"I suppose so. Close enough to count themselves."
"All five."
"Must be."
"Benevenuto Pilotti, who is he?" She was frowning.
"Lives in East Thor. Got four kids and a pack of relatives."
"Elisha Marcom?"
"The one with the handle bars. Widest moustache in town. Looks like hay on his lip."
"Poor old man. Poor old man. And who else? The Trezona boy?"
Cyril looked sourly into space. He spit out a piece of tobacco leaf. "Uh huh," he said.
"And Charley Beard? Cyril?"
"What?"
"Is Charley Beard the other one?"
"You know who they are."
She knew well enough.
Something had occurred to her. It was a small worry, unworthy of attention in this crisis of life or death. And yet it nagged her. She let her mind go where it wanted to go. Oh
you could not focus on tragedy with no relief. Nobody could. She closed her eyes and imagined looking up the street from Charley Beard's gate, or his porch. Yes, from there one could see the Duncanes' porch light go on. Surely. And see it go off too. But could one see, tell, what gate it was from which a caller emerged, quite a lot too much later? And having seen, would one call out 'Good night, Miz Cole'?
To make her jump?
"Charley Beard was a dull, kind little man," she murmured dolefully.
"ISy as far as we know. The word is that they are alive."
She said without emotion, quietly, "What chance is there that Arthur will come out of that?"
Cyril said, 'T can't put your mind at rest. Wait and see." Chin on chest, forehead wrinkled, eyes rolled up to see, he added, "Hope for the best, of course."
"You wicked, cold-blooded monster!" she whispered. "It's not true. I do not ... I will not be glad. So stop it!"
Cyril yawned.
"Go to bed," she cried, "and get out of my sight!"
". . . behind thee, Satan?" Cyiil stood and stretched. "You stay home," he warned her, "where you are understood."
Alice Beard sat in lamplight and was able to watch the strange thing that was happening to her. Slowly, as the hours crept, she was regressing. She was going back. She was becoming what she had not primarily been for four years now, a daughter. Now less and less a wife, mistress of a house, a man's partner, more and more a girl. She was slipping and sliding back to depending. The house gave itself to her mother. The bread in the kitchen would rise, but even if she baked it it would be her mother's bread.
Four Pilotti children, in their one room, fell sadly asleep. In the outer room the light was low, but it burned . . . and the murmuring continued.
At Marcom's the mouse was bold, for although the light burned, nobody was there.
At Duncane's, Libby lay on the couch with the afghan over her. She dozed. She was grateful now that Celestina sat so quietly. But the girl, obeying orders, was there in a chair. And Libby could imagine that she might even stalk into the bedroom on Henry's orders. So she didn't go to bed but she lay down to rest her back, and she covered herself.
Libby had grown cold, stiff and cold and she could get nothing out of the girl, absolutely nothing. Nobody had told Libby anything at all. Maybe Henry thought he had told her but she had no background, no points of reference. Men were buried? Well then, she supposed, they had been killed. She could sense suspense in Celestina and she thought it must be a matter of wondering who they were. And she thought: How awful, if it's that! She did not know whether Celestina's people worked down the mine or not. She supposed they must. She tried to ask about this as delicately and kindly as she could. But Celestina wouldn't answer. Either she couldn't understand an indirect question or she did and wouldn't tell. She kept looking at Libby with dark sorrow and a shadow of hostility in her eyes.
When the phone rang it was Celestina who got it. Someone calling to tell Henry.
"Ask him what's happening!" Libby cried.
So Celestina had asked . . . and come away reeling.
"Oh, what?"
"Five men!"
"Oh, who?"
"You wouldn't know them." The dark eyes had flashed.
"Ah, Celestina ... do you?" Libby had asked trembling. "Kin, or friends of yours, my dear?"
"xNo. No. Nobody. No."
The girl crept to the chair, and Libby lay back sighing and pulled up the cover. She watched the girl's face. The girl looked stunned or dreaming.
And Libby thought: she won't talk to me. Well, J mustn't think about it. No, I must not. It would do no good and it would not be good. In her mind she said a prayer for the dead, and then she tried to turn her mind awav. Her lip trembled.
Celestina didn't know why she felt as if somebodv had hit
her hard with a great club. She was as surprised as she could be. But she certainly was glad when the woman on the couch stopped prying and asking questions.
For awhile she had taken a small malicious satisfaction in Libby Duncane's bewilderment. This woman was an outsider from another life. Now she had to quiz Celestina, for she didn't know anything. Celestina could not help cherishing in herself the sensation of having superior knowledge. Why, for days now she had known more about this woman's own life than the woman did. This pale one who was always noticing Celestina's clothes, or her voice, or her manner of opening doors even . . . Well, someday she'd find out she'd been fussing about the unimportant things. Celestina wasn't exactly sorry for her.
A wife who was going to lose her man to another woman was only a poor thing.
Always calling Celestina stupid and ignorant—now, who was ignorant? Celestina knew more about what could happen in a mine than this woman had any idea. Even the questions she asked were stupid.
Celestina had never before gone through the experience of a disaster in these mines. She had heard tales of disaster many times. She knew her father and brothers were safe since they were on day shift, and she didn't fear for them. But she knew the men who were down there had small chance of getting out again. She also knew there was some chance. She knew it would take time.
Miz Duncane didn't know any of this.
Then, on the telephone, Celestina had been told still more.
And the club hit her. The blow sent her staggering.
She didn't tell Miz Duncane. What could she say? What could she do? What would she care?
Celestina sat down again. Wesley Trezona.
She hadn't minded. If he didn't want to go with her, she should worry. There had been some fantasies . . . (One day. Wesley would come into the Church. Then he would come to Celestina. He would say it was for her sake he had defied his people and everything and come into the true Church. But by this time she would be involved with some
fascinating person who adored her . . . and she \ould have to say that she was very sorry.)
(Or Wesley would lie very very sick and calling for her. And the old captain himself, yes, even that enemy, that stern infidel . . . would come after her. Oh, she would go. And Wesley's mother that he was so crazy about, she'd be crying. And she'd wish she'd stood against that mean old man before. But Celestina, although gracious and filled with holy pity, would be very sorr}' . . .)
Behind the fantasies there was the truth. She w^ould never have married Wesley Trezona. It would never have come to that, she knew. And behind the fantasy that he would suffer, there was the truth that he did suffer some. (She didn't think he swaggered around because he didn't care.)
(Oh, that was a fantasy! Wesley would become a drunkard and no good, and somebody would tell the mean old man whose fault that was.)
Now all the fantasies whirled in her head together and before them there was the truth. He was dying! He might be!
And she didn't care for him any more, of course, but the club hit her. And something shook her, and she didn't know what to do.
She couldn't cry. She couldn't think. She couldn't make a fantasy.
She thought that she needed somebody, real bad, because she felt so awfu
l, but she didn't know who could help her. Not her people. They were glad when it broke off. They never liked her getting mixed up with a Methodist. And not the priest then. And none of her generation; she'd tossed her head too high. Then nobody? Nobody. Least of all that woman, whose pale hair lay on the pillow, whose lashes had slipped over those light blue eyes. Confide in her? She'd be the last one. Unthinkable to tell her any real thing.
Celestina tried to pray. She didn't know what.
CHAPTER TWELVE
In the morning Libby awoke to find herself mysteriously still in her petticoat but in her bed. She only very dimly remembered Henry coming home and guiding her there. She only very dimly remembered her sleepy questions and his murmuring soothing answers that had let her sink deep into sleep again.
Now he was bending over her, dressed and shaved, and it was morning.
"I'm going, Libby. You stay in bed. Celestina's not around. Don't wake her. And you sleep some more, too."
But she was wide awake.
"No, Henry. Don't leave me . . ."
"I've got to go," he interrupted sharply.
". . . without telling me anything?" she cried. "Can't you see? I don't know what to think, or what to do . . . I—"
"Nothing for you to do," he said.
"But I don't even understand."
So he sat on the bed and told her, making clear as he could when he tried, what had happened and what was happening. For the first time, Libby realized that those buried men still lived.
Her whole self shrank away from it. Every fastidious fiber, every feminine ideal of a dainty-pretty-comfortable world, compelled her to recoil from the brutal fact. Men should never have got themselves into a situation of such stark horror. Other men should not have to break their hearts in so terrible and futile an effort to get them out again.
She said, "Oh Henry, what can they do? It's impossible! Isn't it? Just impossible!" She thought: Oh they're gone. They are gone.
Henry, looking down upon her, could see the wincing
away of her whole soul. He said, "Easy to make sure it's impossible."
"What?"
He got up. "If you don't go ahead as if it were possible," he said bitingly, "it sure won't be."
"W'h-what?" But her mind fled. "Oh, poor Mrs. Cole . . ." she moaned. "Henry, should I . . . could I do anything? Call her, or . . ."
"Better not," he said flatly.
"I wouldn't know what to say,"
"No."
She wrung her hands. "How can she stand it?"
Henr)' shook his head. "Got to," he muttered.
She reached out to hold him back. "You're not going . . . down in there?"
He answered quietly, wearily, "No. Might try to help out on that pipe, that's all. They seem to be able to hear me,"
She said foolishly and rather fondly, "Everyone can always hear you."
"Otherwise," he put her grasping hand aside rather angrily, "there's nothing I can do. It's not my job."
"Oh Henr}', don't . , ." Libby had no end for her sentence. She didn't know what it was she did not want.
But Henry said angrily, "I can't. But I'll tell you this. I wish to hell I could."
She lay on the pillow. She suspected, because Henry did not often speak so angrily, that this was something she ought to tr}- to understand.
But he rubbed his hand over his hair. "Upsets you," he said ruefully, apologetically.
So, because she understood this much, she nodded.
"Meantime, I'd better go do my own job." He patted her, "Take it easy."
She lay abed with her heart roaring. Suddenly she said aloud, "I suppose it doesn't look impossible to those who know, whose job it is. Henry?"
But he had gone.
Morning flooded the little town. Sunshine poured down from a sky which was cloudless and yet not clear, for a
heat-haze was forming already. Friday was going to be hot.
Thor Lake lay sparkling, looking more innocent than it was. Nobody bathed in Thor Lake. The rumor was that it had no bottom. The truth was waste water and certain poisons went into it, so it was a wicked, useless little lake except to look at.
Morning flooded the wooded hills. Where the green shadow did not fall on the brown floor, the glades and alleys were aromatic with the warm pine. But the hill was not so solid as it looked and, in its core, held no peace and no perfume.
Very early, Cyril Varker let himself out of the house and walked, in his peculiar gait, to the comer. But he did not cross the street to proceed past the schoolhouses to the ofEce. Instead he turned and settled himself into a pace suitable for a long walk.
His sister, Madeline, was missing this morning. No stir in the kitchen, no sound above. He had ventured part way up the stairs, far enough to see that her bed was empty, and now he knew that his car was gone from the shack on the alley.
He intended to go where she undoubtedly was and try to persuade her back to the privacy of the house. He was very much annoyed with her. Such a fool!
As he proceeded, Cyril took the temper of the town now that it was morning and everyone had heard the news. It looked much as usual. He thought to himself that he was of the very few in Thor whose business was done on paper. Paper could wait. But not the gain or the preparation of food. Women were doing their house chores as usual. And not the loading of the ore, for the shovels were snorting, as usual. Not the turn of the machinery in the town of Thor. It could not wait.
But the children, who had no business but to play, did not run in shouting groups in the yards this morning.
And the town was quiet.
He passed two women talking, or simply standing together in a yard. He passed men who were not on day shift nor were they sleeping.
All those who saw Cyril pass, even the children, were silent
until he was by. And they watched him. Ah, he could see a myth in the making. Yes, some day it would be a tale to be told and the town was already creating the story. Already the characters were being picked out. A halo, of belonging to the cast, was weaving around the heads of those involved. He, himself, was in it. He had at least a small supporting part.
Cyril was faintly amused (and ever so slightly pleased too) at this thought.
The five lost men would be the heroes, of course. He could feel that. And if they died, they were mart}TS and heroes, and no evil would ever be said of them. If they lived they were heroes indeed, and triumphant ones too. (But with a sequel, he thought, and sequels are so disappointing.)
He plodded on up the hill. Yes, and the wives and mothers and sweethearts were heroines all. How the town would watch them—and they visible on surface—trying to glean from their demeanor dramatic bits for the story!
Morbid curiosit)? Cyril mused. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe just the human longing to be shaken up, to feel, to share and experience something graver or more startling or merely less dull than ordinary. Same thing took people to a play, or made them read a book with a plot they'd never live in their own lives, because they could partially live it and experience it in the stor}' or in the news, he thought.
But news and history becomes partially story because it comes to be told and the telling alters it. Nobody knows what the truth is about any plot, he considered. Nobody has all the facts, and the facts he has go through a filter, for ever)thing is rejected that he is not equipped to see. And then, of course, he is compelled to fit the thing together.
We are all artists, good or bad. We all tell the whole story as we have put it together. But w-e have touched it and changed it, and filled it in, and smoothed it out, so that the more plausible we have made it, the bigger the chunks of fiction are sure to be.
Hummm, let's see, said Cyril inwardly. Pilotti is going to be the father-hero. Marcom is . . . oh, the elder, the wise old one. Yes, and the Trezona kid is the juvenile. Arthur? Cyril almost chuckled. Arthur could be the lead! Young
and ambitious, with a beautiful young wife, not a year wed. Oh, certainly. But Charley Beard, what is he? Th
e clown?
He had come to the top of the first hill and stood at the junction where the main road ran off level and the upper road climbed on. There were no houses here; the cut bank alongside was weedy. The woods crowned it. The upper road would be a steeper, harder way to go.
Yet he swung into it, for it passed behind Trezona's house. Morbid curiosity? He queried himself. Not at all. He wanted to go that way for a practical reason. He felt uneasy. He could see the pattern, the myth in the making, and privately and practically he thought he might have to reckon with it.
His angular distinctive figure climbed.
Eedie saw him from her kitchen where she was, for the moment, alone. Dorothy was in the parlor watching listlessly to the west. Dickie had run away to the shafthouse. He would bring the news, he said. Eedie had not kept him, couldn't have perhaps. The boy thought this was his task.
Ellen Trestrial had called up. Ellen was coming. But not quite yet.
Here was Cyril Varker coming up the hill and Eedie had a minute.
Cyril saw her standing behind her gate.
His feet dragged in the dust. "Morning . . ." he touched his hat.
"Good mornin' . . ." she stopped him. "Mr. Varker?"
He said, twisting his thin mouth in a smile, sad with the required sympathy, "This is not a very good morning for you and me, Mrs. Trezona."
"It is not," she said. "Is your sister well?"
"As well as may be."
"Poor lady," Eedie's hands tightened on the white wooden pickets of the gate. "Mr. Varker, Wesley has a debt to you."
Under his brows Cyril's eyes rolled up. "Ah, he told you?" He was dismayed and a trifle surprised although this was exactly what he had feared. "Now, Mrs. Trezona, you and the captain must not . . ."
"Wesley told me," she said quickly. " 'Is fayther knows
nought about it. Now the boy will need time, Mr. Varker. You must give the boy time to pay."
"My dear Mrs. Trezona, of course," cried Cyril. "Of course. You cannot think that I . . ."
Eedie said, "Thank you. 'E's a good boy and 'e will pay as best 'e can." Her tired face managed a little radiance. "Ah, I was sure you knew that."
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