Skip Rock Shallows (10 page)

Tern Still yawned mightily. Faint rays of light pierced the early morning gloom as he walked to work. He took off his cap and reseated it. Man, it was already hot for so early in the day. He couldn’t remember the last time it had rained. He was so beat, he could barely figure what day it was. He flexed his right arm, testing the muscle. It was sore as a bad tooth. And even though he’d flushed his eyes with an eyecup last evening, he was still wiping grit from the corners.

Yesterday’s assignment had made him ill at ease. Mr. James tapped him to bore shot holes in the face above the cut for inserting explosives to blow down the seam. He’d spent hours working in Number 5 with a breast auger. The bruise on his chest bore witness. He didn’t mind the work, but being singled out for such an exacting duty set him apart. Leaning into the breastplate while turning the long drill took finesse as well as muscle and marked him as an expert . . . and he didn’t need the attention.

He made his way to the lamp house, where the gear was stored and serviced. As he came alongside the building, he heard angry voices and paused by an open window. He didn’t want to interrupt, but he didn’t want to be late to work either. He needed to step inside and get his tally markers. Before every shift, each employee took several brass tags with identical numbers stamped on them, pinned a set to his clothing, and put a single one on a small hook on the name board. He’d hang his under Joe Repp. It came to him how foolish that was; it wasn’t like anyone would come to claim his dead body if he got crushed or poisoned. Not a person would know his true identity outside of the government agency for which he worked, and they would never blow his cover.

Oh, well, it was strictly his decision to go underground—in more ways than one. His family, such as it was, wouldn’t miss him anyway. He hadn’t seen his brothers in years, and it was his fervent wish to never to think about his father again.

Beyond the window, the argument raged on, calling his attention. Tern rested the bottom of one foot against the outside wall and leaned back, waiting. He could make out Stanley James’s voice. That didn’t surprise him because Mr. James kept his desk in the lamp house instead of in the office building. He wanted to stay close to the men. Tern respected him for that.

Tern’s ears pricked and he chanced a quick look through the grimy glass pane. Mr. James had his back to the window. A short, bald man thrust one finger toward Mr. James’s chest, punctuating his bossy commands. He had to be a company man—a big shot from the Black Lump Coal Company—who made a living off the backs of others. Tern could tell by his shiny suit and the way a stub of a cigar bobbed in the corner of his mouth.

“They’re not animals!” Mr. James said. “They’ve souls just like you—or maybe not. I ain’t for certain sure the company hires men with souls to oversee the real workers.” Tern could fairly see steam coming out of his ears. “That’d make your job a sight easier, wouldn’t it, if you didn’t have to answer to the Lord?”

“You’ll do as you’re told if you want to keep your job,” the suit warned, his voice suddenly as cold as a blue moon in winter. The stub of his cigar arced through the window, barely missing Tern’s right ear.

The office door banged open. Tern crept to the rain barrel at the corner of the building and crouched down where he could see but not be seen.

“At what price are you reopening Number 4?” Mr. James asked. “These men got wives and families depending upon them.”

“There’s plenty more where they came from. Now paddle or suck mud.” The man struck a match against the porch railing and lit a fresh smoke. He inhaled a lungful, then drew another cigar from his inside jacket pocket and offered it to Mr. James.

Mr. James dropped the cigar to the floor of the porch and crushed it with the heel of his boot. Tern held his breath.

The company man’s eyes turned hard and mean as a hungry coyote’s. “It doesn’t matter a whit to me or to Black Lump who supervises this setup, James. We’ve been pleased with you up to this point. Your outfit produces more clean bituminous coal than any other in the state, but don’t think you’re irreplaceable.”

He stomped down the steps and snapped his stubby fingers just once. His flunky jumped to the hitching post and unhitched the two horses tethered there.

Tern rose slightly, holding on to the barrel for support. He thought the company man looked much bigger astride the powerful roan.

“Next man supervising this team won’t be a local; I can tell you that.” The fellow flung the words over his shoulder between sucks on the cigar, puffs of gray ringing his head like smoke signals.

As the company man rode off, Mr. James kicked the door. It banged shut against the frame, then bounced open, hitting him square in the chest. He didn’t curse, though; Tern gave him credit for that.

“Whatcha hiding from?”

Startled by the voice at his back, Tern tipped the rain barrel. Water sloshed over the rim, pouring into his work boots before he righted it. “Just stopped to tie my shoe,” he said, standing. His feet made squelching noises as he went around the corner and into the lamp house, but he wasn’t about to give Elbows the satisfaction of seeing him empty his boots. Now he’d have to work all day in wet shoes. His feet would be as sore as his arm by suppertime.

Elbows clung like a shadow as Tern sorted through the tags. Tern liked to use the same one each time. It was why he tried to get to the lamp house early—before anyone else took number 10. If he didn’t snag those particular ones, he’d be uneasy all day.

Elbows stuck his arm around Tern and plucked a random set from the bucket. Tern shoved his arm away.

“You’re particular as a girl,” Elbows said as he hung his tally ticket on the board. “Must be why you always smell so good.” He slapped his knee and cackled at his joke on Tern.

As Tern’s hand tensed around the number 10 tags, the ache in his arm increased. He wanted in the worst way to punch Elbows in the nose. “It’s called soap,” he said, nearly cutting his tongue on the edge in his voice. “You should try it sometime.”

“Don’t see why,” Elbows said. “The more grease you got on you, the better you slide through them tight places. Besides, the girls like a manly man.”

Elbows parodied straightening his collar and slicking back his dirty hair. “You got a girl, Joe? Or are you too pretty for our women? Maybe you should try the new doc. She might be more your style.” Elbows threw back his head and crowed like a banty rooster. “You better hurry up if you do, for I’d like a taste of that myself.”

Tern saw red, but before he could react, Mr. James’s chair scraped the floor as he pushed back from his desk. In a flash, he grabbed Elbows by the arm and half dragged him to the door. “That gal’s under my care, you little weasel,” Mr. James said, flinging Elbows out onto the porch. “Now get out of here before I fire your sorry butt.”

Elbows landed on his knees before scrambling to his feet. “Sorry, boss,” he said, mewling like a sick cat. “A man’s gotta have some fun now and then. I meant no harm.”

Mr. James stalked back into the room, pushed his chair in place, and sat down heavily. “I’m pulling you out of the new operation, Repp. Company wants Number 4 reopened and I need a man to lead a team. Think you’re up for the job?”

“Sure, Mr. James, anything you want.”

“Pick you a crew. I don’t care who, but pick careful.” Mr. James flicked a pencil with his index finger. The pencil skittered across the desk and landed on the floor.

Tern picked it up and put it back. “Do you think the men will answer to me—me being new and all?”

“They will if they want to keep their jobs. I’m naming you because there’s something true about the way you handle yourself. And you’re cautious—you’ll need to be in Number 4. I don’t trust that mine a’tall.”

So why work it?
Tern wondered.
Why not tell the company men to go hang themselves?
He heard a clot of miners talking as they passed the open window. That was why, of course. Times were hard and men needed work, work that kept food on the table. Miners had always taken their chances. They always would.

Mr. James stroked his stubbly chin and looked square into Tern’s eyes. Tern matched his stare.

“That’s settled, then,” Mr. James said. “Your pay will take another boost. I suspect you’ll be happy about that.”

“Yeah, of course.” He tipped his cap. “Thanks, Mr. James. I won’t let you down.”

“Stanley. Call me Stanley.”

“Sure thing—Stanley.”

Left shoulder leading, Tern shoved through the men who were coming in. He saw Elbows dusting dirt from the knees of his pants before looking up to give Tern a knowing smirk.

Tern choked on anger hot and thick as coal smoke. Acting nonchalant, he walked until he was hidden from sight behind a massive oak tree. He should have throttled Elbows for daring to mention Lilly! Instead he stood by impotently as Mr. James stepped in to defend her. Just as he stood by when his father kidnapped Lilly all those years ago.

His anger waned like a dying storm, leaving him feeling small and useless. Composing himself, Tern unscrewed the bottom half of his lamp. The container was full of fresh carbide. The upper chamber held water. He checked the lever on top of the lamp that, when open, allowed the water to drip onto the carbide, releasing a gas that would ignite when the flint striker sparked. Satisfied, he affixed the squat lantern to his soft-billed cap. Suddenly he couldn’t wait to get back to the cool, dark depths of the mine.

Obviously Lilly was fine. She didn’t need, nor would she ever want, for him to champion her. He was twice a fool to even consider it. Best lose himself in his work—forget the past and forget the girl who would never be his. Unwittingly, Stanley James had given him the perfect opportunity to see what came first in the Skip Rock operation: safety or money.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t understand Stanley’s quandary—he walked a line as dangerous as a tightrope over a chasm. Understanding didn’t change Tern’s mission, however. Ultimately he would turn Stanley in if need be. He was here to study the safety of the mines, and Number 4 was decidedly unsafe. His responsibility was to the government and to the safety of all miners, not just the ones at Skip Rock.

Tern cast his personal feelings aside as if they were little more than a ragged coat. He passed by the huge wooden tipple just as a load of coal thundered down the long chute into waiting railcars. He stopped to watch. A chunk of the black magic popped over the side of the chute and landed with a thunk at his feet. He jumped back, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. With its elongated, narrow body, the tipple put him in mind of a praying mantis, mesmerizing yet at the same time strangely menacing.

Walking on, he approached the boarded-up entrance to the number 4 mine. Behind those boards lay the richest seams of coal he’d ever seen. His mind whirled with possibility, and despite himself he began to feel excited. What if it could become a safe mine? That would give him some satisfaction. It would be nice to report something positive to the agency for a change.

Or if it went the other way and he had to turn Benedict Arnold, so be it. Maybe he went at finding truth in a backhanded way, but his motive was pure. Let the chips fall where they may.

It was going to be a hot day. Hot and busy. Lilly cracked the door to get some air as she dressed in a handkerchief-linen blouse and a camel-colored five-gored linen skirt. It was just too muggy to wear her usual dark-blue serge. She slipped her newly polished shoes on over lisle stockings.

A bowl of grits steamed on the table. Lilly didn’t have an appetite for grits, but she stirred a pat of butter into the bowl and added a pinch of salt. She didn’t want to hurt Myrtie’s feelings. On a morning like this in Lexington, her aunt Alice’s cook would have served a medley of fresh berries with a little pitcher of nutmeg cream along with bite-size bran muffins.

Lilly couldn’t help but miss the convenience of living in the city. She wondered if Boston would be anything like Lexington. By this time next year, she’d be living there with Paul.

Paul—she’d meant to reply to his most recent letter last evening. She knew he’d want to discuss her upcoming trip to meet his family. The letter had been waiting on the table when she came in from the Eldridges’. The last thing she remembered was slitting the flap of the envelope with the letter opener and sliding the one page out. She had fallen asleep before reading it, with the coal-oil lamp still burning on her bedside table.

She spooned a bite of grits and went to get the letter. She could read it while she ate. Now where was it? Maybe it had gotten underneath the cover when she made the bed. Kneeling, she ran her hand under the counterpane. There was nothing there. She was just about to lift the crocheted dust ruffle when she heard a voice calling from the yard.

“Doc! Doc!” someone screamed. “Hurry fast. Timmy’s getting kilt!”

Timmy? She knew Timmy Blair. The boy was always in one sort of trouble or another. Just a few days ago she’d removed a thorn from his foot and, before that, a bean from up his nose. Timmy had a passel of cousins who’d all watched his minor procedure appreciatively. “Oh,” they’d said in unison when she pulled the sprouted bean from Timmy’s unusual garden.

Lilly grabbed her bag. The girl on her stoop was Timmy’s older sister, Jenny. “What’s he gotten into now?”

“He was holding the cow’s tail while Mommy milked, and next thing you know, Bossy was towing him down the hillside,” the girl said as they hurried along. “Mommy turned over the milk bucket in her haste to run after him. She caught Bossy, but now she can’t get Timmy loose. Him and Bossy both are all tore up from where that crazy cow drug him straight through a briar patch.”

“What do you mean, she can’t get him loose?”

“His hand’s caught up in Bossy’s flyswatter. Hurry, Doc,” the girl urged. “If that cow gets bit again, Mommy won’t be able to hold her back. It’ll sure enough be the death of Timmy. Bossy fairly hates horseflies.”

Lilly was learning that nothing that happened in Skip Rock happened in private. She and Jenny were attracting quite a following, and more people were waiting at the farm just outside of town. You would have thought a circus had come to town the way folks were congregating on this side of the split-rail fence around the Blairs’ cow pasture. On the other side of the fence a bull snorted a keep-away warning as he pawed the ground. People were shouting and pointing toward the far pasture, which seemed to agitate the animal even more.

The sight of the bull brought Lilly up short. He was solid black except for the cream-colored horns that stuck out on either side of his massive head. She wouldn’t do Timmy much good from the end of one of those horns.

Mr. James and another man climbed the fence. Mr. James picked up a stout stick and faced the bull. Lilly followed Jenny along the outside of the fence to the gate. The man held it open and allowed them through, but he kept his eyes on the angry bull. There would be mayhem if the animal escaped the pen. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll keep him away.”

Jenny didn’t hesitate but ran straight down the hill. Lilly followed. At the fence line, shaded by a grove of trees, were Timmy, his mother, and the infamous Bossy. Mrs. Blair held a length of rope, which was looped around the cow’s neck. At the business end of the animal, Timmy waited.

“Hey, Doc,” he said. “Am I glad to see you.”

“Bossy won’t let anybody near,” Mrs. Blair said. “She’s about to pull my shoulder plumb out of the socket.”

The cow was scared to death. Her big brown eyes rolled back in her head and she strained against the rope as Lilly slowly approached. “There, there, Bossy,” Lilly said, extending her hand, palm open, to the cow. “There, there.”

Lilly waited half a minute before she attempted to touch Bossy. When she did, she scrubbed hard with her knuckles in the sweet spot right between the horns. It was a maneuver she’d watched her Daddy John do numerous times with his own cantankerous bovines. If a cow could be said to sigh, Bossy did with pleasure.

“Mrs. Blair, if you’ll slack the rope and rub Bossy just so, I’ll see to Timmy.”

Hairs from the cow’s tail twined around Timmy’s fingers taut as catgut on a fiddle. His hand had already turned purple.

“Gracious, young man, how did you manage to get in such a dilemma?”

“Trouble picks on me,” Timmy said.

“Can you fix him, Doc?” Jenny asked. “He won’t be no good to anybody tied up to the cow that way.”

“Hush, Jenny,” Mrs. Blair said. “Let the doctor alone.”

Lilly took scissors from her bag. “Jenny, I’m going to need some assistance. Hold Bossy’s tail just so—that’s good—perfect. Watch out for her hooves.”

“Bossy ain’t a kicker, just a swatter,” Mrs. Blair said.

Praise the Lord,
Lilly thought. If Bossy kicked Timmy, the animal could easily fracture his skull.

Timmy’s freckled face turned white as clabber. “Are you gonna have to cut my fingers off?”

“No, Timmy. You’ll keep all your fingers. I promise.”

“You ain’t gonna cut Bossy’s tail off, are you? Mommy will be mad if you do.”

“Hush, Timmy, and let the doctor work,” Jenny said in a perfect imitation of her mother. She held Bossy’s tail straight as a yardstick with both hands.

Lilly snipped Bossy’s stringy hair, leaving just a brush where it met her long tail. Once Timmy was separated from the cow, Lilly led him to sit beside her in the shade and began to unbind his fingers. After five minutes or so, all the hair was removed. She set to work on his superficial scrapes and scratches with a gauze pad and a bottle of iodine.

“Whoo, that stings like fire,” he said, hopping around. “I reckon you better put some on Bossy too.”

The crowd of folks had moved down the fence row to be closer to the action. Mr. James was standing beside Mrs. Blair, and Lilly thought she saw a fleeting smile cross his face. A few feet away, the other man stood with his arms folded, serious as a sentry. He seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place him.

Mrs. Blair led Bossy to Lilly. The cow was snorting and rolling her eyes, obviously still in distress. Lilly looked Bossy over and found a long gaping wound on her right flank. The animal had gashed it on something in her mad run down the hill. It would have to be stitched. As Lilly leaned in for a closer look, an errant horsefly landed on Bossy’s wide rump. The cow tossed her head, flicked her stubby flyswatter, and sidestepped into Lilly, nearly knocking her off her feet.

“Whoa!” someone in the audience called out.

The sun turned its heat up a notch. Not a breeze stirred. Leaves hung listlessly on parched trees, and the birds seemed too hot to sing. Flies buzzed a fresh patty.

Sweat stung Lilly’s eyes. Where was a nurse when you needed one? She patted her forehead in the crook of her arm and tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear. Perspiration trickled down her back and stained her underarms, not to mention there was a smear of something brown and unsavory on the front of her linen skirt. She wished for a cool bath in Aunt Alice’s oversize, claw-foot bathtub. What had she gotten herself into? She should be in Lexington plying her trade in the sanitary conditions of a hospital’s surgical suite.

The murmuring of the folks in the background caught her attention. She supposed that now they wanted to critique her veterinary skills.

“Where’s the bull?” Mrs. Blair thought to ask.

“Joe here put him in the other pasture,” Mr. James said.

Now Lilly recognized the other fellow as Joe Repp, the guy she’d met in the commissary one Saturday. She wondered how he managed to look so cool and collected in the midst of the mayhem. He was dressed like a miner, but his starched and freshly ironed work shirt fit like it was tailored.

Lilly picked up her kit. She had never in her life sutured a cow. She had no idea how one as flighty as Bossy would react, but she couldn’t leave the wound open. “Let’s take Bossy to the barn.”

Mr. James bent closer to Lilly. “You know what, little gal?” he said in a low voice. “It’d be good if you sewed her up right here.”

“Mr. James, I’m not sure . . .”

“I’ll help. You’ll do fine.” He turned to the other man. “Hey, Joe, would you fetch a bucket of feed?”

Lilly looked closely at the ragged wound. She would be a laughingstock if this didn’t work.

Soon, Joe was back with sweet mash. He put the bucket on the ground. Bossy sauntered over and began to eat. Mr. James took the lead rope. If the cow decided to bolt, it would take a man’s strength to hold her back. Jenny held the cow’s switching tail. Timmy fanned the flies away. Mrs. Blair patted Bossy between the shoulder blades.

Lilly doused the wound with the red germicide and began to sew. Bossy paid her not a whit of attention.

“That’s as pretty as any quilting stitch I ever saw,” Mrs. Blair said when Lilly finished.

“Look,” Timmy said, waving his hand in front of Lilly’s face. “My fingers ain’t purple anymore.”

Jenny tugged on Lilly’s arm. “I’m gonna be a doctor when I grow up.”

“Hush, child. I never heard such,” Mrs. Blair said with a self-conscious smile and a shake of her head. But Lilly noticed she cupped the back of her daughter’s head with tender fingers.

“I do believe you’d make a fine doctor,” Lilly said as she put the cork stopper back in the bottle. “Would you like to put this in the bag for me? Careful, the red will stain your fingers.”

“I wouldn’t mind a’tall,” Jenny said. “Then I’d look like you, miss.”

Lilly’s fingers as well as on her shirtwaist sported red iodine stains. She hoped Myrtie could work some magic on these stains, else her outfit was ruined.

“Joe, will you take Dr. Corbett back to town?” Mr. James said. “I’ll stay and get the cow to the barn, then let the bull back in the pasture.”

“Sure thing,” Joe said.

Lilly wondered why she needed an escort, but it was such a pleasure to hear Mr. James call her
doctor
that she wasn’t about to protest. She walked to the gate with Mr. Repp. Jenny stuck to her side like a bur on a wool blanket.

“Where’s Landis this morning?” Lilly could hear Mr. James ask.

“He was off to work before sunup,” Mrs. Blair said. “I always fix his breakfast early, so he was long gone afore I went to milk. He’ll be that grateful to you, Mr. James, and the doctor, of course. Landis is real partial to his kids.”

“Mommy,” Jenny said, “can I tag along?”

Her mother turned to answer. “That’s up to Dr. Corbett, but I suspect she’s had about enough of us Blairs this morning.”

“I’d be glad for the company,” Lilly said.

“Timmy! Put that slingshot away and go with your sister. You kids come right back. I’ll be timing you.”

Jenny slipped her hand into Lilly’s. “I love me a good adventure,” she said.

“As do I, Jenny. And you, Mr. Repp, do you like a good adventure?” Lilly’s eyes met his as he held the gate for them. They were a curious steel-blue color—and solemn. There was not a hint of laughter there.

“Never thought about it,” he said as he latched the gate with the wire loop. His voice was as grave as his eyes.

Well,
Lilly thought,
this Joe Repp doesn’t chat or smile. Perhaps he thinks I am flirting.
She would need to be more careful.

Lilly took extra care with her bedtime routine that evening. She brushed her hair, starting at the widow’s peak and ending well below her shoulder blades—a hundred strokes with her silver-backed brush—and buffed her nails to a shine. Propping her hand mirror against the base of the coal-oil lamp, she used tweezers under the arch of her eyebrows. Her mother compared Lilly’s brows to a crow’s wing. “Pretty as a crow’s wing,” she would say.

She laughed to remember that. Only her mother would find anything pretty about a common crow. Lilly laid the tweezers aside and rested her weary head on her folded arms. She ached all over from tussling with Bossy this morning. This was decidedly not what she had signed up for—boys tangling in a cow’s tail, cows running amok, folks watching her every move like she was a freak in a circus sideshow.

Sitting up, she let her head roll on her spine to loosen her muscles. She raised one shoulder and let it drop, then did the other. The top of her right foot was sore and sported a bruise the size of a half-dollar. She started to massage it with a bit of cold cream but yelped with pain. Bossy must have stepped on her. Obviously she was not cut out to be a veterinarian.

Lilly flipped through the calendar she kept with her stationery, stamps, pens, and pots of ink in her wooden traveling desk. It was July. Her rotation here would end in September. In some ways it didn’t seem as if she’d been at the coal camp in Skip Rock for nearly six weeks; in others it seemed like she’d never been anywhere else.

She knew she was learning, but she wasn’t sure if her new skills would serve her well in Boston. There probably weren’t many cows wandering around in Hamilton Hospital, and she decidedly wouldn’t be escorted to work every morning by a pack of unruly hound dogs.

She plopped down on the bed. Something tickled her brain. Hamilton Hospital . . . Paul . . . his letter. Gracious, she’d forgotten all about it in the clamor of the day. Dropping to her knees, she lifted the crocheted bed skirt. A tiny gray mouse twitched its whiskers and scampered into a mouse-size hole in the baseboard behind the bed.