Digging Out
Authors: Katherine Leiner
IGGING
O
UT
IGGING
O
UT
K
A T H E R I N E
L
E I N E R
F
ICTION FOR THE
W
AY
W
E
L
IVE
Written by today’s freshest new talents and selected by New American Library, NAL Accent novels touch on subjects close to a woman’s heart, from friendship to family to finding our place in the world. The Conversation Guides included in each book are intended to enrich the individual reading experience, as well as encourage us to explore these topics together—because books, and life, are meant for sharing.
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NAL Accent
Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England
First published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, March 2004
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © Katherine Leiner, 2004
Conversation Guide copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2004
All rights reserved
Page 291 constitutes an extension of this copyright page.
 |
| FICTION FOR THE WAY WE LIVE |
| REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA |
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Leiner, Katherine.
Digging out / Katherine Leiner.
p. cm.
EISBN: 9781101573686
1. Accident victims—Family relationships—Fiction. 2. Loss (Psychology)—Fiction. 3. Women immigrants—Fiction. 4. Welsh Americans—Fiction. 5. Mine accidents—Fiction. 6. Women poets—Fiction. 7. Wales—Fiction. I. Title. PS3562.E46144D54 2004
813’.54—dc22 2003019336
Set in Sabon and Stone Sans
Designed by Daniel Lagin
Printed in the United States of America
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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In memory of
Miles Budd Goodman (1949-96)
CKNOWLEDGMENTS
I
am deeply grateful to the following: My agent, Marcy Posner, whose enormous sensitivity, support and competence is boundless. My editor, Claire Zion, for her careful reading and intelligent notes. Tina Brown, for gathering the pieces. Regina Castillo. The Capelins lent me their beautiful home to write in for two summers in Durango, Colorado. Barbara Klema walked with me there, every morning. Julie Gates, Pat Nicholas and Mary Lee Gowland read early drafts. Bill Manning pushed when I most needed it. Sandi Gelles Cole gave me copious notes. My parents and sister, Stanley, Margie and Marie Gewirtz, did what most parents and sisters don’t do: they listened. My children, Dylan Leiner and Makenna Goodman—are fast becoming my best friends. Jane Mendez. Miriam Nij. Naomi Gourley. Lynn Eames. Louise Edwards. David Field. Julien Gervreau. Dr. William Haas, who walks me through the mechanics and strategy of numbers among other rigorous mental activities. Dr. Helen Wolff and Dr. Thayer Greene, who helped grow me up. Joyce Ravid, my first NYC friend. Nancy Kramer, Ginko and Luna, for NYC solace and friendship. Christina Erteszek for everything. Leslie Lee. Barbara Symmons, my dearest Welsh friend. Michael Leiner, who long ago made Caerphilly, Wales, home for me. And last but really first, my Monday morning comrades, who read, listen and comment endlessly, and without whom my writing would never see the light of day: Janie Furse, Bette Glenn, Marilyn Kaye, Anne Adams Lang, Joanne McFarland, Lavinia Plotkin, Gretta Sabinson and Michele Willens. To all of you, my love and thanks.
UTHOR’S
N
OTE
T
his book was inspired by a mining disaster that actually happened in Aberfan, Wales. However, I have changed the dates and the chronology to give my invented characters a chance to explore the impact of a tragedy of this magnitude in the world I’ve created. I offer this book as a tribute to those who survived and persevere.
Faith
I want to write about faith,
about the way the moon rises
over cold snow, night after night,
faithful even as it fades from fullness,
slowly becoming that last curving and impossible
sliver of light before the final darkness.
But I have no faith myself
I refuse it the smallest entry.
Let this then, my small poem,
like a new moon, slender and barely open,
be the first prayer that opens me to faith.
—David Whyte
I always think I can smell death, feel it around a corner, see it before it happens. I am always waiting for it to strike. I live like a ghost-rider, galloping just in front of it.
—Alys Davies
ROLOGUE
A
BERFAN,
W
ALES
O
CTOBER 20, 1972
“C
ome on now, Arthur, ‘tis an absolutely miserable day out. Look there, the mist gathering so low in the valley. When I went out to fetch the milk bottles, I couldn’t see my own steps back, and it’s cold, like, too. Go on then. Have a look if you don’t believe me. You can’t make Alys go to school in this weather. She doesn’t feel right, Arthur. She’s still feverish.”
“She’s going, Rita. I’ve made up my mind.”
The door bangs shut behind us. The hard drizzle pinpricks against my face. And the dark quiet is too cold and damp even for birds. I trail Da, slow, hoping he will change his mind and let me go home. It’s not fair.
“Come along then, Alys. Don’t dawdle now. You don’t want to be late.”
“Da … “
“Come now, it’s the last day before half term. You’ll have a whole week to get better in,” he says.
And then I’ll play with Hallie every day, I will. No one to stop me.
“Button up now, Alys. Your mam’s right—’tis bitter. You don’t want to catch your death, like.”
At Hallie’s, Da lets me go knock and we wait on the steps. Mr. Ames, who lives just down the road, appears.
“Trouble today?” he asks.
“Expecting some. Hope not, but I’m prepared if there is,” Da says.
I want to turn home. Why is Da making me go? My head hurts.
My neck hurts. I wish Parry was walking me to school. He’d let me go home. He’s a good brother like that.
Mr. Ames looks at his watch.
“It’s half past the hour, man. We’re late for the shift.”
“Know it. You go, Ames. I’ll be along,” Da says, giving him a slap on the back.
Hallie comes out then, her yellow hair in pigtails tied with the red ribbons Beti just gave her when she turned eight a few weeks ago. I am nine months older. I hug her and her lunch pail digs into my side. “What you got there, Hallie?”
“It’s a ham roll Mam made. Where’s yours, then?”
“I was staying home again, but Da made me come out and I forgot it.”
“I’ll share mine,” Hallie says, taking my hand.
Da reaches into his pocket and gives me a shilling for milk.
Here comes Evan.
“On my way to the mine,” he shouts, waving at Da, looking like a ghost walking toward us in the mist. “There’s my girl. Pretty as a picture.” I look up quickly and smile at Evan, Parry’s best friend. It doesn’t seem like he is mad at Da, like Parry is. They shake hands.
I ask to see Hallie’s ham roll, whispering in her ear, “Parry said yesterday Auntie Beryl was holding a sign telling people to take their children home.”
“I saw it. What’s it mean?”
I shrug.
“My da calls your auntie Beryl a ‘do-gooder.” Hallie laughs. “Says she’s always getting into the middle of things, stirring things up, like.”
“Well, she’s not. She’s just, well, she’s Auntie Beryl, that’s all. Gram says she’s trying to make the world a safer place for us,” I argue.
No matter what Hallie’s da or anyone else says about her, I love Auntie Beryl, wild skirts, red hair and all.
But just now there is no one wild around or anyone we don’t know. No signs. Just mams and das dropping off. Billy and Bonnie Sykes, Peter Davies, Sarah Keane, Lola Finnian making their way through the school doors.
“It seems quiet enough,” Da says, pushing his cap back on his head, sounding pleased. I look up at him, a last try. He can tell I don’t want to go in. “Remember now, ‘tis the last day, today is, before
break. And ‘tisn’t even a full day. You can do it. Off you go, now, Alys. Be a good girl, then.”
His soft lips and rough cheek against mine as he kisses it make me feel better.