kiss my foot, or anything else. People around here don’t like it when a newbie insults the top foreman of the mine, and that would be Bossman.”

  Song provided a defense. “But I just told him how much my blouse cost. And I didn’t sulk. He spit tobacco juice and it made me sick.”

  Doctor K provided an encouraging smile. “I believe you, honey. I’m just telling you what’s being said. Part two of the gossip. Rhonda said you didn’t like her food and griped about it.”

  Song was getting angry. “I didn’t gripe. I told her it was too rich for me. Am I supposed to be dishonest?” She shook her head. “So Bossman and Rhonda hate me.”

  “No, honey,” Doctor K said. “They don’t hate you at all. This is just the way Highcoal works. People tell stories on other people. It’s a major part of what passes for entertainment.”

  Song absorbed the information, then asked, “How about Young Henry? What did he say about me?”

  “Oh, he said you were nice. But he’s just a boy. His opinion doesn’t count.”

  Song processed the situation. “All of a sudden, I feel like I’m under a microscope.”

  Doctor K vigorously nodded. “You are! Being married to Cable, you’re like Caesar’s wife. He’s the most important man in this town and that means you have to be perfect in every way or gossip is going to ensue.”

  “This is so not fair.”

  “Gossip is never fair, or it wouldn’t be gossip. Now, if you’ll indulge me, I have a few questions for you. Do you mind telling me where you went to college?”

  “MIT, then Princeton. But what—?”

  “Degree?”

  Song shrugged. “Bachelor’s in physics. Master’s in business administration. How about you?”

  “Virginia Tech for premed, Johns Hopkins Medical School. What did you do before you became Cable’s wife?”

  “It’s what I still do. I’m the property and acquisitions manager for HawkinsSong. That’s my father’s investment company. He buys and sells companies, and I choose which ones.”

  “Everybody’s heard of Joe Hawkins. Are you any good at your job or just a beneficiary of his nepotism?”

  “Within two years of taking over I streamlined the division, oversaw a dozen new acquisitions, and made my father a lot richer.”

  “How did you and Cable meet?”

  Song studied the woman. “Why the interrogation, Doctor?”

  “Cable’s pretty tight-lipped. The people of Highcoal don’t know much about you. I want to carry a good report back, get the ball rolling in your favor.”

  “Why? What’s your interest in helping me?”

  “I like Cable.”

  “You don’t like me?” Song was a little plaintive.

  “I don’t know yet. You come across as tough, New York–style, but I
think there’s a softer side of you hiding out.”

  “I’m complicated,” Song confessed. “I always have been.”

  “Here in Highcoal, it’s best not to be too combative over little things that don’t suit. You have to kind of roll with the punches, if you get my meaning.”

  “You’re saying I have to keep my mouth zipped. That’s hard for a New York girl, Doctor.”

  “Honey will catch more West Virginia flies than vinegar, Song.”

  “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

  “How did you and our mine superintendent get together?”

  “We met in Times Square. I was bowled over by a street dancer and Cable picked me up off the sidewalk.”

  “Cute way to meet,” the doctor said. “When was that?”

  “About six months ago.”

  The doctor gave Song’s answer some thought. “That must have been right after he broke up with the governor.”

  Song blinked. “What does that mean?”

  “Cable and the governor. Michelle Godfrey. You know.”

  “Honestly, I have no clue.”

  Doctor K took on a worried expression. “It seems I’m in a dangerous area here. It would be better if you talked to Cable.”

  “Finish your story,” Song demanded.

  Doctor K drummed her fingers on the arm of the rocking chair, then provided a shrug. “Well, I guess you’ll hear about it from somebody. Might as well be old busy-body Doctor K. Governor Michelle Godfrey and Cable were an item until about six months ago. I guess that’s when you entered the picture. You sure Cable never mentioned her?”

  “This is the first I’ve heard.” A sense of foreboding was creeping up Song’s spine.

  “Huh,” the doctor grunted. “Slipped his mind, I guess. Men have minds like steel sieves when it come to former girlfriends. Do you know anything about our governor?”

  “Until this moment, I only suspected West Virginia might have one.”

  “You’ve heard of Birch Godfrey, maybe? He represented West Virginia for about a thousand years in the U.S. Senate. Ten years ago, Godfrey’s wife died and a year later, he met and married Michelle, who at the time owned a big real estate company near Washington. She moved to Charleston, whereupon she became the instant leader of everything cultural in our capital city. The symphony, opera, all the arts, it didn’t matter. She was always there with her checkbook out. She became extremely popular. When the senator died three years ago, she was urged to run for his seat. The way I understand it, she didn’t want to leave Charleston, so she announced for governor. Then, even though all the pundits said she didn’t have a chance, she won in a landslide! As they say in these hills, whoda thunk it?”

  Song absorbed the account, then went to the heart of the matter. “What does she look like and did Cable sleep with her?”

  “Looks? Great figure if you like the hourglass variety, blonde from a bottle, and big blue eyes. Sleep? From what I hear, a man probably doesn’t get much sleep around her. Oops. There I go. More Highcoal gossip. It’s contagious, I fear.”

  “I think I hate her,” Song said, the truth too strong to hold back. “And, at this moment, maybe Cable too.”

  Doctor K shrugged. “Hate Cable? For what? He’s a man, honey, that’s all. For about a year, she and Cable were in the paper all the time, going here and there around the state for this and that. Most folks in Highcoal were certain they were going to get married, and it made the locals plenty proud. Michelle is very popular here. But then she pulled the plug on Cable. It’s just what she does. She’s gone through a string of handsome men. Maybe she found a new one. Anyhoo, Cable’s time was up.” She glanced at Song. “But now he’s done better, hasn’t he?”

  “It seems I don’t know my husband very well,” Song said in a voice as small as she felt.

  Doctor K cocked her head and smiled encouragingly. “Oh, come now. That all happened before he met you. He didn’t marry Governor Godfrey. He married you, and that’s all that matters.”

  “I need to talk to my husband.” Song abruptly rose from the rocker, dropping her cup, which broke into pieces. She ignored it, even though it was a metaphor for her heart at that moment. “I need to clear this up between us. The gossip about me, the governor, everything.”

  “Cable’s in the mine by now,” Doctor K replied gently. “Won’t be out until late in the afternoon.”

  “I don’t care. I’ll go to the mine and wait for him.” She looked at Cable’s car. “If I can drive that thing.”

  The doctor placed her cup on the banister and stood up. “Look, I’m headed back to town, then going on my rounds. I’ll give you a lift to the mine. You can wait in Cable’s office. Might be a good idea, anyway. You’ll meet some of his men. When they get a look at you, I think they’ll like what they see.”

  “I don’t care what they like,” Song growled. She thought about that for a second, then said, “Was that snotty of me to say?”

  Doctor K smiled. “I’ve decided I like you. You ready to go?”

  Song went straight to the doctor’s truck and climbed in. The floor on the passenger side was littered with crunched cola cans and candy bar wrappers. She also had to straddle Doctor K’s big black medical bag. She didn’t care. She needed to see Cable. She strapped on her seatbelt while the doctor turned the truck around, steered it down the driveway to the access road, then turned onto the highway. “I got sick on the drive in yesterday,” Song warned.

  “Look in my glove compartment,” the doctor said. “You’ll find some chewing gum. It’ll help. When I first came here and started driving around these hills, I might as well have been bulimic I threw up so much. You’ll get used to it.”

  “I won’t be here long enough to get used to anything,” Song said, popping the gum in her mouth. Then she looked at the doctor. “Snotty again, huh?”

  The doctor’s radio crackled. “Hey, Doctor K,” a rich male voice intoned. “You out there with your ears on?”

  The doctor plucked the mike off its holder. “That you, Constable?”

  “Sure enough, Doc,” came the laconic reply. “Got a situation up on Harper Mountain. Seems Bashful decided to drill in Squirrel’s front yard this morning and got some bullet holes in his rig for his trouble. The state po-lice are on their way loaded for bear, and Squirrel’s the bear. Might be somebody’s going to get themselves hurt before this is done. Can you come by like right now?”

  “Be there in a few,” Doctor K replied. She hung up the mike, then looked at Song. “Hang on.”

  “For what?” Song asked, just as the doctor jammed on the brake and twisted the steering wheel hard over at the same time, whipping the truck completely around, end for end, with blue smoke erupting from its tires as they shrieked in protest. Then she stomped on the accelerator, which produced more screams from the spinning tires.

  “What are you doing?” Song yelled over the cries of the tortured rubber and the thunder of the truck’s big engine.

  “Duty calls,” the doctor said calmly, as she steered madly through a series of curves going back up the mountain.

  “Let me out!”

  “No time. If there’s going to be shooting, I’ve got to get there ASAP.”

  “But I don’t want to go where there’s shooting!”

  Doctor K gave Song’s objection some thought. “That’s reasonable,” she said, but she didn’t slow down.

  Eight

  Doctor K’s truck flew over the crest of the mountain, skidded around yet another bend, then into a series of curves, bottoming out into a twisting, narrow valley and soaring up another mountain. Despite the wild gyrations, Song didn’t get sick, mainly because she was absorbed in her thinking and generally being miserable about Cable’s infidelity before they met. It was something of a surprise when at last the doctor hit the brakes and the truck slid to a stop.

  “We’re here.”

  Song peered through the truck’s bug-splattered windshield. In a patch of raw brown dirt was a ramshackle,
unpainted shack with a sagging porch. Beside it sat a rusty pickup truck, perched atop cinder blocks, and behind it, she saw the boom of a tow truck sticking above the patched roof. Lawn ornaments decorated the dirt in the front yard, including plaster gnomes, windmills, birdhouses, and a statue of Jesus with hands pressed together, his eyes toward the sky, a resigned expression on his bearded face. There was another vehicle in the yard, a big blue truck with a great deal of complicated machinery on its bed. A plastic pink flamingo was flattened beneath one of its front tires.

  On the other side of the road was a black and white police car, the lights flashing blue and red. A heavyset man in a gray-green uniform was leaning against its fender. He had his hands jammed in his pockets and was pondering the house.

  “That would be the constable,” Doctor K said. “The town sheriff, you might say, but paid by the coal company. And this would be the Harper place.” She nodded toward the shack. “The Harpers have lived on this mountain for about two hundred years and they’re fanatic about it. Bashful should have known better than to drill in Squirrel’s yard.”

  “Why is he called Squirrel?”

  “I have no idea. He’s a good old fellow, although a little short-tempered. Used to run a lot of moonshine. Now he has a tow-truck business. His boys, Ford and Chevrolet, have been fighting in some God-forsaken desert somewhere for the army. I think they’re due home any day. Be nice if we kept their father alive for them.”

  Song noticed three men wearing yellow helmets crouched in a ditch behind the constable’s car. “Who are they?”

  “Bashful and a couple of his drillers.”

  “So now what?”

  “That’s up to the constable. Would you like to meet him?”

  “Does he think I’m a one-hundred-percent snotty little witch?”

  “Pure.”

  “What?”

  “You should say pure, not one hundred percent, if you want to get the mountain vernacular down pat.”