by Chris Fabry
“Everybody knows where that is.”
“All right. I want this signed and in my hand by then. Is that agreeable?”
“I expect it’ll have to be,” Hollis said.
He turned and got in his truck and drove away. In the rearview mirror he saw the security guard holding the door for Buddy.
31
FRANCES GOES TO LUNCH AT THE COMPANY STORE
BEULAH MOUNTAIN, WEST VIRGINIA
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 1, 2004
Frances followed Marilyn to a room off the first floor where an elegant table had been set with china, silverware, and glass. Marilyn explained this had been cold storage for foodstuffs in the mining days, but the historical society had taken the liberty of turning it into a dining area for special events. It was the only major modification they had made to the original design.
It was clear that Marilyn believed the Company Store would be the key to revitalizing the town that had lost many residents and seemed in danger of losing more with the increase of the mountaintop removal. The Company Store was the first of many improvements. When the mining was complete in the area, CCE would fill in the land with parks and open areas where people could view the wonders of God’s creation, albeit wonders that had been drastically changed. More “shovel-ready” jobs were on the way and people would be attracted to the area, roads improved, schools built. Frances wasn’t sure how that would happen or if the vision would become a nightmare.
One by one, the six other women on the committee entered the room and greeted Frances with polite handshakes and smiles. Most were older women, though two were about Frances’s age, and all seemed to follow Marilyn in lockstep. They all wore dresses and an ample amount of jewelry and heels that clicked on the hardwood. The historical society seemed like it had lots of money, and she wondered where it came from. She also wondered how the local townspeople who were barely scraping by would react to all the changes.
“Marilyn has told us about your mother,” the oldest member of the group said. She had white hair and spoke with a genteel Southern accent, not the hard Appalachian drawl of the town. She reminded Frances of what Robert E. Lee must have sounded like. “You must be terribly concerned about her.”
“I am,” Frances said. “I came here hoping to find her. The police are still looking and I’m waiting for a call.”
“Perhaps a glimpse of her past will give you some comfort. We are praying for her to be found. Keep hoping. Don’t despair. I have a good feeling about your mother.” She grabbed Frances’s hand and squeezed it tightly.
The other women nodded in agreement as Marilyn cleared her throat and got everyone’s attention. “It’s hard to believe the day is almost here. I want to personally thank you all for your hard work and dedication. Frances, what you’ve seen here could not have been done without a lot of sacrifice and financial backing from the women in this room. And for that I will always be grateful.”
Frances wanted to excuse herself and retrieve Charlotte from the newspaper office. She wanted to call Jerry for an update. Maybe Julia had heard something. Her thoughts flitted from one person to the next and finally landed on lunch, which was served by a catering company miles from Beulah Mountain (this was something that would change, Marilyn explained—the town would bring back the bakery and several restaurants). She picked at her salad, glancing at her phone every few minutes to make sure she wasn’t missing a call.
“Marilyn, the photos in the entryway,” a woman said, her brow furrowed. “I like the placement, but I wonder how we’re handling the interest in the darker side of the anniversary.”
“Let’s face it,” one of the younger women said. “It’s the massacre that’s getting most of the press right now. As much as we might not want to play up the grisly nature of the date, it’s part of the draw.”
“Oh, I don’t think people are coming because of that,” Mrs. Robert E. Lee said. “They’re coming because they want to experience a simpler time. They want to see how life was when things weren’t so complicated. It’s like visiting Colonial Williamsburg. No one comes because people died there long ago. They come because people lived there and flourished by determination and the sweat of their brow. They come because it gives them a vision for their own lives.”
Marilyn smiled. “You’re both right. People are coming for a variety of reasons. And while we will observe the rather bleak anniversary and use it to publicize the opening, we won’t let that overshadow the reality of what we’re celebrating.”
Frances put down her fork. “And what is that, if I may ask?”
“We are lifting up the human spirit. The ability not just to survive the hard times, but to overcome. And along with that, the great impact that Coleman Coal and Energy has had on this area. The positives of the mining culture. The way hardscrabble men and women came to these hills and worked hard and got ahead. It is the American spirit we need again. The can-do attitude that said, ‘No matter what happens, no matter how difficult it gets, we’re going to succeed.’ That’s what we’re honoring and celebrating.”
Frances took another bite of salad so she wouldn’t have to respond. After what she’d heard from Charlotte about the shoe room, it didn’t seem like they could make a Hallmark movie out of the Company Store narrative, but either they didn’t know about the stories or they were avoiding the discussion.
Her phone buzzed and she jumped up and ran out of the room. She hoped to hear her mother’s voice but instead it was Wallace.
“I wanted to check in and see if you’ve heard anything,” he said. “Did you make it down there okay?”
“Yes, I’m here. No word. I haven’t heard from Jerry or the police.”
“Julia called and said she’s worried about Ruby. About you.”
“I’m a big girl, Wallace. I can take care of myself.” She tried to say it without venom, but her tone was off. She wasn’t prepared to hear his voice, to hear genuine caring coming through the line.
“Yeah, I know that. I’ve always known that, Frances.” He paused a moment and his voice lowered. “And I’m sorry about us. I keep saying that, but it’s true.”
Frances stared at a stack of flour sacks on the floor and the old cash register on the counter in the front. A Company Store employee was filling a glass container with hard candy. Behind her, Frances noticed what looked like a small, square door in the wall. Hadn’t she seen something like that upstairs too?
“I’m trying to put the past behind me, Wallace. To move on with life. You don’t have to make up for what you did. Just know you’re forgiven and move on.”
“Thank you for that.”
“I need to go. And I think I need some space. I’ll call Julia. If she calls you again, tell her to talk with me. I don’t want you in the middle.”
“I understand,” he said.
“Good-bye, Wallace.”
She ended the call and closed her eyes. After a moment, she walked to the young woman putting horehound candy in the glass container. “Do you know what that is in the wall behind the counter?”
The woman turned and looked, then frowned. “I don’t know, ma’am. I haven’t worked here that long. It looks kind of like a window that’s been covered up. But you could ask Mrs. Grigsby-Mollie. She knows everything.”
Frances thanked her and slipped back inside the room. All eyes focused on her, and Mrs. Robert E. Lee was the first to speak.
“Was that about your mother? We’re hoping it was.”
“No, it was someone concerned about her,” Frances said. “But I think I need to be going.”
“You don’t want to stay for dessert?”
Frances collected her purse and shook her head.
“Let me show you out,” Marilyn said and she followed Frances out as the caterer brought a tray of desserts into the room.
“Before I go, can you tell me what that is behind the counter?” Frances said, pointing at the square in the wall.
“That’s the dumbwaiter. It was part of your grandfather
’s design of the building to have that for his apartment. Food and beverages could be lifted up to them by the motorized pulley. He was quite ingenious with the design.”
“Does it go to the third floor, too?”
“Yes, I believe it does.”
“What was that room used for?”
“It was a meeting place for the mine owners and their colleagues. They conducted business there, met with employees, and had a drink or two.”
“And there were never shoes sold up there?”
A frown and a shake of the head. “I don’t know where you’re getting that information, but it’s been debunked time and again by historians and those who lived here. There were never any shoes for sale in that room. I can guarantee you that.”
Frances’s phone buzzed as she exited the building. It was Jerry and his voice sounded grim. “Her credit card was used yesterday.”
“Was it in Beulah Mountain?”
“No, same state, though. Different address.”
“Where?”
“A gas station in Chapmanville, then at a Walmart outside of Charleston. Then, last night, at a hotel farther down the interstate.”
Frances felt her heart race. “I’m in the wrong place. I missed her.”
“Now hold on,” Jerry said. “I’ve called the sheriff and they’re getting in touch with the authorities near there.”
“I need to go up there.”
“Frances, don’t freak out. Stay put until we know more, okay? We don’t know if she’s up there or if it’s somebody else using her card.”
“If someone else is using it, what have they done with her?”
Frances stared at the mountain and tried to still her thoughts. She had to do something. That was why she had come here—being in motion made her at least feel like she was moving toward her mother, whether she was or not.
“Frances, stay where you are,” Jerry said. “We’re going to find her.”
A deep breath. “Okay, I’ll stay here, but call me as soon as you hear anything. And I mean anything.”
“I’ll do it.”
32
CHARLOTTE SEES THE PICTURES
BEULAH MOUNTAIN, WEST VIRGINIA
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 1, 2004
Charlotte entered Corky’s office and noticed things were quieter than usual, especially with a Saturday edition to be printed for the grand opening festivities. She called for him and he exited the darkroom. At first she thought he might need a doctor because his face was a pasty white.
“What’s wrong?” she said.
“That camera you gave me,” Corky said. He jerked his head toward the door. “Come in here.”
She followed him into the darkroom and was met with the pungent smells of developer and fixing fluid. Corky had pictures clipped to strings over the workbench.
“One thing I’ve learned about old cameras,” he said. “They’re like guns. Always assume they’re loaded. I never open one when I don’t know what’s inside. So I was working on the paper and I kept looking at that old thing and it bugged me so much I brought it in here and opened her up.”
“And?”
“I found undeveloped film.”
“Really?”
“Now, just because it’s there doesn’t mean you can develop it. Seventy-year-old film can crack or turn to dust. I can’t explain it, but somehow the conditions were right. It went through the process and came out the other side.”
“You were able to develop it?” Charlotte said.
Corky nodded. “Made prints, too. The first ones on the roll were unusable. Just spotty blotches. Four of them came out pretty well. Amazing, actually, for their age. Take a look.”
Charlotte tried to breathe as she approached the prints drying on the line like wet clothing. Each picture was like taking a look in a time capsule—images caught in time and held for decades. She moved down the line, studying the faces, the buildings, the mountain. The last two pictures stopped her in her tracks.
33
HOLLIS TAKES THE LONG WAY HOME
BEULAH MOUNTAIN, WEST VIRGINIA
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 1, 2004
Hollis took the long way through the winding, rolling hills he loved. Many of the spots along the road were just like he remembered as a child, hunting with his father or taking a Sunday drive. The roads were now paved—that had changed. And at different points along the way, white scars and leveled hillsides were visible. All the seeding and planting in the world could not return the beauty only God could accomplish.
At Christmas as a boy, Hollis would grab his hatchet and his father would get his ax and the two would set out looking for an evergreen. Sometimes they walked for hours searching for the right tree. His father would usually convince Hollis that the first one they saw closest to the house was the best. Cutting a tree a mile or two away meant they’d have to drag it back, so his father had steered him toward sensibility.
Hollis’s father was a man of the mines and his mother was salt of the earth, and though they were not related to him by blood, a truth they revealed when he was a teenager, he felt them in his veins as he drove. He wondered if, when he and Juniper moved, he would forget this beauty. When all their earthly belongings were packed and moved into some house with new appliances and a doorjamb that didn’t admit wind, would he remember the ridges and hollows he had walked as a child?
Hollis glanced at the contract on the seat beside him and felt sick. When he looked back at the road and gripped the steering wheel, something happened that surprised him. He began to pray.
“Lord, you know it’s been a long time. Part of me doesn’t want to speak these words. But I’m in a tight place. I feel trapped. And the only way out is a road I don’t want to take. I need your help. I haven’t bothered you about Juniper. I haven’t knocked on your door since you took Daniel. But here I am. And I need you to answer.
“I promised my folks I would do right. I’d hang on to their part of Beulah Mountain. As I recall, you’re persnickety about people keeping their word. But I also promised Juniper I would love, honor, and cherish her, and she don’t want to stay. So I’m stuck between two promises and it’s like to kill me.
“I want to love my wife. I want to show her I’d do anything, leave anything for her. She’s the best thing you ever gave me. I got this feeling that maybe there’s another way . . . but I can’t see it. And I don’t have the strength to look anymore.
“So I’m going to ask you once. Speak to me. Tell me what to do. I’m out of time.”
He drove along, the incline making it harder to keep his speed and the engine bogging down. Hollis thought he might hear a voice through the whining manifold or maybe the trees would spell something out like, Sign it. He’d read that God could speak from a donkey’s mouth. He could do the same with the clouds.
As he drove, the silence overwhelmed him and he kicked himself for giving God another chance. He was alone. That’s all there was to it.
Up ahead, he saw a mother deer crossing the road followed by two little ones. He slowed and then came to a full stop and watched, one fawn lagging behind at the double yellow. This was what he’d be giving up by moving away—the mix of nature and mankind so tangible he could taste it.
It was in this moment that he heard an oncoming car beyond the bend ahead and something clicked in his heart. He put the truck in park and jumped out and waved.
“Get on out of here!” he yelled at the fawn.
He thought it would scare the thing so it would run toward its mother over the edge of the road and into the gully. He also thought the crazy person driving toward him would slow down. What happened was this: when he got out, the fawn stayed, cocking its head and looking at him, even though he yelled. The sound of tires on pavement grew louder. And then it was as if some angel came down and nudged the fawn on the backside with its flaming sword. The deer moved, but in the wrong direction, back toward the other side. The car rounded the final blind corner lickety-split, and Hollis put up his hands in the uni
versal symbol of submission and surrender.
Brakes squealed. The fawn jumped at the sound and ran right in front of the car, and Hollis closed his eyes and prepared for the thump.
But there was no thump. The little thing darted over the edge of the road toward its mother. Hollis bent and put his hands on his knees and tried to slow his heart.
The driver inched forward into the curve and lowered his window. “You’re gonna be roadkill if you don’t watch out, old-timer,” he mumbled.
Hollis wanted to reach out and grab him by the throat or say something snippy. He’d think of a good comeback in an hour or two. Before he could speak, the man rolled up the window and zoomed ahead.
“Slow down!” was all he could think to say.
This was the way of nature and humanity. The fawn could have been overcome by coyote, bobcat, or Toyota Tundra, but on this day it wasn’t, and that made Hollis smile. He couldn’t save his father’s mountain, couldn’t change his son’s accident or control Juniper’s illness, but he could save a deer. Maybe that was enough.
He walked to the edge of the pavement and scanned the woods. Birds sang and a squirrel leapt from the limb of one dead hickory to another. There was a dip by the curve and covered tire tracks, the telltale signs of an old logging road, where the mother deer had led her young. They would be all right.
Behind him a car approached and he remembered his truck was in the middle of the road. He scampered back and pulled it to the side, sitting there for a minute with his window down. Why, he couldn’t tell you. Life felt better in motion, moving in some direction. But fully living sometimes meant you just sat with the window down and listened to creation’s hum.
At first, the distant noise sounded like the cry of a wounded animal. He thought it might be a coyote howling. Then he realized it was a car horn that was out of place. Like it was being held underwater.
