Redemption Mountain

by FitzGerald, Gerry

  Natty looked at him with surprise. “You’re moving in here? Alva Paine’s apartment on the fourth floor?”

  “I looked at it this morning. It’s fine, and a lot closer to the project than Bluefield. The price is right, too.” When Natty didn’t answer, he asked, “Is there something wrong?”

  “No, no. I’m just surprised, is all. That’s good. That’s good for Hank. He needs someone up there. I’m glad you’re moving in here, Mr. Burden.”

  “You know Hank?” Charlie asked.

  Natty smiled at him. “Damn, you still don’t know where you are, do you, Mr. Burden? Everybody knows everybody in Red Bone.” She looked up toward the fourth-floor porch. “Mr. Hankinson was my history teacher, two years in high school, before I got—before I left. He was the principal for a long time, too. Tried his best with me, but I guess I was beyond hope,” she said with a laugh.

  “Why did you—”

  Natty cut him off. “Pie would be more than happy to help you move your stuff, and don’t even think about giving him any money. That right, Pie Man?”

  Continuing to trudge up the sidewalk, the boy pulled his pockets inside out, showing that he was penniless.

  “Yeth, Mama,” he called over his shoulder. “I help Charlie.”

  Charlie and Natty laughed. They could see that the boy was chuckling over his little joke. A few yards from the top of the hill, Natty winced when she heard the unmistakable sound of Buck’s truck whining to make it up the hill behind her. She didn’t turn to look. She didn’t want to see Buck. Most of all, she didn’t want this moment with the kind, considerate man from New York to end. And she certainly didn’t want a scene with Buck, not with this outsider present. Maybe he’ll just drive by without stopping.

  The white pickup came to a rough stop a few yards farther up the hill, the front right tire jumping over the short stone curbing. Charlie was startled at first, but he could see from Natty’s reaction that it was someone she knew. Buck fixed Charlie briefly with a cold eye before turning to Natty and leaning over toward the open passenger window.

  “C’mon, Nat. We need to talk. Get in.” It was the apologetic voice that Buck could summon up when he needed it, but he was never able to mask the look in his eyes that said there was trouble rumbling just beneath the surface. Natty knew the look and didn’t want to provoke any trouble. She stood still for a second, looking down at the ground, then walked toward the truck. She turned back to her son.

  “Pie, you go help Mr. Burden move his things. I’ll get you at Eve’s later.” She got into the truck and stared straight ahead as Buck roared away from the curb faster than he had to. Charlie watched the boy stare after the truck as it accelerated noisily away. The Pie Man didn’t say anything. He just trudged more quickly up the hill, staying a little ways in front of Charlie.

  * * *

  AFTER A LONG afternoon touring the construction site with Terry Summers, Charlie declined his invitation to dinner with some of the construction workers at a place called Moody’s Roadhouse and returned to the apartment in Old Red Bone. The store and the restaurant were closed, and Main Street was deserted. Charlie suddenly felt quite alone as he hiked up the four flights of stairs.

  On the kitchen table, wrapped in aluminum, was a large turkey pot pie still warm from the oven, with a note from Eve Brewster that read, Welcome to West Virginia, and, in parentheses, P.S. This is Hank’s favorite. In the refrigerator was a homemade apple pie from Mabel Willard. Charlie rapped on the back door to his neighbor’s apartment and invited Mr. Hankinson over for dinner and some cribbage.

  After devouring a good portion of the turkey pie, the two men went out on the porch and took their chairs at the card table. Hank went over the stakes as Charlie admired the orange sunset, which cast a warm, comforting glow across the table. “We play for twenty dollars a game, plus a dollar a point, five for the high hand, double for a skunk.” He looked up quickly to see if Charlie had any objections. The stakes seemed a little steep to Charlie, until he remembered the scorebook with the thousands of games and the running total.

  Charlie won the first game and lost the next three. On a piece of scratch paper, Hank totaled up the damage. “That’s fifty-eight dollars, my friend,” said Hank, sounding pleased with himself. “Pay up.”

  The demand took Charlie by surprise. “What about the book?” he said.

  “Oh, no,” said Hank gruffly. “Last time I did that, the guy stiffed me for eleven hundred bucks.” He stared at Charlie unflinchingly.

  Charlie reached for his wallet. “Well, okay,” he said, bewildered. “I guess we can do it like this.” He thumbed out three twenties, then he looked up and saw Hank grinning through his white mustache.

  “Gotcha there, Burden,” the old man said, slapping the table loudly. He reached for the scorebook. “We’ll put it on account and see how things go. May have to lower the stakes, if you’re as lousy a player as you showed today.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Hank,” Charlie said, relieved that they wouldn’t be playing for cash. He watched Hank write in the book that he and Alva Paine had shared for twenty-one years. Charlie thought he saw Hank sigh when he looked at the last page and wrote Charlie’s name in place of Alva’s at the top of the column. “You two played a lot of games, huh, Hank?”

  “Lot of games,” Hank said softly.

  * * *

  THAT NIGHT, CHARLIE called Ellen at the house in Warren, Vermont. Ellen and Linda Marchetti were making dinner for some people from the tennis tournament. Charlie could hear loud voices and sporadic laughter in the background. “Darling, how’s everything in Virginia?” Ellen asked grandly, as if for the benefit of her guests. As always, she sounded full of life and in command.

  “West Virginia. Red Bone, West Virginia,” he corrected. He told her about the drive down, the apartment, and shopping for boots. “They have a Barney’s here,” he said.

  “Oh, that’s wonderful. You’ll have somewhere to shop, then.” She and Linda were playing in the finals of the tennis tournament the next morning, then driving down to Manchester for some outlet shopping and staying over at the Equinox. “You’ll be up for Columbus Day weekend, darling? The foliage is going to be fabulous this year. And I’ve made the reservations in Aspen for Christmas.” Ellen enjoyed playing for the crowd. Charlie visualized her waving a wineglass like an orchestra conductor’s baton, head tilted back to air out her words.

  “That’s fine, Ellen. Shouldn’t be a problem,” said Charlie. He wished her luck in the tournament, and Ellen said something in reply that Charlie didn’t catch but brought a laugh from her dinner guests. Then she clicked off.

  CHAPTER 11

  Eighteen thousand feet over central Pennsylvania, a silver-and-black Gulfstream V flashed across the evening sky, heading for Toronto’s Lester Pearson International Airport. Alone in the luxuriously appointed cabin, Jack Torkelson sat in one of the four beige leather captain’s chairs. To his right was a communications console with two telephones and a fax machine. Torkelson sipped a mineral water and studied the rows of figures on the computer while he waited for the conference call to begin.

  After a weekend at home in Georgetown, Torkelson was headed for his biweekly meeting with upper management, before heading back to the Washington office on Wednesday. Torkelson disliked having to spend time at the Toronto headquarters. He found dealing with the bright-eyed, simple-minded Canadians tedious at best and the time he spent north of the border an inefficient use of his time. He needed to be in Washington, the vortex of the global energy industry, not in the OntAmex boardroom, facing the overachieving Duncan McCord and his chief lieutenant, the roughneck Red Landon.

  The phone buzzed softly, and Torkelson waited for the others to come on the line. Larry Tuthill joined first, from his hotel in Chicago, then Vernon Yarbrough, the lawyer, from his home in Charleston, and finally, from his apartment in Bluefield, West Virginia, Terry Summers of Dietrich Delahunt & Mackey. After the obligatory salutations, Torkelson got down to business
. “So, Mr. Yarbrough, how did your meeting go with the judge?”

  “Couldn’t have been better. He’ll make his ruling in November, and we’ll have our variance for Redemption Mountain within a week. All according to plan—as long as Ackerly Coal has a deed for that pig farm. But, if DeWitt hasn’t sold out by mid-November, the whole thing is off. The judge isn’t going to make this an open-ended deal.”

  Larry Tuthill broke in. “Now tell Jack the good news, Vernon.”

  “What news?” Torkelson asked quickly.

  The others could hear the tinkle of ice in Vernon Yarbrough’s cocktail glass before he spoke. “Well, Jack, seems that we’ve got ourselves some leverage now. Should make that old pig farmer a little more receptive with regards to the magnanimous nature of our offer.”

  “What leverage?” Torkelson asked quietly, trying to hide his impatience. He held Southerners in about the same regard as he did Canadians, and Southern lawyers, with their sham degrees from country-club law schools like Vanderbilt and Duke, were barely tolerable.

  The lawyer had a smile in his voice. “Now, Jack, what would you say if I told you that we’ve established firsthand that our favorite pig farmer, or more likely his grown son—Petey, they call him—has about half an acre of commercial grade, SWAT-team-ready, early-news-quality cannabis plants growing smack in the middle of his cornfield?”

  Larry Tuthill laughed. He enjoyed Yarbrough’s facility with words.

  The lawyer continued. “And that son Petey, during his early adulthood, did a yearlong stretch at one of our fine penal institutions for a previous felony, which would be child’s play compared to the time he’d face for a second offense of this magnitude—if, that is, someone were to bring the illicit herb garden to the attention of our county and state law-enforcement agencies.”

  Jack Torkelson couldn’t suppress a wide smile. Finally they had the advantage over that unreasonable pig farmer who didn’t care about money. This was better than money. This was family. “They’re growing pot? In the cornfield?” He was genuinely amused.

  “Yessir, and a nice healthy crop it is, too,” Yarbrough responded. “Getting plenty of good sunshine up on that mountain.”

  “All right, that’s good. But we don’t use it unless we have to,” said Torkelson.

  “My thoughts exactly,” replied Yarbrough. “Our judge is going to want to see that the farmer got a nice payday, so he can feel good about the whole thing. But now we got a mulligan to use if we need it.”

  “Good,” said Torkelson. “Now, what about our cooling-pond problem?”

  “We’ve got a date before the town planning board the third week in September,” said Yarbrough. “We’ll put together a first-rate presentation, plus we’ll have representation from the governor’s office, couple of state senators, and probably some county politicians, too.”

  “Don’t worry, Jack, we’ll get that done,” added Larry Tuthill.

  “Don’t screw it up,” Torkelson responded calmly. “Then take care of the pig farmer. Larry, keep me informed. Good night, gentlemen.”

  * * *

  LATE IN THE afternoon, walking from the generator building to his office, Charlie glanced toward the main gate and saw a familiar figure riding his bike in circles just outside the gate. The boy didn’t see Charlie, or maybe he didn’t recognize him in his white hard hat until he neared the fence and called out to him, “Hey, Pie Man, get over here!”

  The boy wheeled the bike around and pedaled to the open gate. “Hello, Charlie!” he said. “I am the Pie Man!” He held his hand up in the air for a high-five.

  Charlie took the boy to the administration building and introduced him to the people working at the computers in the engineering room. The boy was amazed at the complex images dancing across the large-screen monitors. A young engineer lifted him up on a stool and showed him how to manipulate the mouse, moving trees and shrubs around the screen. Charlie watched as the boy’s face scrunched up with glee or went slack with awe. As a new image came up on the screen, he pointed at the monitor and looked at Charlie with obvious pride. “Turbines,” he said.

  Charlie laughed as he looked at the screen. “Right you are, Pie Man, that’s where the turbines are going.”

  The technician patted the boy’s back. “Kid, you’re a born engineer.”

  “Pie Man is an engineer,” he said proudly, sliding off the stool. “I will be an engineer, like Charlie.”

  Charlie glanced at his watch. “Hey, I’ve got an idea, Pie. C’mon, let’s go outside.” On their way out, Charlie ducked into a storage room and came out with a brand-new white hard hat, which, after adjusting the fitting band, he placed ceremoniously on Pie’s head. The boy’s face couldn’t have lit up brighter as he and Charlie walked through the site, headed toward the mammoth yellow and green vehicles. They finally stopped next to a huge yellow bulldozer. “Well, c’mon, Pie. Let’s go!” said Charlie, scrambling up the ladder to the driver’s compartment.

  There was plenty of room for them on the wide seat, which was one reason Charlie had selected it. Another was the incredible noise it made when Charlie hit the starter button. Charlie laughed as he watched the expression of fear and excitement on the boy’s face when the engine belched to life, puffs of black smoke exploding from the tall exhaust pipes.

  “Hang on, Pie,” he yelled, as he squeezed the handgrips and pulled on the levers that sent the heavy treads into action. The boy pressed in close against Charlie and squeezed the bar in front of him. They left the equipment yard and headed toward a large open area at the northern end of the site.

  Charlie noticed a white pickup moving quickly toward them on Cold Springs Road. The truck slowed as it came abreast of them, then came to a complete stop in the middle of the road. As they drew even with the truck, Charlie recognized the cold stare from the angry-looking driver. Pie stared at the truck, his happy face gone. After a few seconds, the driver turned away and the white truck accelerated out of view.

  Back at the equipment yard, Charlie turned off the engine. The sudden cessation of the noise and the vibration engulfed them in stillness. The boy took off his hard hat and looked at Charlie. “That was my papa in the truck.”

  “Is he going to be mad at you for being here?”

  “No, Papa won’t be mad. He won’t be anything.”

  Charlie let it go. He liked the boy, but he didn’t want to push his way into a family problem. Better to stay out of it. They sat quietly for a few moments before Charlie noticed tears in the boy’s eyes.

  “C’mon, Pie Man. What’s that for?” Charlie asked.

  The boy stared at his shoes. Finally he looked up and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He glanced around at all the trucks and tractors that he’d played on so many times, alone at night after sneaking under the fence, then turned to Charlie. “Charlie, thith wath the betht day of my whole life.”

  Charlie ran his fingers through the boy’s hair, then placed the hard hat back on his head, knocking it down tight with a rap of the knuckles, making the boy laugh. “C’mon, let’s go get a soda.”

  * * *

  DRIVING BACK INTO Old Red Bone as the falling sun cast its warm, comforting glow over the red-stone buildings, Charlie had an idea. On his cellphone, he called Hank and invited him over for dinner. Then he called Eve in the restaurant and asked her to pick up a box of spaghetti, some meat sauce, grated cheese, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of red wine before she closed.

  “Sounds like a hot date.” Eve was curious.

  Charlie laughed. “No, just Hank, and I feel like spaghetti. That’s all. Hey, Eve, why don’t you come up, too?”

  “No, you’d probably make me do the cooking, but, thanks for asking, Charlie. I’ll leave the food on the stairway.”

  An hour later, Charlie and Hank sat out on the porch, drinking a glass of wine and enjoying the view of the setting sun while the spaghetti sauce simmered. A few minutes passed in silence. Then Hank asked, “Everything okay down at your power plant?”
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br />   “Oh, sure. Everything’s fine, Hank,” Charlie said, before deciding to broach the subject of the cooling pond. Hank might have some insight into how the members of the planning board would react. “We do have one problem coming up, though, that we’re going to have to bring before the planning board. We’re going to have to move the cooling pond to another area of the site because of the underlying rock strata.”

  “That’s a problem?” Hank inquired.

  “It’s a significant change to the site plan, and the planning board has to okay it.”

  “Planning board, huh?”

  “You know those fellows?” Charlie remembered the thin manila folder with the information about the board members that Larry Tuthill had passed to him at their meeting in New York. The file was still tucked away, unread, in Charlie’s briefcase.

  “I know ’em,” said Hank. “Miserable pricks, all three of ’em.” He rose out of his chair and went to the porch railing to spit a large gob of tobacco juice over the side. “Be lucky to get out of that meeting with your balls still in your pants. Disagreeable old hillbillies, and dumb as rocks, too.”

  “Really?” Charlie was alarmed at Hank’s assessment. “This is an important variance and could be potentially a very expensive problem. If we can’t move the pond, the project could shut down for months.”

  Hank shook his head. “Well, good luck with that bunch.”

  As they sat eating their spaghetti dinner at Charlie’s small kitchen table, Charlie’s thoughts returned to the Pie Man. “Hank, there’s a kid I met out at the project the first day I got here, a kid with Down syndrome—”

  “The Pie Man,” said Hank, a wide smile coming across his face.

  “That’s him. The Pie Man. You know him?”

  “Burden, let me tell you something,” said Hank, shoveling another forkful of spaghetti into his mouth. “That kid’s going to be governor of this state someday. An amazing kid.”