Red Helmet (16 page)

“Amen, Preacher!” a man cried out, followed by a rumble of masculine approval leavened by a few hissed words of feminine objection. Song smiled, unaware of the gender gap she had created by her appearance that morning.

Preacher's sermon went on, the subject still marriage, and his delivery became ever more passionate. “Women, honor your husbands with your chasteness. Men, honor your wives with your devotion. God has sanctified marriage from heaven. It is His institution, all part of His plan for your salvation. Marriage is holy!”

Preacher continued in that vein, receiving numerous amens and yes sirs and uh-huhs for his trouble, mostly from the men. The women remained subdued. When he was finished, Preacher smiled and said, “Well, that's my two cents worth on marriage this Sunday. Nobody's perfect is the bottom line. God doesn't expect you to be. He just expects you to keep trying. Amen to that, amen to you all. I'll turn it over to you now, Cable.”

Cable stood up. Song thought he was going to affirm to Preacher what a fine sermon he'd just delivered, or perhaps even give a prayer or maybe add his praise of marriage, but instead he looked around the assembly and tapped his watch. “Time to go, boys.” Then, to Song's astonishment, he bent down and kissed her on the cheek. “I'll see you later.”

“Where are you going?”

He looked at her with a perplexed expression, then leaned in close to her ear. “Didn't I tell you? The mine's starting a half shift at noon, then we're all going to double back to do an evening shift. I've got a hoot-owl shift coming in too. I'm going to meet those orders.”

“Cable, I can't believe this. You're really going to work on a Sunday? And leaving me alone again?” She tried to keep her voice low, but it came out a bit higher than she intended.

“I have to. All the other men are going to work. I can't take the day off.”

“Even for us? What about that sermon Preacher just gave?”

Cable took her hands. “It was a good sermon. But this isn't a matter of choosing between you and my work.”

“Yes, Cable. Yes, it is!”

Preacher was still in the pulpit. “There's men here who have to get their oxen out of the ditch, folks. God bless all you miners. Go dig yourself some good coal even if it's on Sunday. Amen!”

Bossman stood up. “Thank you, Preacher. We'll do it, I swan!”

The congregation started to applaud. Song wouldn't let go of Cable's hands. “How am I supposed to get home?”

“I lined up the constable to drive you. Look over there. See? He's waving.”

“Cable, you can't spring something like this on me! I'm supposed to be part of your life!”

“I was going to tell you,” he said sheepishly. “But then last night, it was so good to hold you again, I didn't want to spoil it. But, honey, listen to me. I've solved our problem.”

Song stopped herself from saying the harsh words already in her mouth. “I'm all ears,” she said dubiously.

“Let's have a baby. Then another one. Up to three, I think. Hillcrest would be such a great place to raise children. What do you say?”

Song opened her mouth but was momentarily at a loss for words. She sorted through a number of responses, including picking up one of the hymnals and hitting her husband over the head with it. After a few seconds of cooling down, she said, “Cable, pay attention
to me very carefully.” Her next words were enunciated one after the other. “We are not going to have children anytime soon, if ever, especially because you think they will solve our problems.”

“Well, I just thought . . .”

“No. You didn't think. You're just trying to take the easy way out. Didn't I tell you there is nothing easy?”

“But, honey, it would be so much fun getting there.” He whispered into her ear. “We would be in bed all the time.”

“I'm not your slut, Cable!” Song erupted. “I'm your wife!”

As luck would have it, there was a pause in the congregation's excited buzz just in time for Song's words to ring loud and clear throughout the church. Song thought she even detected an echo. One and all turned to stare at her. She blushed and Cable mumbled, “I have to go.”

Cable and his miners marched out of the church to cheers and tears like soldiers going off to war. Women waved, and little children chased after them. Shaken and angry, Song trailed along behind. Young Henry came up to her. “You all right, ma'am?”

“No, I'm not. But I don't want to talk about it.”

Young Henry crept off and Constable Petrie stepped up beside her. He was in his constable uniform, his hat in his hands. “I'm your ride, ma'am. Anytime you're ready.”

Song watched Cable and his miners trooping down the street toward the mine. “I don't know what to do,” she confessed. “Should I follow after Cable and see him go below?”

“The tipple grounds are no place for that fancy suit, ma'am, nor those pretty pumps.”

Song sighed. “No, I guess not.”

The three women Song had met behind the church—Mrs. Carlisle, Mrs. Petroski, and Mrs. Williams—formed a phalanx between her and the constable's car.

“Mrs. Jordan, a word, please,” Mrs. Carlisle said. “Not you, please, Constable. Girl talk.”

The constable took a step aside.

“This is difficult for us, dear,” Mrs. Carlisle began.

“You mean all the miners going off to work on Sunday?” Song asked.

“Of course not!” Mrs. Williams waved it away. “They have a job to do. No, someone must say something to you. As much as it hurts us to do it.”

“You look wonderful in your fine outfit, Mrs. Jordan,” Mrs. Petroski added. “But, I mean, really. What were you thinking wearing it to church?”

“You see, Mrs. Jordan,” Mrs. Carlisle said, “there's a fine line around here between being well dressed and . . .”

“Overdoing it!” Mrs. Petroski blurted.

“Putting on airs,” Mrs. Williams filled in.

“Being puffed up,” Mrs. Carlisle completed. “Do you understand what we're getting at?”

“All the men think you're beautiful,” Mrs. Petroski noted. “But all the women think you're trying to make the rest of us look bad. You must dress down, dear.”

The constable stepped back in. “You ladies are out of line. Mrs. Jordan's ensemble is quite tasteful.”

“Shut up, Constable,” Mrs. Carlisle said. “This is between us women.”

The constable looked straight at Song, who had been stricken into silence. “You ready to go home, ma'am?”

Song looked into the constable's cool, brown eyes and found her voice. “I don't belong here, Constable,” she said.

“No, ma'am. Not with these hypocrites, that's for sure.”

He tipped his hat to the trio of women and offered Song his arm. Song took it and numbly walked beside him to his car. She stopped and looked back at the women, then at the miners trooping off to work and their families heading in all directions, and the ugly black tower of the mine.

She squared her shoulders. “Take me back to Hillcrest, Constable,” she said, and he did.

W
HEN
C
ABLE CAME
home near midnight, he went straight upstairs to their bedroom. He pushed the door open and peeked inside, then switched on the light. The bed was neatly made and on the nightstand was an envelope with his name written in Song's handwriting. He opened the envelope and read the note inside:

Cable. I've gone back to New York. Don't call. Don't write. Don't follow. We need
time apart. A lot of time. I have so much to think about, and so do you.

—Song

P.S. Whoever bet on four days wins. Wednesday was a half day and so was Sunday.

Cable sat down on the bed, holding the note. Then he let it drop to the floor. He lowered his head and put a hand over his eyes.

Don't call. Don't write. Don't follow
. There had been nothing said of love, or affection, or even anger. Cable took a breath.

What have I done?
He sat quietly for a time and thought about many things, rationalized them all, and allowed his heart to harden against the woman he had loved so much he had honored her with a marriage.
I've done only what I had to
do
, he concluded.

After mulling it all over some more, Cable said aloud—just so he could hear the words and make them real, “She can just stay in New York. It's for the best. She doesn't belong here, and she was never going to fit in.”

Then Cable reached over and turned out the light in the bedroom and in his heart. It was not an easy thing, but he pretended it was.

PART 2
THE RED HELMET

To wear your heart on your sleeve
isn't a very good plan;
you should wear it inside,
where it functions best.

—Margaret Thatcher

Fifteen

T
he party thrown by Charles and Miranda Delgossi at their New York apartment was at that stage when its host and hostess—and everyone present—knew they had yet another grand success on their hands. Charles and Miranda were inveterate party-pitchers, willing to throw one for nearly any excuse. To receive an invitation to a Delgossi party was to be handed a ticket to fun, to be seen by the in-crowd of the city, and perhaps to be considered part of the in-crowd yourself. The Delgossis knew a successful party depended on who was on the invitation list. Tonight, the attendees were clearly compatible, the hum of conversation at just the right pitch, and the laughter breaking out at perfect intervals. The hors d'oeuvres were disappearing at an appropriate rate, and the wine had received compliments by two of the most pompous
connoisseurs de vino
among them. It was a party certain to make the
Times
.

Fall was when the big books came out and the art and theater scene turned interesting. The Delgossi autumnal party was a herald for that special season and there was always a clamor to get on the invitee list. Many called and begged to come to the party, but few were chosen.

Among those chosen this year was Song. She suspected she was of interest to the Delgossis not only because she was the daughter of Joe Hawkins, or even for her rather remarkable achievements in the business and financial world, but because party-team Delgossi was aware of her surprise marriage to a coal miner and her subsequent dreadful experiences in deepest Appalachia. Such a story, if teased out of her, could by itself raise their party to another level. It was so deliciously amusing, the moneyed half-Chinese daughter of Joe Hawkins going gaga over a backwoods, moonshine-swilling mountaineer. She'd gotten exactly what she deserved, of course, and scooted home after only four days. That
made the fun all the better.

Song was grateful for the diversion despite the fact that she was part of the entertainment. She had just sustained a period of astonishing creativity and productivity. She had convinced her father to acquire two companies, one holding an obscure patent for a lithium ion/polymer battery, the other holding patents for electronic polyswitches, thermistors, and connectors. Song had overseen the merger of the two companies and the subsequent production of the smartest little batteries ever known, and at a competitive price too. The orders had rolled in from nearly every electronics manufacturer in the world, with bids to buy the company in the general area of two billion dollars. Once again, Song's photo was scheduled to appear on the cover of
Fortune
. The title of the article was “Daring to Dream Small—How Song Hawkins Changed Our World.” She was on a roll.

But for all her success since she had come back from West Virginia, Song was not happy. She had never quit anything in her life, yet she had run from Highcoal. It gnawed at her. Although she had buried herself in her work, she kept going over the events of her short stay in the hills. It was as if she was stuck in some awful repetitive memory loop: getting sick during the drive over the mountains, Bossman and his chewing tobacco, Hillcrest, the dirty water, the fatty food, Doctor K, and the dreary gossip. Then there was the idiot well-digger who'd tried to drill in Squirrel's front yard. She'd resolved that situation—the one thing she was proud about—but then there was the day she'd gone to the store to buy makeup. She'd been wrecked by a twelve-year-old, sat in cow poo, and snockered by the hardest liquor she'd ever drunk, given to her by a Lebanese so-called Christian! Then she'd embarrassed herself in front of Cable's foremen, his supervisors, and the governor of the entire state who, oh, by the way, was a former lover of her erstwhile dear husband. After that, Song had done everything she could to get her marriage back on track, including seducing Cable and then going to church with him, only to be abandoned again and graded by the local church ladies as improperly dressed. Was it any wonder she'd given up and decamped for New York City?

Yes? No?
Song wasn't certain. All she knew was that she had been left unsettled by the experience. Somehow she needed to come to terms with it.

But never mind, she was at the Delgossis' party and determined to enjoy herself. She was dressed smartly in her most flattering black New York dress, set off with red stilettos and ruby jewelry (a gift to herself ), which coincidentally matched the rather large glass of red wine she was holding. Her hair was shiny and swinging free rather than pinned up as she wore it at work. She knew she looked good and was irritated when she found herself wondering what Cable would think if he saw her. A picture of her soon-to-be-annulled-forever husband formed in her mind. He was wearing his ridiculous hat.
Go away, Cable
. She drank more wine.

Song looked around the room, filled with her fellow New Yorkers and a few out-of-town guests. When she had occasionally listened in, she was aware that the partygoers were all abuzz over the number one best-selling memoir titled
It Takes
a Prison
, written by an unfairly jailed, rights-deprived man named Shazmaz Caliph, who incidentally also happened to be a murderer, serial rapist, child abuser, wife beater, drug dealer, and homegrown terrorist with a rap sheet that stretched for miles.
Prison
described in graphic profanity Shazmaz's life in a federal lockup, which was, according to his account, operated by fanatical Christians. Song made a mental note to purchase the book.