Her name had been Hattie back during the rags part of her life. Such an old-fashioned name. One never heard it anymore. But for years after she had renamed herself, hearing or seeing the name Hattie would make her heart skip a beat.
But gradually the name retreated into the deep recesses of her mind, and Myrna would go for years not thinking of that time in her life in any significant way. Not that she didn’t have good Hattie memories, but they ended when her brother died.
Patrick was his name. Dear little Patrick.
Myrna closed her eyes. She could see Patrick sitting beside her in front of the unpainted shack where they’d both been born—the shack where she’d spent the first sixteen years of her life.
Usually she would not have allowed her mind to probe any deeper into a memory. She would shut it off and get on with the business of her present life. But thoughts of Patrick and the good years she’d spent in that meager dwelling lured her back to that other time. She remembered how she and Patrick would sit on the front step waiting for Papa to come trudging up the road with the other miners, all of them carrying a black lunch pail, all of them grimy with coal dust, their shoulders stooped with exhaustion after a day underground hacking coal out of Mr. Sedgwick’s mine.
And Myrna remembered how, as soon as she spotted Papa, she would run to him and take his lunch pail in one hand and grab his calloused, grimy hand with the other. Patrick, who’d been born with a clubfoot and walked with a decided limp, would wait for them, then hobble around back where Papa would strip himself down to his underclothes and wash himself clean at the pump and Mama would pat him dry with a towel. Hattie could tell from the look on Mama’s face that she liked doing this for him. She would cluck like a mother hen about how tired he must be and what he needed was a nice hot dinner.
Whenever Hattie saw her father’s bare back, she always wondered about the strange marks that crisscrossed it, but knew it was something she wasn’t supposed to ask about.
When Papa was dry, he’d put on a clean shirt and a clean pair of overalls and carry Patrick into the kitchen. And Mama would put his coal-blackened clothes to soak in the washtub on the back stoop.
Dinner was usually something from a pot—stew or soup or boiled potatoes with mustard greens—served with corn bread or biscuits. Over dinner her parents often talked about money, always in worried tones. They were trying to save enough money to pay for an operation on Patrick’s misshapen foot so that he could walk and run like other children. And Papa wanted to trade in the old Ford for a truck so they could move to Alaska, where a man could earn a fair wage and a family could still get good free land from the government. He didn’t want to be a miner for the rest of his life. His dream was a dairy farm. But he would settle for any sort of farming or ranching so he could spend his days in the open and not underground. But Mama said that the winters in Alaska were even colder and longer than they were in Montana. What if summer wasn’t long enough for her to grow a decent garden up there?
“And what about West Virginia?” Mama would often ask. “The winters are mild there. I wish you’d make things right with your father so we can move there. If you don’t make up with him, he’ll leave that farm to your sister when he dies. Seems to me you’re cutting off your nose to spite your face.”
Hattie knew there was “bad blood” between her papa and his father because Papa would get a scowl on his face whenever her mother said something about West Virginia.
Hattie didn’t want to move someplace that would make her papa unhappy, but she was on her mother’s side when it came to Alaska. It was plenty cold enough in Montana, and she couldn’t imagine living someplace that was even colder.
But Papa would insist that if the family moved anyplace, it would be Alaska. He spoke the word Alaska like the preacher said Jesus. It was a word full of hope.
And besides, Papa pointed out, often as not the grasshoppers ate Mama’s garden, and sometimes windstorms ripped the plants right out of the ground and even blew away some of Mama’s chickens. And Mama would ask what made him think there weren’t windstorms and grasshoppers in Alaska.
Hattie helped her mother in the garden, carrying buckets of water and picking worms off the tomato plants. Unfortunately the plants that grew best were beets and turnips, the only two vegetables that Hattie didn’t like. Mama would preserve beans, corn, and tomatoes and store the jars away in the root cellar along with the potatoes, carrots, beets, onions, and turnips. But the cellar was always empty before the next year’s garden started producing, and Mama would have to use money saved for Patrick’s operation to buy food. When Hattie’s shoes got too small for her feet, Mama would cut away some of the leather so they wouldn’t pinch her toes. And Mama would let the seams out on Hattie’s winter coat and leggings so she could wear them another year.
Each year that went by and Patrick was still hobbling around, Hattie could tell that her brother’s deformity weighed ever more heavily on her parents. No matter how thrifty they were and how carefully they saved, it seemed as if something would happen that kept them from having enough money for that operation.
One day her father received a letter from his sister in West Virginia informing him of the death of their mother and that, according to her last wishes, she would be sending him the solid-gold pocket watch that had once belonged to their maternal grandfather. And sure enough, a week or so later a package arrived with the pocket watch. Papa sold it and with the money he got for the watch, there was almost enough for Patrick’s operation. But the old Ford stopped running, and he had to use the money to buy a newer old Ford.
One summer evening when Hattie was twelve years old and Patrick had just turned six, when she skipped down the road to meet her papa coming home from the mine and carry his lunch pail the rest of the way, he seemed especially happy to see her. He gave her a great big smile, his teeth white against his coal-blackened skin, and ruffled her hair, asking, “How’s my big girl?” as he always did.
“Just fine,” she answered as she always did.
“I hope your mama has a big pot of something good to eat cooking on the stove, because I’m hungry enough to eat a bear.”
“Just turnip greens and beets and yesterday’s corn bread,” Hattie announced, as she took his lunch pail and fell in beside him.
“My favorite meal.”
“No, it’s not,” Hattie scoffed. “Nobody with their head on straight likes turnip greens and beets and stale corn bread, specially when there’s no molasses for the corn bread.”
Papa smiled again. “Well, maybe you’re right, but if you think of all the folks that have to make do with less, it will make that food taste a whole lot better. And if you clean up your plate, maybe we can drive to town after dinner for an ice cream cone.”
Hattie was so astonished she stopped in her tracks. Ice cream cones when she knew that her mama was worried sick about not having enough food stored for the winter and was fearful that they were never going to have enough money to get poor Patrick’s foot operated on and he would have to spend the rest of his life as a cripple.
She looked up at her father’s face. His blue eyes seemed brighter than usual—as if candles were burning behind them. And he seemed bigger and taller than he had been just this morning when he’d trudged off to the mine. His shoulders weren’t hunched over, his head not bent forward.
“The ice cream cones are a secret,” her father told her with a wink, “just between you and me. And just thinking about that secret is going to make those greens and beets taste like the best thing you have ever tasted in your entire life, better than whatever ole FDR and his family are eating tonight in the White House in Washington, D.C. Those greens and beets are going to taste so good that you’ll clean up your plate without your mama reminding you and maybe you’ll even ask for seconds.”
When they reached the porch, Papa leaned down and grabbed Patrick’s freckled, smiling face in both of his hands and gave him a great big kiss, leaving a ring of coal dust around his mouth. The
n Papa picked Patrick up and clutched him to his chest, getting coal dust all over Patrick’s clothes, and tears started rolling down Papa’s face, leaving tracks on his blackened cheeks. Hattie was confused. Just seconds ago Papa had winked at her. “Are you sad, Papa?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Just sentimental.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means I’m thinking of the happy day when our Patrick has two good feet to stand on, but at the same time I’m sad because it’s taking so long.”
Mama was in the backyard pumping water wearing her usual worried frown. Mama looked pretty when she smiled, but she frowned a whole lot more than she smiled. Hattie could smell the turnip greens cooking in the kitchen and wanted to hold her nose but knew that would make Mama mad.
Hattie sat with Patrick on the back stoop and watched their papa’s evening cleanup ritual that would soon end with the advent of cold weather. Then Papa would have to wash up in the kitchen, and no matter how careful he was, he would get coal dust all over everything.
But tonight was nice and warm. Maybe it was the nice weather that was making Papa act silly. He was trying to tickle Mama’s ribs and acting as if he’d forgotten how to unbutton his shirt. Mama’s worried face went away for a time, and she actually laughed a little. “Hattie and I sure are looking forward to our turnip greens and beets, aren’t we, Hattie girl?” Papa asked with a wink in her direction.
Hattie nodded and wondered if a nod counted as a lie.
Patrick regarded his sister with a puzzled look. He knew that she didn’t like either vegetable.
“Hattie, I just don’t know what’s gotten into your father,” Mama said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think he stopped at a tavern and had himself a great big glass of beer that went straight to his head and is making him act as silly as an organ-grinder’s monkey.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Hattie said, wondering why her mother would tell her such a thing. There wasn’t a tavern on the way home from the mine, just a bunch of shanty houses each with a vegetable garden out back like the one they lived in. Sometimes grown-ups acted downright stupid. Next thing you know Mama and Papa would be kissing.
And sure enough, when he finished washing himself and without even drying first, Papa grabbed Mama and twirled her around, then planted a great big kiss right on her mouth. Patrick giggled and covered his eyes.
After dinner, Mama and Papa went for a walk, leaving Hattie to watch Patrick. She helped him build a road in the dirt for the wooden truck that Papa had made for him.
Mama and Papa were gone for what seemed like a long time, and Hattie wondered if he’d forgotten about the ice cream cones. She and Patrick had lined their dirt road with rocks and twig trees by the time they got back. Papa had his arm around Mama’s shoulders, and her face was a strange mixture of happy and sad, and her eyes all red and puffy as if she’d been crying. Before Hattie had a chance to ask if Mama was okay, Papa was loading them in the new old Ford. He asked Hattie which flavor of ice cream she wanted.
All the way to town she tried to decide what flavor she would have. She loved going in the drugstore with its beautiful marble soda fountain. A mirror covered the wall behind the counter, and in front of the counter were tall stools where people sat to drink their sodas or eat their ice cream. The last time she’d had an ice cream cone was way last summer on Patrick’s birthday. She’d chosen strawberry because pink was her favorite color. But maybe this time she would ask for chocolate.
Hattie was disappointed when they didn’t sit on the tall stools. Papa insisted they carry their ice cream cones to the park across the street where an old man was playing his fiddle and lots of folks had gathered around to listen.
The benches were full so they sat on the grass to eat their ice cream and listen to the music. When the fiddler played “God Bless America,” everyone stood up and sang along. Some of the ladies cried, and some of the men looked close to tears themselves. And Hattie knew why. The Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor and now the country was at war, and men from Coal Town had joined the army and were off training to be soldiers so they could go fight the Nazis and Japanese on the other side of the world. But since the coal that came out of Mr. Sedgwick’s mine fueled the ships that took soldiers and tanks and guns across the ocean, the miners who dug the coal out of the ground were needed right where they were, and her papa wouldn’t have to go off and fight the war.
But when everyone sat down again, Papa put his arm around Hattie’s shoulders and told her that he was leaving and would be gone for an entire year. Mr. Sedgwick had bought a chromium mine in Alaska that had closed down a number of years back, but now America needed chromium armor plates for tanks and battleships. And all the miners in Alaska were already working in other mines, and new miners were needed to get the mine opened up and producing, so Mr. Sedgwick was giving a bonus to any of his miners who would go up there and work for a year. That bonus would be enough for Patrick’s operation.
Hattie wanted her brother to have his operation more than anything, but she couldn’t imagine her father being gone for an entire year and began to cry. “Can’t you even come home for Christmas?” she asked.
Papa shook his head. “But there will be store-bought presents under the tree this year.”
The fiddler started playing again, and Hattie tried not to cry while Papa hummed along to “When the Red, Red Robin Comes Bob, Bob, Bobbin’ Along.” When the song ended, Papa called out to the fiddler asking if he would play a special song for his family, and the man said that he would if Papa would sing the words. And Papa went to stand beside the fiddler, and he looked right at Mama and Patrick and Hattie and wished them an early Merry Christmas and promised he would be thinking about them come Christmas morning. And then he sang:
It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old.
From angels bending near the earth
To touch their harps of gold.
All these years later, sitting in her magnificent mountaintop home, the woman who was once named Hattie remembered sitting on the grass beside her weeping mother and her crippled little brother while her handsome father sang Hattie’s favorite Christmas song in his best church voice. She was so proud of him she thought her heart was going to burst wide open. It was a moment of pure love, the sort of which does not come often in a lifetime, the sort of which one buries away because remembering is too painful.
Seven
THE weatherman had promised beautiful, unseasonably warm fall weather for the last weekend in October. Vanessa called her sisters midweek to ask if they would be free for a family outing in Central Park on Sunday and considered it somewhat of a minor miracle that both had agreed to come. Even so, she’d half-expected one of them to cancel. Or for the weatherman to have been wrong about his forecast.
But the weather was perfect, and the three of them—together for the first time since their mother had left for France—were sitting at a picnic table under a large oak tree at the edge of Central Park’s Great Lawn watching Lily and Beth, who had shed their jackets and were turning cartwheels while covertly ogling three boys tossing a Frisbee about.
The balmy weather had brought out sun worshippers, who were lying on blankets that dotted the vast grassy meadow or simply stretched out on the grass. The rooftops of the museums and hotels along Fifth Avenue were visible over treetops aglow with fall foliage. A beautiful scene.
Vanessa had planned for them to lunch on hot dogs purchased from street vendors, but Ellie had showed up with a large wicker picnic basket from which she had already produced a bottle of wine and corkscrew.
“I’m not ready for my nieces to be boy crazy,” she remarked as she opened the bottle and poured wine into three wineglasses.
“You and me both,” Vanessa acknowledged as she watched her daughters show off for the boys while pretending not to be aware of them. And the boys’ voices became increasingly louder as they laughed and called out to each other, and their antics became in
creasingly more outrageous as they dove for and leaped after the Frisbee, all in an obvious effort to impress the two cartwheeling girls.
“Good God, Lily is growing boobs!” Georgiana wailed. “Isn’t she too young for that?”
“No younger than you were when yours sprouted,” Vanessa pointed out, then took a sip of her wine, which was exquisite, of course. She complimented Ellie on her choice while continuing to study the antics and physiques of her daughters. The curves were definitely coming, especially on Lily, who was older by eleven months. And when had they started showing off for boys? Pretty soon she was going to have full-blown teenagers on her hands.
Vanessa couldn’t decide if life was going by too quickly or too slowly. Lily and Beth were growing up too fast, and sometimes she even yearned for another baby. But at the same time, she longed for the day when the worries and upsets of childrearing would be behind her. Maybe then she and Scott would have a saner life and a better marriage. Or drift apart and go their separate ways. She felt almost indifferent as to which outcome awaited her.
“I’m sorry Scott didn’t come,” Georgiana said. “I haven’t seen him in forever.”
“He had a restless night and woke up not feeling well,” Vanessa said. Actually, she hadn’t pushed the issue when Scott had remained in bed this morning, preferring that he not come along if he was going to sit around popping pills and feeling sorry for himself. “So when are you going to tell us about your trip to West Virginia?” Georgiana asked, setting down her wineglass and pulling a nail buffer from her backpack.
“Yeah,” Ellie chimed in as she fished a wedge of cheese from the basket. “I thought we’d have a full report the minute you got back.”
Vanessa shrugged. “I’m busy. You guys are busy. I didn’t want to tell it twice over the phone. And our social secretary moved to France.”
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