“I guess you heard.” I tilt my head sideways at the phone.
“Hard not to. Domestic quarrel?”
“Worse. It got physical.”
The veterinarian shakes his head, and I slurp my coffee down in a hurry.
“I’m going into my office in an hour; I’ll drive you home from town at four P.M.”
I’m standing, pulling on my jacket, and I lay my hand on his arm without thinking. “Thanks.”
I hadn’t meant to do that. I’m so used to touching women, I’d forgotten he wasn’t a patient or hardly even a friend.
William
The ride into town goes smoothly once we get to the main road, though I’m a little rusty and stall the Olds twice. Bitsy offered to drive, but between the two of us, I’m more experienced. She sits up front to offer advice.
The car’s cozy, and when I ask about it, Katherine tells me, from the back, that the warmth is transferred somehow from the engine. Something new every day! It’s the first heated vehicle I’ve traveled in. That’s her only comment. The rest of the time, she just stares out the window like a woman without hope, and it saddens me.
I recall another time a battered woman came to our house. This was when we still lived in Pittsburgh. In the middle of the night, Kay Dorsey pounded on our door. “Let me in. Please!” she was screaming. It would have been about this time of year, still winter, and she had her baby wrapped up in a shawl and bruises all over her face. Nora took her in a cab to the Women’s Hospital, but Kay never got a divorce. Father O’Malley wouldn’t allow it. Nora was madder than hell.
And another time she was madder than hell . . .
“I can’t live like this,” Queen Nora announced one afternoon in mid-December.
She’s decorating the Christmas tree that we bought for fifty cents at the corner lot and has already eaten half a rum cake. “Always hiding, keeping low. It’s been years and Lizbeth is still wearing black, for Christ’s sake, and it’s Christmas.” Sophie’s lover was throwing tinsel at the tree as if it were chicken feed—and she hated chickens.
“How long is this going to go on? There were thirteen thousand battling the coal company troops at Blair Mountain. How does she know anyone even saw what happened?
“There’s just no fun here anymore, no parties or salons, always lying low! I can’t live like this, I tell you.” She stands glaring at the room, the gaslights illuminating the shiny tinsel, and Mrs. Kelly’s face, white as snow. “I tell you, I can’t live this way! It won’t do. It’s no good. All the life is sucked out of me!”
Looking back, I think maybe she just wanted to leave and was searching for an excuse. Two weeks later, Nora left with the novelist Jacqueline Lyons for San Francisco, and that was the end of her. On Christmas Eve, Mrs. Kelly didn’t even go to Mass. I watched the midwife’s brave heart collapse like a hot-air balloon losing air. Now we were both widows.
Nora was right. How do I know anyone even saw? But I might as well say it: I killed my husband during the battle at Blair Mountain while trying to get two goons off him. It was an accident, but that one misplaced blow shattered something essential in me: reason . . . hope . . . sensibility.
Still I go on, too much of a coward to do anything else. There was a time I thought of suicide, wanted not to feel the terrible grief and guilt anymore, but there’s a difference in wanting to be dead and doing it. Besides, now there are Moonlight and Buster, Sasha and Emma to think about . . . and Bitsy. I might as well admit it. She’d take my death personally, as if it were her fault.
The dark sky echoes my mood. Twice we pass deer on the way into town and I point them out. It isn’t until we enter Liberty that I reach for Katherine in the backseat, squeeze her knee, and slow down.
As we pass the courthouse, we are surprised to discover a score of miners walking back and forth in a picket line. Their faces are clean, but they wear their hard hats with lamps on the front and hold placards and signs.
“Is it a strike?” Bitsy asks.
“I don’t think so. Strikes are usually at the work site. It’s some kind of demonstration. What do the signs say?” I’m gripping the wheel, nervous to be driving in town.
Bitsy reads the rough handmade inscriptions out loud as we pass: WE DEMAND FOOD AND CLOTHING FOR UNEMPLOYED MINERS’ CHILDREN. FREE FOOD FOR OUT-OF-WORK MINERS.
“But who are they picketing? Is there anyone at the courthouse that can help? The County Health Office? The churches?” I ask out loud.
“William is really going to love this!” Katherine mutters. “Most of those men are from his mines. They were at the house last week begging for help, but he maintained it wasn’t his responsibility. The truth is, he’s broke.”
We’re surprised when, as we roll forward, Thomas Proudfoot steps out of the crowd. He’s the only colored man in the group, and he flashes us a big smile, raising his sign higher. FEED THE CHILDREN!
“Damnation!” Bitsy lowers her head. “Ma’s gonna be pissed.”
“Why?” I ask. “What’s so wrong? He’s standing in solidarity with his fellow miners. Mr. Wetsel told me, when I helped his wife have her baby, that the owners shut off the electricity in the closed mining camps and shut the company stores. The workers have no money and no scrip to get food or kerosene. They’re stranded in an isolated area where there’s no other employment. Why shouldn’t those that still have jobs stand with those that don’t?”
“He’s a black man,” Bitsy mutters, slashing her eyes at me. “That’s different.”
As we pull up at the MacIntosh home, I’m relieved to see white dishcloths hanging from both doors. We go in through the kitchen and find William sitting at the table, his head bent and his hands running through his hair. Katherine scoots silently past him, takes the crying baby out of Mary’s arms, and goes upstairs. Bitsy follows with the monogrammed pillowcase.
I plunk down across from Mr. MacIntosh. “We have to talk.” The man flinches, meets my eyes, and then looks down again.
“William, I know things have been rough on you,” I say, trying the sympathetic approach, though I don’t feel a bit sympathetic. “The economy is hard on everyone.” I make as though I haven’t heard about his bankruptcy. Mary is standing around the corner in the pantry, pretending to tidy the shelves.