On her morning runs, she had waved at Hank a couple of times but resisted the impulse to ask about Charlie. Toward the end of the week, although there was no reason to think he might be back and out in front of the store waiting for her, Natty would take a deep breath to still her beating heart and swallow hard to clear her throat in nervous anticipation as she came to the top of the hill and rounded the corner. Her anxiety was nothing personal, she told herself. She got a little nervous because Charlie Burden was an important man, and she would use their friendship to try to get Buck a job at the power plant. That was all there was to it.
Of course, maybe now there was another opportunity for Buck beyond the power plant, as she recalled the spreading rumors that Ackerly Coal would be opening a big surface mine on Redemption Mountain to feed the new power plant, and the union would be supplying two hundred miners, with McDowell County men getting first crack at the jobs. So it was true, and the word was out.
Buck, his brothers, and just about everyone else in town were excited about the good news. And she and her family would be a small, powerless minority in the fight to save Redemption Mountain. Except … how did her mother put it when she called a few days ago? I met your Mr. Burden today, Sarah had said. I asked him straightaway if we were going to lose the farm. He seemed to think about it for a long time, and then he said, “I’m going to do everything I can to prevent it.” Now, why would he say that, Natty? Does he have any say in this? Have you talked to him about us?
Natty went back over the few brief conversations she’d had with Charlie. He had to be on the other side of this fight for their farm. He was working for OntAmex, wasn’t he? Why would he tell her mother that he “would try to prevent it”? It didn’t make any sense.
Car doors slamming behind her brought Natty back to the present. A group of five boys from the trailer park were the first to arrive. Natty turned around in time to wave to Gladys Steele, as she pulled away in her old station wagon. She’d dropped off her twin boys, Gilbert and Hardy, two overweight redheads; Jason Bailey; Matt Hatfield, who, next to Emma Lowe, was the team’s best all-around player; and Billy Staten, an uncoordinated, timid black boy, who didn’t seem to enjoy the game but returned year after year and did his best.
Natty noticed Emma Lowe and Brenda Giles, the team’s goalie, running down the hill. Then a pickup pulled up, and Jimmy Hopson and George Jarrell, two mainstays of the team, jumped out. Neither was a gifted athlete, but they’d become technically solid players, and their outgoing personalities made them the team’s leaders. Jimmy took a look around the field and saw the Steele brothers. “I see the fat-boy twins are back. Hey, Gilbert,” he yelled, “have another doughnut!”
Gilbert looked over at Jimmy with a big smile and stuck his middle finger in the air. “Suck my dick, Hopson,” he called back.
“Gotta find it first,” yelled George, as he and Jimmy ran onto the field. Natty shook her head. This could be a long season. She glanced at her watch. Almost nine-twenty and still no sign of the Willard boys. She blew her whistle, and just as she was about to start her annual board talk, reviewing the responsibilities of each position on the field, a heavyset woman and a thin boy with a blond crew cut came over to her. The boy was wearing a light-blue shirt with black pinstripes and a black collar—a real soccer jersey, not the cheap T-shirts worn by the Bones—dark-blue nylon shorts, and white stockings over his shin guards.
Natty put her chalk down. The woman’s name was Helen, with a long, unpronounceable last name. She and her husband were from Poland and had moved to Red Bone several years ago. “Mrs. Oakes,” she said. “I like to see you again. I am Helen, do you remember?” She had a heavy European accent.
“Yes, sure I do, Helen, how are you? And who is this handsome young man?” Natty asked, smiling at the boy.
“This is Pawel.” She spelled his name. “But here he is just Paul. He is the son of my sister, who comes to live vid us. He could play football on your team if you can. Okay? He play much football in Poland. Okay?”
Natty laughed. “Of course Paul can play, if he’s under fourteen. How old is he?” she asked, looking at the boy.
“Yes, yes, he is only turteen,” she said. “But Paul speak not much English. Okay he can play?”
After years of coaching kids’ soccer, Natty knew a player when she saw one. Pawel was thin, but his neck and arms were well muscled. His cleats, she noticed, had also seen many a game. Natty led her newest recruit to the bleachers. “This is Paul,” she announced. “He has just arrived from Poland.”
After an interlude in which the team stared at Paul and he stared nervously back, Pie jumped down from the bench and hopped over in front of the new boy. “Hello!” he said, holding up his hand for a high-five. “I am the Pie Man.” Paul peered down at the strange little boy, smiled, and did a gentle high-five. Pie grabbed the boy’s wrist and led him up to a seat next to his. Natty glanced at Emma Lowe in the back row and gave her a wink. Now, if the Willard boys ever show up, we might actually have a pretty decent team.
As if on cue, Sammy and Zack Willard sauntered toward the field. Natty could see that there was an attitude problem. She blew her whistle. “Pay attention,” she said loudly. “I don’t want anybody on the field who doesn’t know the rules and doesn’t know their position.” Ignoring the Willard brothers as they took seats in the back row, Natty reviewed all the rules. Then she painstakingly described the responsibilities of each position on the field and assigned each player their primary and secondary positions. When she got to Paul and the Willard brothers, Natty assigned Paul and Sammy to the midfield and made Zack the sweeper.
Zack glared. “Aw, Miz Natty, what kind a booshit is that? I’s a scorer, not a damn sweeper.”
“Well, Zack, we don’t need any more scorers. What we need is a damn sweeper, so that’s where you’re going to play. Okay,” she concluded with a hand clap, “let’s play some soccer.”
As the team ran onto the field, Natty watched the Willard brothers dawdling in the back row. “Sammy, Zack, c’mere,” she said. The boys sidled up slowly. Natty grabbed the necks of their T-shirts and pulled the boys in close. “Don’t you boys ever, ever, disrespect this team again by showing up late! You want to play soccer, come and play soccer, but you get here on time. You ever show up late again, you’re off the team.” The boys mumbled a soft yes, ma’am, and stared at their sneakers.
“Okay, then,” Natty said, releasing her grip. She stepped back and smiled. “Your grandmaw’s the finest woman ever lived. I don’t want to disappoint her by chuckin’ either one of you off the team. So don’t make me.”
Natty called for a full-field scrimmage, six against six. Pie would be a sub for whoever got tired and needed a break. As soon as the game started, Natty realized that she had been right about Paul. He was a skilled player, who could dribble the ball as if it were glued to his foot and had a powerful kick and tremendous speed. It was apparent that he was accustomed to a much higher level of competition. Natty noticed that Emma, who rarely showed any emotion on the field, was smiling as she watched Paul play; Natty also saw how all the other players improved under his direction.
Both teams played with an intensity and skill level that Natty had never before seen at practice. The Willard brothers brought speed, power, and desire. Paul could kick the ball a mile. Emma was Emma, and she wasn’t really trying to score. When Gilbert Steele went to his knees at midfield and threw up what must have been a very large breakfast, Natty blew the whistle to end the game. The players were beat, but there was a palpable excitement on the field, as many of them dared to believe that, finally, they might be on a good team.
Natty looked over at Zack, who approached Paul and threw his arm around the new boy’s shoulders. “Man, you is a soccer player,” Zack told him. Paul smiled and nodded his head, although he couldn’t understand the compliment. Zack laughed and ran his hand roughly through Paul’s bristly crew cut. “Das okay, we be teachin’ you all da words you gotta know,” he said, flas
hing a smile at Natty, who shuddered at the thought. She reminded the team about Wednesday night’s practice and their game next Saturday.
Packing the balls back into the mesh bag, Natty noticed Pie sitting quietly on the bench. She felt badly that he hadn’t played. “Hey, Pie Man,” she called over to him. “I’m sorry, I should’ve put you in the game. I forgot.…”
“Thath okay, Mama,” he said, getting up from the bench. “I don’t mind. I wath tired, anyway.” He had a sad look on his face.
“So why the long face?”
Pie kicked at the dirt. “Mama, when will Charlie come back? Did Charlie go away forever?”
Natty put her hand on the back of his neck and pulled him toward her. “No, Pie,” she said. “Charlie’s coming back in a few days.”
Pie looked up the hill toward Old Red Bone. “I mith Charlie, Mama. Charlie ith my good friend.”
Natty tucked the blackboard and easel under her arm. “I know, Pie. Charlie is a good friend.”
* * *
THERE WERE TWO young horses grazing in the tall grass of the corral. Charlie had to laugh at the pains Ellen and her realtor had taken to set the stage. Sitting at a wrought-iron table in the back garden, Charlie could see that the pool had been reopened. After two hours in the hot sun at Hickory Hills for the cocktail party honoring the outgoing president of the club, Charlie wished he had brought his bathing suit.
The new house would undoubtedly help Ellen’s campaign for the presidency of the country club, although Charlie couldn’t pinpoint exactly why. Maybe it was just that successful people liked to associate with successful people, and this house and this address reeked of success.
Charlie fished his cellphone from his jacket to check his messages. On a Sunday afternoon, he didn’t expect anything urgent, but you could never be sure. There was a message from Larry Tuthill, calling to discuss strategy and logistics for the presentation to the Red Bone planning board. This was one conference call Charlie was looking forward to. The only other message was from Carlos Marché, inviting Charlie to attend the Yankees game with him and Lucien on Monday night. The Red Sox were in town.
Tuthill’s message reminded Charlie of Red Bone. After ten days back in New York, he’d been able to put West Virginia—even Natty—out of his mind. This infatuation was just the sort of thing that happened when you moved alone to a new place, he told himself. She’s a nice person, and Pie’s mother. But that’s all it was.
Ellen came onto the patio, a bottle of champagne in one hand and, in the other, two long-stemmed red champagne flutes. Stopping abruptly, with an evil smile, she kicked off her high heels, sending one flying into a thick island of multicolored impatiens. She’d taken off her jacket, revealing a very sexy sleeveless blouse. Charlie felt a visceral stirring as she placed the champagne on the table and leaned over to plant a long, warm kiss on his mouth. She sat down across from him while Charlie poured the champagne.
“So how did I do today?” he asked. “Okay?”
Ellen laughed. “The perfect trophy husband.”
They touched glasses. “To the next president of Hickory Hills Country Club,” said Charlie, raising his glass. “Do you think you’ll get it?”
Ellen smiled wryly. “Of course I will.” They sat watching the horses in the corral feed contentedly on the untended grass. It occurred to Charlie that, with Jennifer around most of the week, he and Ellen hadn’t had many opportunities to be alone.
Of course, this had been well planned by Ellen and her realtor—the horses, the pool, the champagne in the refrigerator. The scene had been set, and Charlie knew what was coming. He’d decided to make Ellen’s job easier. He’d thought about things a lot over the past month, and he wanted this to be a special day for her. She shouldn’t have to beg. Putting his wineglass on the table, Charlie stood up, walked to the edge of the patio, and scanned the grounds for a few moments. He walked back to the table and smiled down at Ellen. “Well, this is quite a house we’re buying here, isn’t it?”
Ellen blinked with surprise, then smiled broadly. “Thank you, Charlie,” she said, getting up and going to him. Charlie kissed her and held her close. He whispered into her ear, “I seem to remember the master bedroom having a nice thick carpet.”
“Yes—no, wait,” she said excitedly. “I have to make some calls first,” she said, reaching for her handbag. She flashed Charlie an embarrassed smile as she pulled the phone from her bag. “Just a few minutes, darling.” She walked quickly across the patio, squinting at the small phone as she squeezed out the tiny beeps with her thumb.
Charlie poured himself another glass of champagne, wandered down to the pool, and sat in a lounge chair. Closing his eyes, he was back on his porch in Red Bone, looking out at the mountains and down the hill toward the soccer field. He saw the bouncing dot coming toward him at a good pace—running, not jogging—wearing the blue Spider-Man hat and the oversize shorts. Natty looked up and waved and smiled the smile that made his heart skip. Charlie opened his eyes and stood up quickly to dismiss the vision. He drained his champagne and started back toward the house to find his wife.
CHAPTER 16
The 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 surprise
d. “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.
* * *
IT 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.
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