Redemption Mountain (27 page)

 

CHAPTER 16

 

T
he black Bell 430 rose off the tarmac of the Yeager Airport, did a quick spin in the air as it gained altitude, and roared south out of Charleston for McDowell County. Charlie settled into the window seat and watched greater Charleston recede, giving way to the rolling green forest. Occasionally, the green carpet would reveal brown, gray, and black scars, like open sores on the verdant landscape. They reminded Charlie of pictures he'd seen of Army and Marine bases carved out of the jungles of Vietnam.

The pilot's voice came over the speaker. “About an hour twenty now down to Red Bone, Mr. Burden. Put down six o'clock.” The timing was fine, thought Charlie. He'd pick up his car at the construction site, get back to the apartment in time to get some dinner at Eve's, then stop in and see Hank. Maybe even get in a game of cribbage on the porch.

Charlie was looking forward to returning to the mountains and seeing the Pie Man again. He'd missed the boy, more than he would've thought. He reached down to touch the white plastic bag holding the Yankees hat and program that Charlie had purchased at the game he'd attended with Lucien and Carlos.

From the liquor cabinet just behind the bulkhead, Charlie poured himself a Canadian Club, then settled back into his seat to think about the problem that had been nagging him since leaving New York:
What was he going to do about Natty Oakes? He couldn't avoid her, not in a place as small as Red Bone, not with his relationship with Pie. No, he'd just have to deal with it, as a man who'd always been faithful to his wife and wasn't about to get involved with another woman. He'd treat her like any other acquaintance. Nothing more, nothing less. That was how adults handled situations like this.

But it wasn't going to be easy. He knew when he saw her picture in the DeWitt farmhouse that he had serious feelings for her, and she hadn't been out of his thoughts since.
And the Redemption Mountain issue complicated things. Why the fuck did he ever tell Sarah DeWitt he'd try to save their farm? He should stay out of it, and let Yarbrough and Mulrooney do their thing. The DeWitts were going to lose their farm, and OntAmex would cut his balls off if he did anything to prevent it. This whole thing—his infatuation with Natty Oakes and switching sides on the Redemption Mountain issue—was nothing but trouble for him, personally and professionally. The best thing he could do was go back to New York right now and tell Lucien he wanted out, that he wasn't the man for the job in West Virginia.

Charlie finished his drink and approached the cockpit. He sat down in the unoccupied copilot's seat, and, after a few moments of watching the scenery, he had an idea. He leaned closer to the pilot to be heard. “Listen, down south of here a ways there's a place called Redemption Mountain. It's about twelve, fifteen miles from Red—”

“I know where Redemption Mountain is, sir,” the pilot interrupted. “Flew down there a couple of years ago.”

Charlie was surprised. “Two years ago? Do you remember who you took down there?”

“Sure,” the pilot answered without hesitation. “Mr. Torkelson, Larry Tuthill, and that lawyer from Charleston, Yarbrough—had to stop in Charleston to pick him up. Second time, 'bout six months later, was those three, plus the big guy from the coal company, the Irish guy…”

“Mulrooney,” Charlie prompted.

“That's him. He was a load. Haven't been back there since.”

Charlie's curiosity was piqued. He glanced at his watch. “We're a little early. Would you mind taking a ride down there? Just a quick flyover, that's all.”

“Sure, no problem,” said the pilot, as he threw the powerful helicopter into a hard bank to the southwest. From the air, Charlie could see that Redemption Mountain was much larger than he'd perceived on their drive up to the DeWitt farm. He tried to imagine a thick seam of coal running through the middle of the mountain and envisioned the massive job it would take to uncover it by removing the top third of the mountain. They flew in low over the farm. It looked even more remote and more idyllic than it did from the ground.

The farm disappeared behind them as the helicopter heaved over a craggy peak to reveal the long, rocky south face of the mountain. The pilot pointed out where he'd landed on his earlier trips and asked Charlie if he wanted to traverse the south slope. But Charlie had seen enough. “Let's head back up to Red Bone,” he told the pilot.

*   *   *

I
T WAS BARELY
7:00
P.M.
when Charlie approached Old Red Bone. The stone buildings on Main Street, bathed in light from the falling sun, had the surreal quality of an old oil painting. It was a stark change from the never-ending traffic of Westchester County and the cacophony of Manhattan.

Approaching the soccer field at the bottom of the hill, Charlie pulled quietly to the side of the road and stopped. He sat and watched Pie Man as he played an imaginary game with himself, running and kicking a well-scuffed soccer ball. Finally, about ten yards in front of the goal, he rolled a slow pass toward the middle of the field, circled the ball quickly, and attempted to blast it into the goal. But his left foot slipped, and he only brushed the top of the ball, which rolled lazily toward the goal, as the boy sat watching. When the ball crossed the goal line, he scrambled awkwardly to his feet, his arms raised in celebration.

As he spun around, the boy noticed Charlie's car parked at the side of the road. He dropped his arms to his sides and mouthed,
Charlie
.

Charlie climbed out of the car, holding the white plastic bag. He walked onto the field and held his arms out wide. “C'mon, Pie Man, get over here!”

“Charlie!” the boy yelled. “Charlie ith back,” he said, as he broke into a sprint. When he reached Charlie, he stopped abruptly. His face was contorted with glee, but he wasn't sure what to do next. Charlie reached under Pie's arms, lifted him high overhead, and spun him around as he squealed with delight. Then he hugged him and spun him around again, before depositing him on his feet.

Up the hill, next to the library, Natty stood next to her red Honda. She watched Pie race across the field to Charlie. She saw him lift her son and spin him around. As she watched Charlie hug her little boy Natty couldn't prevent the tears that ran down her cheeks as Pie enjoyed the kind of moment that for so long he had been cheated of.

Charlie sat down on the grass. “C'mon, Pie Man, tell me what you've been up to.”

Pie fell to the grass, bubbling over with news about his soccer team. Then his eyes went wide when he saw the bag with the New York Yankees logo. “Thith ith for me, Charlie?” He pointed at the logo. “New York Yankees,” he said excitedly.

Charlie laughed. The boy would've been thrilled with just the bag. “C'mon, Pie, open it up,” he prodded.

Pie reached inside the bag and pulled out the hat. He stared at it for a few moments, then ran his fingers over the embroidered insignia. “Oh, Charlie, thith ith a real hat like the New York Yankees batheball players wear.”

“C'mon, try it on,” Charlie said, taking the hat from him. He adjusted the band to fit Pie and pulled it onto his head.

Immediately, Pie jumped up. “I have to thow Mama,” he said.

“Wait, Pie, there's something else in here.”

Pie pulled out the thick program, and his eyes again grew large as saucers. “Oh, Charlie, I love thith book,” he said. Then he ran up the hill. “I have to thow Mama my New York Yankees hat,” he yelled back at Charlie.

About ten yards away, the boy stopped running as abruptly as he'd started. He turned around and walked back toward Charlie. “Thank you, Charlie. Thank you for my Yankee hat and for my Yankee book,” he said.

Charlie pressed his hand against Pie's and held on to it for a moment. “Pie Man, thanks for being my best friend in West Virginia.”

The boy stood still for a moment, thinking over what Charlie had just said. Finally he asked, “Charlie?”

“Yeah, Pie Man?”

“Charlie, can I have the Yankees bag?”

Charlie laughed and poked Pie in the stomach. “Of course you can.” The boy grabbed the bag and Charlie watched him run off across the field. Up the hill next to the library, he noticed Natty looking down at them and felt the now-familiar pang of longing whenever he was near her.

*   *   *

N
ATTY HAD WATCHED
Pie run back to Charlie for the white bag. Then he stopped again and spoke to Charlie. And suddenly Charlie was unmistakably looking up at her, leaning a little to his right to see beyond Pie. Her tears had stopped, and she wanted to rub her eyes and wipe her cheeks, but she didn't want to give anything away. She smiled and gave him a brief wave.

Natty wondered if Charlie Burden even remembered her name. He'd only addressed her as
Mrs. Oakes,
and though he'd loaned her his car and they'd gone running together, he'd never said anything of a personal nature. He was always courteous and usually talked about the Pie Man.
What was she thinking? She was just another backwoods nobody to him. If it wasn't for Pie, they wouldn't have said word one to each other.
But now Pie was clambering up the cement steps to the library, and Charlie stood on the field, looking up at her—
or maybe he was just watching Pie run up the steps.

*   *   *

W
HEN CHARLIE DIALED
in to join the conference call, Larry Tuthill was already on the line in Los Angeles. “Hi, Larry, how's everything?” asked Charlie.

“Great, Charlie. Everything's moving ahead on schedule. Couple of more rolling blackouts out here, the feds'll be begging us to build more plants, and the EPA will be working for
us
. And these Enron guys are un-fucking-believable. Deregulation is beautiful, Charlie. Nothing gets results like pulling the plug for a while. These tree huggers out here are against everything in the utility business, but you turn off their air conditioners and their cappuccino machines for twenty minutes and they're ready to build a nuclear plant in the neighborhood schoolyard. It's like heroin, Charlie; America is addicted to electricity.”

“You're right, Larry, and you guys do a terrific job of pushing it,” Charlie said, trying not to sound sarcastic. A few seconds later they were joined by Vernon Yarbrough and a public-relations man from Charleston.

“All right,” Larry said to start the meeting. “Next week, we're scheduled to go before the planning board. As you know, this is a critical issue, and we need it to go smoothly and in our favor. This is one of those thorny issues where we're stuck dealing with the locals and can't rely on our people in Charleston or Washington to take care of it for us. Usually we can avoid this kind of crap, but sometimes you just have to pucker up and kiss some local asses to get the job done.”

Yarbrough jumped in to describe the presentation that he and the PR firm had assembled to show the severe economic impact if the plan wasn't approved. “Plus, we got a bunch of good people comin' down from the governor's office to do a little intimidating for us if we need it, a real show of force,” continued Yarbrough, “so I think we'll be in good shape.”

“Sounds good, Vernon,” replied Tuthill. “Charlie, what do you think?” Charlie glanced at the notes he'd made on the yellow legal pad on his desk. Then he leaned back in his chair and paused, to get the moment right.

“We got a problem,” he said.

“What? What do you mean?” asked Yarbrough.

“I had a little talk with the planning-board president—”

“You had a meeting with Harkinson, on your own, without counsel?” Yarbrough was clearly perturbed. “You shouldn't have done that, Burden, you should have waited for—”

“Hankinson,”
Charlie interrupted. “His name is Hankinson, and he lives in my building. I ran into him one day and mentioned the pond problem; next thing you know, he shows up out at the site and wants to take a look at the thing.”

“So, what's his problem, Charlie?” asked Tuthill.

“He wants a couple of things that are going to raise the cost of the plan a little.”

“Like what?” snapped Yarbrough.

“He wants us to raise the height of the retaining levee by two feet and to reinforce it with steel framing. He's got a personal thing about these water impoundments. He wants the pond safe,” said Charlie, “and it's not negotiable.”

“What's this going to cost us?” asked Tuthill.

“About a hundred, hundred-fifty thousand at the most.”

Tuthill snorted. “That's nothing. What's the problem?”

“What else does he want, Burden?” Yarbrough asked. Charlie noticed that the lawyer seemed to have less of a Southern accent when he was vexed.

“Hankinson told me that the other two planning-board members, along with a few of the townspeople, have been griping that OntAmex hasn't done much for the town so far. And they kind of have a point. Most of the contractors have brought in skilled labor from outside, and those guys spend their money over in Bluefield and Welch. They've hired a lot fewer locals than originally promised.”

“What's his point?” asked an irritated Yarbrough.

“Hankinson says they aren't going to approve
anything
for OntAmex.”

“So, how do we get to these boys?” asked Tuthill.

Charlie took a sip of coffee, to let Tuthill suffer for a moment, before answering. “Hankinson feels that we need to find a local project to put some money into that'll make the townspeople feel good and get them off the backs of the planning board. Then they'll vote with the company and approve the plan.”

“Shit, that's just a minor PR problem, right, Greg?” asked Yarbrough.

Greg, the PR man, came to life. “Sure, Vern. With a little time on the ground, we'll be able to find a cause that we can cost-effectively address—”