by S. E. Akers
As soon as I’d crossed the Tug River Bridge, people began to gradually appear and all at once, I realized where everyone was. Cars were lined up for as far as my eyes could see, flanking both sides of the road in a chaotic manner. People were parking their vehicles wherever they would fit. You’d think you were in the middle of a parade by the way folks were marching alongside the highway in droves and rest assured, all of them were heading towards the mine.
I still had a quarter of a mile to go before I would reach the mine’s main entrance. I’ll never find a space in their parking lot. It’s not like Daddy would’ve anticipated this crowd, let alone had the gumption or the audacity to put out a “Reserved for Daddy’s Little Girl” sign on an empty space in the employee lot.
I spotted a sizeable gap in-between a red & white pick-up truck and a rusted-out yellow Mustang. By my assessment, it was going to be tight, very tight. I squeezed my car into the spot carefully, praying I wouldn’t hit either vehicle. Perfect, I thought as a small wave of pride swept over me. You can’t learn those skills in Drivers Ed. I scooted out cautiously, just barely having enough room to get my door open, and followed the determined swagger of the crowd.
There were tons of people — well over a thousand of them, easily. Most of them were coalminers, with their family members right by their sides. It seemed everyone around town had the same thing on their minds — their fate. I even spied Mr. Estell up ahead. He didn’t appear to be talking to anyone, just idly standing around. He didn’t work for the coal company, but then again, neither did a lot of the people who’d turned out.
Weird…Twice in one day.
My mind was already stewing with fretful thoughts about the meeting and now strangely, my body became rigid with apprehension, almost instinctively, with every step that took me closer to the eerie drifter. I looked straight ahead as I started to pass him, but oddly I felt him — staring at me. Discreetly, I shifted my field of vision. His face appeared hard and painfully frigid. I shuddered once I was safely out of his sight.
I guess every town has one of “those guys”.
I stepped off the highway as soon as I’d reached the gravel-covered road that led to the mine’s parking lot. As I’d predicted, it was packed. Good thing I parked back there.
I had to practically force my body through the restless crowd — twisting & turning, pushing & shoving — every step of the way. I reached the main entrance (without any injury) only to discover that the gates had been fastened shut with a winding metal chain. That wasn’t normal for this time of day, but it was clear to me why they were.
I overheard people yelling at Uriah Hatfield, the dayshift security guard, telling him to “Open up the gates!” You didn’t “tell” Uriah what he was “going to do”, not if you knew what was good for you. The surly guard simply ignored their pleas while he sat kicked-back in his cramped glass station and continued to read his newspaper. Evidently, he had orders not let anyone but employees scheduled to work onto the property. I hoped Daddy had left word that I would be coming. I couldn’t stand the thought of being so close to getting some mental resolve only to be turned away because I hadn’t been “cleared” to enter. That would be sheer torture, especially in this horde of anxious rednecks.
After a little more maneuvering, I was standing in front of the security station, tapping on the glass window and pressing the call button. Uriah Hatfield lowered his newspaper and looked over at me. Without delay, he tilted his head towards the ceiling and gave his head a trepidatious shake. I actually saw him mouthing out a regretful, “Oh no”, too. That wasn’t encouraging.
Well, the sign does say “Mine Security”, not “Welcome Center”.
Uriah leaned over and pressed the intercom button. “If it ain’t trouble herself come a knockin’ on my door,” he groaned with the volume up loud enough for half the crowd to hear.
I was slightly offended by his semi-warranted crack. When I was a little girl, Uriah had harshly tagged me as a “trouble-maker”. I preferred “curious”. So he had found me on several occasions playing in areas around the mine I shouldn’t be in — and maybe I did hijack a rail car or two (actually nine, if he’d kept count) when I wanted to pretend I was a train engineer. I’d only mimicked what Mike Riverside had done before, on plenty of occasions, I might add. “He” never got into trouble — but I did. Then again, my daddy didn’t own the mine.
“Hi, Mr. Hatfield,” I muttered through the circular intercom. “Daddy said it was okay for me to come. But I promise…I’ll be on my best behavior today. No trouble.”
Uriah Hatfield let out a grunt as he rose from his seat. I did notice that he was actually wearing his “official” security guard uniform for a change. Any other time he would be dressed in an old flannel shirt and jeans. He preferred the “laid back & casual” look, but not today. I guess Harper Riverside is puttin’ on the dog for the prospective buyers.
Uriah opened the door and edged outside. “Yeah, Bea mentioned you’d be a comin’ and to let ya in…But why’d ya haveta bring the whole damn town with ya?”
I really wasn’t in the mood for his abrasive humor, so I politely smiled and shrugged my shoulders. Uriah motioned me over to a smaller door-sized gate beside the main one and opened it just as quickly as he closed it behind me.
“I’ll know better next time,” I teased playfully. He didn’t say a word. Uriah’s only response was a curt snarl accompanied by a dismissive wave as he moseyed back to his post.
Apparently water doesn’t flow “under” his bridge, I noted as I shook off his grumpy gesture.
My entry riled the heck out of several bystanders. They questioned why I was allowed in and they weren’t. Uriah ignored their comments with a blatant, goading flick of his newspaper and propped it back in front of his face.
Now that I was officially “in”, I headed straight for the main building where Daddy’s desk was located. Harper Riverside’s office and the conference room were directly down the hall from it. Surely they’ll have the meeting in one of those rooms.
I arrived at the building to find three sleek, black Chevy Suburbans parked right in front of it. It kind of looked like something out of a spy movie. My eyes glanced around to the rear of the vehicles. Yep, dealer plates. My stomach did a quick flip as I whisked open the door and stepped inside.
Without delay, I dashed up the stairs to the second floor. Sadly, all I found was an empty reception area — no “Ms. Sutherland”, or any other secretary for that matter, and certainly not Daddy.
Where is everyone? They have to be here… Somewhere?
The office looked exactly as I’d remembered it, only weathered by time. Mr. Riverside was known for his frugalness and never updated a thing unless it was broken-beyond-repair. The walls were still covered in the same multi-tone beige sea-grass wallpaper that was beginning to peel away from its seams. I placed my hand on the wall in front of me and smiled. I remembered how I used to run my fingers all along the paper’s knotty lines when I was little. There was something about its texture that I’d always found pleasing. The same burgundy leather chairs I would climb on and spin around in until I was beyond dizzy were still seated in front of the old metal desks that had been here forever. They were outdated as well, but as I plopped down into the vacant one at Ms. Sutherland’s desk and gave it a quick spin, I discovered they were still functional and quite comfortable.
As I whirled around, I spied numerous maps of the mine’s tunnels plastered up on the walls. There were several safety awards as well, and even a few candid photographs of different miners tacked onto a large corkboard. Most of the pictures were of men who had passed.
Still spinning around, I lowered my feet to slow the revolving chair and stopped directly in front of Ms. Sutherland’s desk. Something caught my eye that sparked a smile. Sitting on the corner of her desk was the hand-carved coal sculpture of a miner I would play with when I was little. It was one of my favorite things. I used to pretend that it was my “trophy”. I would even
climb up on her desk and stand there like I was on a stage, giving my acceptance speech as I waved it around proudly. Sometimes it was an Oscar and other times a Grammy (though honestly, I couldn’t carry a tune).
Yes, I had so many memories of this office. A funny feeling came over me as I sat there. For some strange reason, I felt like today would be another one of those “memorable moments”.
Whether it’ll be a good one or bad one, now that remains to be seen.
The next thing I knew, I felt a hand firmly grasp my shoulder. Startled, I flew up out of the chair.
No one’s ever been able to sneak up on me, I thought as I caught my breath and spun around. There stood Beatrix Sutherland. Imagine that — all these years and a blind lady managed to pull it off.
“Shiloh, is that you?” Beatrix Sutherland asked.
“Yes, Ms. Sutherland,” I replied, still clutching my chest and slightly stunned by her on-the-money guess. “You started me.”
“I’m sorry, dear,” Beatrix Sutherland apologized with a lighthearted laugh. “I didn’t mean to. Usually, I’m the one who gets snuck up on. I never get to be the ‘sneaker’.”
Ms. Sutherland hadn’t changed a bit. It was truly remarkable. I hadn’t seen her in several years, not since her 65th birthday party, but it appeared that time hadn’t marched across her face like I’d expected. Sure, she had aged slightly and acquired a few more wrinkles, but they were soft and somewhat flattering. I’d seen younger women around town with markedly more lines on their faces. Maybe she had some work done? But somehow I couldn’t picture it. Beatrix Sutherland seemed too relaxed and carefree. She didn’t strike me as someone obsessed with vanity, and after all — she was blind! Why would it matter how much “time” had taken a toll on her face? She didn’t have to look at it (and couldn’t see others doing so either). I watched as her chestnut-hued eyes drifted aimlessly off to the side. She still had her figure, too. She must be one of those seniors who stays active and hits the gym all the time. The only thing that seemed somewhat traditional about the sweet little old lady was her cropped, pixie-length silver hair — but even it was extremely trendy-looking on her.
I spotted her clutching a massive amount of files and paperwork. “Here, let me get those for you,” I insisted.
“That’s kind of you, my dear, but I’ve got these. I’m blind, not crippled,” Beatrix Sutherland declared as she threw the load of office work over three feet towards the direction of her desk. I watched in amazement as they all landed perfectly on the only vacant spot on its cluttered surface and not a one of them had even slipped an inch out of place.
My mouth cracked open slightly. Impressive.
“Freesias,” Beatrix Sutherland said with a smile.
“Excuse me?” I hadn’t a clue as to what she was talking about.
“Freesias, dear. That’s what I always smell when you’re around. That’s how I knew it was you,” Beatrix Sutherland remarked confidently as she sat down at her desk.
I pulled my shirt out a bit and lowered my head down, attempting to catch a whiff of any sort of aroma being emitted from my body. I didn’t find a trace of a florally scent, and I could smell everything.
“I don’t see why?” I questioned. “I’m not wearing any perfume, and my deodorant is unscented. My soap has a subtle scent, but nothing like freesias. It must be the fabric softener,” I reasoned.
“Hmmm,” Beatrix hummed curiously as she continued to sort through the files on her desk.
“Have you seen…” Crap — I misspoke. I quickly rephrased my question. “Um, do you know where Daddy is?” I thought to myself, Of course she hasn’t “seen” him, idiot!
Ms. Sutherland stopped filing for a brief moment and stroked her silvery hair. She turned towards the direction of my voice.
“He’s already in the conference room. They all are.” She slowly swiveled her chair back around to finish her work. There was an uneasiness in her voice. She clearly seemed disturbed by something.
“All meaning the entourage from Xcavare Enterprises?” I speculated.
Ms. Sutherland turned around out of courtesy and asked, “What do you know about Xcavare, Shiloh?”
Now I sensed some anticipation in her tone. “Well…I know they were supposed to land at the Mercer County Airport today.”
Beatrix Sutherland seemed to be taking great pains to process the information. After a long pause, she asked, “Is that all you know about them?”
Strangely, I felt the sudden need to weigh my words carefully. “Umm…Katie told me a little bit more…and I may have googled them in the school library today.”
“Katie? Katie Stowell? Ron and Julia Stowell’s daughter?” she asked.
I could tell she already knew the answer to her own question. Everyone knows everyone in Welch.
“Yes,” I confirmed.
“Then you must know that among their many geological and mineral endeavors, they also have a small operation devoted solely to the excavation of gemstones,” she acknowledged, seeming a bit peeved.
“I did hear something about that,” I admitted.
Ms. Sutherland leaned back in her chair, almost like she was distraught about something, and let out a sigh. I found her response peculiar. For a brief moment, I was kind of glad she couldn’t see the perplexed look I knew was written all over my face. She turned her head towards the window slowly. If I didn’t know she was blind, I’d swear she was actually “looking” out it, like anyone would if they were in deep thought about something.
Maybe she needs to feel the warmth of the sun on her face?
She sat there, lost in her thoughts while she rubbed the ring finger of her left hand — the very one that usually displayed the delicate golden band with her round golden topaz, which or some reason was missing. Oddly, I became engrossed with staring at the only bare finger on her hand.
“Ms. Sutherland, where’s your ring?” I blurted out shamelessly, without thinking.
She stopped stroking her finger immediately and abruptly lowered her hand. “Oh, I must’ve left it at home…on the sink.”
It wasn’t what I would call a convincing excuse. She had remembered to put on all the other rings she always carted around. Surely her hand would’ve felt strange, like something “wasn’t there”.
“It’s always been your favorite…right?” Ms. Sutherland softly asserted.
I found her correct guess intriguing. “How did you know that?”
“Oh, I seem to remember a little girl who would come down here with her father that would sit in my lap and run her fingers all along my hands. She played with every one of my rings…twisting and turning them on my fingers…but she always paid the most attention to my little topaz.”
Her vivid memory sparked a smile. “That’s right. It was my favorite — not that the others aren’t beautiful. I guess I just liked its simple elegance…and it always had a special sparkle. It seemed to catch the light more so than any of your others.” My voice trailed off.
Crap — I just did it again! How can she ever see any of her rings “sparking” or even “catching the light”? Idiot!
Ms. Sutherland appeared to be amused. “No,” she pointed out, “I can’t see my rings catching any light.” Her giggles served to put me somewhat at ease. “All I need is to feel them there. I don’t have to physically see them, my dear, but they mean just as much to me.”
“Or maybe because it’s my birthstone?” I added.
“Maybe…But you know, there are many different colors of topazes. Though I’ve always found the golden ones are the most…practical to have around,” Ms. Sutherland stressed with great emphasis.
I’ve heard jewelry described as many things, but never “practical” — quite the opposite. Maybe when you can’t “see” their beauty, they serve a different purpose?
“I guess so,” I replied, still skeptical.
Ms. Sutherland rose from her chair and took a few steps in my direction, positioning herself in front of me.
&n
bsp; “Shiloh, would you indulge me, dear? I haven’t done this in years…but I’d love to get a better idea of the young lady you’ve grown up to be on the outside. I’d like to have a fresh, mental image of you…If you don’t mind?”
I knew what she was referring to. She hadn’t “felt my face” in years, and I was so fond of her that I gladly obliged her request.
“Sure” I replied. “Go ahead.”
Her hands found their way to the top of my head. Gently, she caressed them down the sides of my face and then back up, like I imagined an artist would if they were modeling a piece of clay. With every touch, her eyes softened and her smile grew wider.
“Beautiful…The outsides certainly match the insides,” she proclaimed.
This was the second time today my appearance had become a topic of discussion, and I found myself feeling uncomfortably self-conscious — again. I shied away as politely as I could.
She folded her arms. “I swear, just like—”
Beatrix Sutherland was interrupted by the sound of a door creaking open, followed by voices trailing down the hall. They seemed to be growing louder with each second that passed.
Jack Taylor, the dayshift foreman, was the first to emerge. He tipped his lighted hardhat at us as he walked by.
“Ladies,” Mr. Taylor said with a smile. I took that as a “good sign”.
Next to enter was Ricky Rogers, the local coalminers’ union president. He was in a hurry and had a scowl on his face. I couldn’t make heads or tails from his expression. He always looked like that. Personally, I thought his face was frozen that way. He was a guy who was never happy about anything. Ricky Rogers paused only for a moment to acknowledge our presence.
“Bea. Shiloh,” Mr. Rogers remarked curtly before he clomped out the door.
