Redemption Mountain

by FitzGerald, Gerry

  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.

  * * *

  NATTY 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.

  * * *

  WHEN 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—”

  “Excuse me, Greg,” Charlie interrupted, “but I think I have a solution that may kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Let’s hear it, Charlie,” said Tuthill.

  “It has to do with DeWitt’s granddaughter—the woman who went to see the lawyer in Welch?”

  “What about her?” asked Yarbrough.

  “She’s got a project that would be perfect for us,” Charlie said. “Seems she’s tried to open a children’s library in a small building next to the athletics fields. But the roof leaks badly. And she could use some kids’ books to replace the ones ruined by water. It would make a nice high-visibility project, and the woman—Natty Oakes—is a real pistol, as you know. She’d most likely lead the lynch mob against us, especially with her interest in Redemption Mountain. If we could neutralize her by taking care of her pet project, it could quiet her down.”

  “I like that, Charlie,” replied Tuthill. “What do you think, Vern?”

  “Could work, if Burden can pull it off,” Yarbrough answered cautiously. “You sure you can get her to pull in her horns if we take care of this library?”

  “I think fixing up her library will make her back off,” said Charlie.

  “Good. That’s it, then,” announced Tuthill. “You orchestrate it, Charlie. Talk to the girl and to the planning-board guy. Spread a little cash around if you need to. Vernon, you’ll go through your presentation, and then when the shit starts flying, Charlie and the DeWitt girl—”

  “Oakes,” said Charlie.

  “Huh?”

  “Her married name is Oakes.”

  “Right. You and the girl put on a show about the library. Everybody’s happy and we move on. That about right?” asked Tuthill.

  “That’s it,” said Charlie.

  “Great. Thanks, everybody,” said Tuthill. “I won’t be able to get down there for the meeting, so, Charlie, you and Vern will speak for OntAmex. Vern, call me right after the meeting.”

  “Will do, Larry; so long. Charlie, I’ll see you week after next,” added Yarbrough.

  Charlie clicked the hold button on his phone and covered the speaker with his hand. Then he gently pressed the hold button once more. He could hear the hollow sound of an open phone line, then Larry Tuthill’s voice again. “Oh, I almost forgot. Charlie, you still there?” Tuthill asked. Charlie remained silent. “Vern, you there?”

  After a few seconds, Yarbrough’s voice came on again. “I’m here, Larry.”

  “We’re alone. When you gonna move on the farmer?”

  “Based on what Burden said, I’m thinking that we should wait until right after the planning-board meeting. Don’t need any repercussions affecting the pond thing.”

  “I think you’re right,” said Tuthill.

  “We’ll go up the week after the planning-board meeting. Need a little more time to find a local boy to put on the team. The sheriff down there’s a real straight arrow, but I got a line on another fellow—a deputy named Wayne Lester—supposed to be willing to play ball.”

  “Everything else all set?” asked Tuthill.

  “Like the invasion of Normandy. The staties are all set, and the DEA, and our judge. We’ll have warrants to search, inside and out. That hillbilly pig-fucker’ll be wishing he grabbed that seven-fifty was on the table last time I had to go crawling around that dump, eatin’ his shit. I’ll give you a call when it’s going down.”

  Tuthill and Yarbrough clicked off. Charlie sat, unmoving. He replayed the conversation in his mind. What the hell was Yarbrough planning? To have DeWitt arrested? For what? This was obviously the Plan B that Yarbrough had let slip, and it didn’t sound good for Bud DeWitt.

  But what, if anything, could he or should he do about it? If he sabotaged OntAmex’s effort to acquire the farm and was exposed, his career would be over. And OntAmex would probably sue for breach of contract and bankrupt him with legal fees. Ellen’s dream home would again be taken away from her. Even if Charlie could live with the consequences, it wouldn’t be fair to her. No, he’d have to go slowly on this and see how it played out. He quietly hung up the phone.

  * * *

  THE SWEAT POURED off his forehead, running down to his already soaked T-shirt. Charlie looked at his watch—five minutes to go, and he was still a good mile from the climb to Main Street. When a horn blared behind him, he leaped to the shoulder of the road. Natty’s Honda accelerated past him, then stopped about fifteen yards up the road. She got out of the car and smiled at him. “Need a ride, sailor? Don’t look like you’re going to make it back to town.”

  Thankful for a reason to stop running, Charlie slowed to a walk. “This part of West Virginia hospitality?”

  “No, not for everyone,” Natty said, squinting into the setting sun, “just guys with nice legs. Hey, thanks for getting Pie that baseball hat. He wore it to bed the last two nights.”

  “I knew he’d like it,” said Charlie.

  “And he hasn’t put that magazine down. I think he’s memorizing it.” Natty’s face lit up with her trademark smile. “How about I buy you a cold beer at the store when you finally make it up there?”

  Charlie laughed. “It’s a deal,” he said, starting to run again.

  As the Honda passed him, he noticed the exhaust pipe swaying back and forth, suspended on a twisted coat hanger. Ten minutes later he made it to Eve’s. Natty was seated on the bench in front of the store. Next to her was a small plastic bowl filled with ice and a sixteen-ounce can of Budweiser stuck in the middle. “Hot night for running,” she said, offering the beer to Charlie.

  He sat down across from her, pressing the ice-cold can to his forehead. He saw Eve peering at them through the large window. He waved, but she only nodded before disappearing into the store. He wondered if Eve had a problem with him having a beer with her sister-in-law. Maybe she thinks there’s something going on between us. Charlie took a long, satisfying drink. “Thanks,” he said, gesturing with the can.

  Natty finished the beer she’d been drinking and tossed the can into a cardboard box next to her bench. He noticed her equipment bag near the steps down to the street. Next to it was a small brown grocery bag from the store, in which he could see the top of a Jack Daniel’s bottle and a carton of Marlboros. It was Friday night, and she must be on her way over to the two retired miners she took care of.

  “Been meaning to ask you something, Mr. Burden.” Natty’s voice had a more serious tone than usual.

  “Sure,” Charlie said.

  “I been tryin’ to figure out … um, when you went up to Redemption Mountain and you talked to my mother, how’d you know who she was? I never said anything about being a DeWitt.”

  Charlie recalled the picture of Natty in her baggy sweater and the wild hair with the shock hanging down across her forehead—the face that he couldn’t erase from his mind. As he looked at her now, it dawned on him that he had never seen her wearing any makeup. Not on her eyes, or her lips—nothing. Then something else occurred to him. She never wore any jewelry. No earrings, necklaces, bracelets. He checked her hands quickly—no rings of any kind, just a small white-faced watch with a brown leather strap.

  “’Course, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Natty said.

  Charlie smiled at her. “No, I’m sorry. I saw your picture on the dining room wall.”

  Natty smiled. “I forgot about them,” she said. They sat quietly for a few moments. Then Natty spoke again. “How are you going to save our farm, Mr. Burden? Like you told my mother.”

  It was a question Charlie didn’t want to hear. He squeezed his beer can flat and tossed it into the box.

>   “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, Mr. Burden, but this is important,” she pressed him. “All your friends are trying their damnedest to take that farm, but you tell my mother that you’re on our side?”

  She deserved an honest answer, he knew, not some corporate spin. “Natty, I’m not sure I can save your farm,” he answered. “There are a great many powerful people who will stop at nothing to take it.”

  * * *

  NATTY WATCHED AND listened as he labored over his answer, but all she could think about was how, for the very first time, he had called her Natty. He said it so naturally, as if they’d been friends for years. He really did know her name.

  “I told your mother I would do what I could, and I will, to a certain point. But this is serious business to a lot of people and several companies. Trying to save Redemption Mountain could mean the end of my career, so I have to be careful.” He reached down and loosened the laces of his running shoes. “I’ll do what I can, but your grandfather is most likely going to lose his farm.”

  The cold fear of reality replaced the giddiness Natty felt from hearing her name on Charlie Burden’s lips. She nodded. “That’s fair enough.” She looked at her watch. “Got to take care of my boys,” she said, standing up. Natty slung her case over her shoulder and picked up the grocery bag. “Want to come over and meet a couple of old coal miners?” she asked.

  Charlie looked over at the old building across the street. He hesitated, then said, “I’d like to meet them sometime, but not tonight.”

  “That’s okay. I understand. Some other time. They’d get a kick out of meeting the big mule.”

  They both smiled. Then Charlie took a step toward her. “Natty, this has to be our secret, about Redemption Mountain, you understand that.”