Coal River

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  “They listen to you,” she said. “And Nally.”

  “Some of them listen to me. But not all. And they still don’t trust Nally.”

  “Do you think this Johnny Mitchell can help the breaker boys too?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe I’ll write to this man too,” she said, pointing to the name of the journalist who wrote the story. “Maybe he’d be willing to write an article about the breaker boys.”

  “That won’t get you anywhere. Most folks in coal country grew up knowing about the breaker boys. It wouldn’t be news to them. They’d just look the other way like they always have.”

  “Then maybe we need to tell someone outside this region.” She skimmed the paper again, then gasped, wondering why she hadn’t had the idea before now. “I should write to the New York Times! I bet they’d be interested in a powerful mine owner breaking the law.”

  He made a face. “You really think people in New York care? As long as they have their coal in the winter, it doesn’t matter how it gets there.”

  “You’re wrong,” she said, thinking about the people she’d known in the city. “They care like anyone else. They have families, children. If they find out how little boys are dying and being maimed, they’ll care. I know they will.”

  “They’ll think you’re a lunatic and throw the letter in the trash.”

  Then another idea came to her, sending a jolt of energy through her body. “What if they could see the breaker boys for themselves? Then they’d understand. They’d know.”

  He looked at her like she was crazy. “What are you going to do, invite the editor of the New York Times to Coal River?”

  “No. The only way to show them is with pictures. All I need is a photographer.”

  “The New York Times isn’t going to spend good money to send a photographer all the way out here to take pictures of a bunch of poor breaker boys.”

  “You don’t know that,” Emma said, breathing fast now. At last she had an answer. She just knew it. “If just one photo of those little breaker boys with their black faces gets put in the Times, someone will help.”

  Clayton had seemed dismissive, unable to understand why people in New York might care about the children working in the mines, but now his face softened. “You go ahead and write that letter. Maybe it will do some good, maybe not. But I need you to write to Johnny Mitchell first. That’s where you can make a difference.”

  “I’ll write your letter,” she said. “I’ll tell Mr. Mitchell that you’re standing up to Hazard Flint. I’ll tell him about the breaker boys, and that the mining company is taking shortcuts and breaking the law. Maybe he can bring someone here to take pictures. Or maybe he has he own—” Then an image flashed in her mind: Uncle Otis, Aunt Ida, and Percy on the front steps of their house, waiting to have their photo taken. “Or better yet, we can send pictures to the New York Times! They can’t ignore the truth if it’s staring them in the face!”

  “Okay, but where are you going to get a camera? They don’t even sell them at the Company Store.”

  “No,” she said. “But I know where I can get one.”

  Clayton scratched the back of his neck and considered her, his face doubtful. “All right, let’s say you get ahold of a camera somehow. How are you going to get inside the breaker? You think they’re just going to let a woman walk in there and start taking pictures?”

  “No,” she said. “But they’ll let a breaker boy in.”

  He frowned, his coal-dust–covered brow furrowing. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I won’t ask Sawyer to take that risk. If they caught him, they’d beat the tar out of him, or worse.”

  “I wouldn’t ask Sawyer to do it either.”

  “Then who?”

  She tapped her chest. “Me.”

  CHAPTER 22

  At one the next morning, Emma crept in her stocking feet along the dark hallway outside her aunt and uncle’s bedroom, staying close to the walls. A fine layer of nervous sweat coated her skin, and her ears prickled, listening for any type of movement. It was hard not to imagine Uncle Otis yanking open his door, seeing her skulking outside his bedroom, and charging after her, his eyes wild with rage. What would he do if he found out she hadn’t left Coal River? What would he do if he discovered that, instead of being out of his life for good, she was inside his house, breaking in to steal his things? He would probably throw her over the balcony or shove her down the stairs, then carry her down to the river and toss her in, where she would disappear beneath the churning waves and wash ashore downstream, where no one would find her corpse except the possums, raccoons, and deer. What was one more dead body in this Godforsaken place?

  Before coming upstairs, she’d snuck into the pantry to fill a gunnysack with bread and canned goods, then went into the sewing room to steal needles, thread, and a few bolts of leftover material to make clothes for the children. She was pushing her luck, but couldn’t pass up the opportunity. After setting the sack of food and the dress material outside the veranda door, she went back inside to look for the pocket camera.

  Now, she stopped in front of her aunt and uncle’s bedroom, saying a silent prayer that the camera was still in their closet. She put a trembling hand on the engraved brass handle, and slowly turned it. The latch clicked like a gunshot in the quiet hall, and she jumped. Holding her breath, she waited to hear the jingle of a lamp chain, or the creak of bedsprings. But the only sound was the deep-throated rumble of someone snoring, a low, rattling noise that vibrated through the wood-paneled door like a locomotive. She slowly pushed the door open and tiptoed into the dark bedroom.

  Moonlight reflected off the round dresser mirror, illuminating the massive four-poster bed, the cherry armoire, and the red velvet chairs. Luckily, she knew her way around, having changed the linens on a regular basis. On this side of the bed, Aunt Ida lay snoring with her mouth open, and Frownies—skin patches used to prevent wrinkles—stuck to her forehead and the outer corners of her eyes. Uncle Otis lay on his back next to her, his hands crossed over his chest as if he were lying in his coffin. Even in sleep, his face was hard, the sides of his mouth pulled into an elongated frown, making him look like a bullfrog. Emma tiptoed around the foot of the bed and crept past her uncle, keeping her eyes on him in case he stirred.

  When she reached the closet, she knelt and felt around on the floor, searching blindly between boots and shoes and slippers. Nothing felt like a camera. She stood and groped through hanging jackets, dresses, and trousers, until her fingers touched the back wall. Slowly and carefully, she felt her way through boxes and bags on the shelf above the clothes, trying not to knock anything over. She was just about to give up and search the floor again when she felt a thin container behind a hatbox. It was the right size for a camera. She pulled it out, moved to the window, and stood in a shaft of moonlight so she could see what she had in her hands. It was the camera case.

  She opened the case to make sure the camera was inside. Along with the seal grain leather camera, there was a roll of film. A note fell out of the case and floated to her feet. She picked it up and opened it. The writing was hard to read in the weak light, but the signature was as clear as day: With all my love, dear Otis. Kisses, Charlotte.

  Emma’s stomach twisted. No wonder Uncle Otis was so protective of the camera. It was a gift from Charlotte Gable, the young woman he’d been playing hanky-panky with at the Fourth of July dance. The thought of them together made Emma nauseous and angry. She tiptoed around the end of the bed and left the note on Aunt Ida’s nightstand, laying it open beneath her ivory brooch. Then, just as she turned to leave, Uncle Otis grunted and sat up. Emma dropped to the floor and rolled beneath the bed, her heart seizing in her chest. The bedsprings creaked and bulged down on one side. Her uncle got out of bed and stood next to it, his bare feet on the floor, his toenails like yellow claws in the moonlight. He shuffled over to the dresser and stood in front of it, his dry feet scratching like sandpaper on the wood.

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nbsp; “Emma,” he said, his voice monotone.

  Gooseflesh rose on Emma’s arms.

  “Be careful,” he said.

  Then, without another word, he turned away from the dresser and got back in bed. Within seconds, he started to snore. Emma lay on her stomach, the camera clutched to her chest. She had no idea her uncle walked in his sleep. And how bizarre that he was dreaming about her. Then another thought came to her, and tears burned her eyes. She recalled the medium’s words: The dead will use any means possible to be heard. Could it have been Albert?

  If that was you, she thought, I wish you’d find a way to let me know for sure.

  After waiting another minute to make sure no one else was getting out of bed, Emma shimmied out from beneath the mattress and stood, her eyes fixed on the dresser. The moonlight was stronger now, as if the giant, glowing orb were right outside the window, shining into the room like a thousand lanterns. It reflected off the mirror, making it look like ice. She started toward the door, then froze, certain she saw Albert’s face in the mirror. Then she blinked and he was gone. With a lump in her throat, she slipped out into the hall, glancing over her shoulder one last time. The mirror was dark.

  CHAPTER 23

  Before dawn the next morning, Emma stood in a nightgown in front of Clayton’s dresser, weaving her hair into one long braid. She pulled each plait tighter and tighter to make sure the braid wouldn’t come loose. When she was finished, she tied a piece of string around the top of the braid just below her earlobe, and another around the other end at her waist. Then she picked up the scissors and cut the whole thing off above the top string, the dull blades chewing through her hair like a beaver chewing on a tree. She put the braid in an old pillowcase and set it aside, remembering the ads she used to see in magazines touting “switches made of splendid quality-selected human hair.” The switches were made to match any shade, and prices ranged from ninety-five cents up to twenty-five dollars for a customized style. Maybe Sawyer or Edith could sell her hair to one of the foremen’s wives, or trade it for a bag of flour or sugar.

  With the braid gone, she held handfuls of what remained of her hair straight out from her head and cut it off. Watching herself in the mirror, she tried to make it as even as possible. Then she trimmed around her ears and clipped her bangs. When she had finished, she wet her hands in the washbasin, ran her fingers through her short tresses to slick them back from her face, and looked in the mirror again. Albert’s twin stared back at her, his eyes worried and wide. Until now she hadn’t realized how much they resembled each other. She studied her refection for a long time. If you’re really around, she thought, please, help me get through this if you can.

  She closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind. After a minute she pulled on a pair of Sawyer’s knee-length cotton underdrawers and tied the drawstring tight around her waist. Then she slipped off her nightgown and pulled on a pair of wool trousers. Behind her, someone rapped lightly on the door.

  “You almost ready?” Clayton’s voice was muffled and low, and she imagined him out in the hall, leaning forward, his wide, work-worn hands on the doorframe.

  “Not yet,” she said. Earlier she’d cut a burlap sack into long, wide strips. Now, she picked the strips off Clayton’s bed and laid one across her bare nipples, reaching around her back and winding it around front again, trying to bind her breasts. Chances were no one would notice her small bosom beneath a thick work shirt, but she wasn’t going to take any chances. Except the strips kept slipping out of place, and she couldn’t get them tight enough.

  “I need help,” she said over her shoulder.

  “You want me to come in there?” he said. He sounded surprised and unsure.

  “Well, you can’t help me from out there.”

  The door creaked open, and she watched over her shoulder as he slowly came into the room, his eyes lowered. He closed the door behind him, then looked at her and gasped. “Your hair,” he said.

  “Never mind that,” she said. “It barely fit beneath a cap, and I can’t take the risk.”

  “What do you need help with?”

  She was standing next to his bed, her naked back to him, holding the burlap over her breasts with one arm. “I can’t pull this tight enough,” she said. She reached back with her free hand to give him the end of one strip.

  He cleared his throat and came up behind her. “This is suicide. If they catch you . . .”

  “Did you tell the miners’ wives I was sick and won’t be doing lessons for a while?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you tell Sawyer and Edith?”

  “That you’re going to work because we need the money. They know better than to tell anybody our business. And the little ones don’t understand that women don’t belong in the mines.”

  “What if someone slips up?”

  “I told them we’d all be in a heap of trouble if they squealed, most likely put out of our house and sent packing with nothing but the clothes on our backs. That scared them enough to keep quiet.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “That you had to lie to them because of me.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” he said. “We can tell everyone you chopped your hair off to get rid of lice.”

  “You should tell the little ones that anyway. And yes, I do have to do this. Now help me out, will you?”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Pull these tight, like you’re lacing up a corset.”

  “Lacing up a corset?” He sounded bewildered.

  “Tie them once in the back, tightly, then hand them round front again.”

  Clayton did as he was told, and she lifted her elbows, reaching down to take the burlap around front and hand it back again. His warm arms brushed against her bare skin, and the heat of desire flashed across her chest and belly. She fought the urge to turn around and kiss him, to let the burlap fall to the floor and press her bare breasts against his shirt, to feel his heart beating against hers. But this was not the time or place. This was the bedroom he had shared with his wife, and there were children in the other room. Besides, no matter how scared she was, making love to him wouldn’t stop the inevitable. She needed to do this before she changed her mind. And they couldn’t be late for work. She was here to help the breaker boys, not throw herself at Clayton. Besides, what would she do if he pushed her away?

  He pulled the burlap tighter and tighter until her breasts were squished to her chest. “Am I doing it right?” he said. “Is it too tight?”

  She inhaled, filling her lungs partway to make sure she could breathe, unaware until that moment that she had been close to hyperventilating. “It’s fine.”

  When he finished, he tied the ends of the last strips together and tucked them into the waist of her trousers. “Now what?”

  Emma pulled on a long-sleeved shirt, then turned to face him. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Do I look like a boy?”

  He stared at her, his eyes locked on her face. “I guess so, especially with your hair chopped off.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about,” she said. “Look down here.” She pointed to her chest.

  He dropped his eyes to her bosom and quickly looked away. “Yup.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It worked,” he said. “You can’t tell you have . . . um . . .”

  “Breasts?”

  “Yes.” His face went red.

  She grinned. “Thanks. Now I just need a dinner pail and a canteen, and I’m ready.”

  “What about the camera?”

  “I’ve been practicing with it, opening the locking lever and pulling out the lens panel as fast as I can. I’ll have to wind the key to get to the next exposure, and I’m not sure how long that takes, but I’m going to take more than one picture, so I’ll have to take my chances.”

  “That’s not what I mean. How you going to sneak it into the breaker?”


  “For now I just need to get inside,” she said. “I want to learn my way around and figure out the best time and place to take pictures. Then, when I’m ready, I’ll either hide it under my jacket or put it in my dinner pail.”

  He gaped at her. “You’re going in the breaker more than once?”

  “Yes. There’s no sense in doing this if the photos don’t turn out. And I want to take some pictures of the boys inside the mine too, the nippers and spraggers.”

  “How are you going to do that?” he said. “Breaker boys don’t usually go into the mine. And I’ve been thinking. How are you going to get the pictures developed?”

  “If I can’t figure out how to get the film developed, I’ll send it with the letter and convince the people at the New York Times that they need to see what’s on it.”

  “All right. Do you have a flash for the camera? It’s dark inside the breaker.”

  “The sun must come through the windows at some point, doesn’t it?”

  He paused, thinking. “Maybe for a few minutes, when it’s high in the sky. But the windows are pretty dirty.”

  “The pictures don’t have to be perfect. After the Times sees them, maybe they’ll send a professional photographer out here to take better ones. And as far as getting inside the mine, we’ll figure that out later.”

  “I don’t know,” Clayton said. “Maybe we should think this through a little more before we go off half-cocked.”

  “I’m not thinking about anything but helping the breaker boys.”

  “I know,” he said. “But you’re a . . .”

  “I’m a what?” she said. “A woman?”

  “Yes. What if something happens? What if there’s an accident?”

  Emma turned away from him, picked the belt up off his bed, and threaded it through the loops of her pants. “If something happens, at least I tried.”

  He came up behind her then and turned her around, his strong, gentle hands on her shoulders.

  “Emma Malloy,” he said. “I think you’re the bravest woman I’ve ever known.” Admiration flickered in his eyes, but there was something else too. It was the same look her mother had on her face when Emma collapsed next to Albert’s casket. It was the fear of losing someone you loved more than yourself.