Sing in the Morning, Cry at Night

by Barbara J. Taylor

  Grace, Violet, and Adelaide made their way down the right side of the church, toward their pew, seventh from the front counting the half-pew squeezed in just before the altar. Hattie had already seated herself and seemed relieved to see her family coming.

  “There she is now,” Hattie said to Myrtle Evans, who’d just asked whether Grace would be “darkening the church’s door” that evening. Hattie slid across the pew to make room for the latecomers. “Merry Christmas,” she whispered just as the service began.

  Louise leaned forward in her pew and added, “So good to see you here.”

  “And it came to pass in those days,” a young boy of ten bellowed from atop a crate behind the podium, “that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed.” A miniature Mary and Joseph stepped out from the backroom, into the main part of the sanctuary. The blanketed pair strolled hand in hand toward Alice Harris’s two-year-old daughter, already seated in the manger her father had built. An angel, two shepherds, and the Powell triplets with newspaper crowns on their heads joined them up front as the story progressed.

  At the conclusion of the play, and after an enthusiastic round of applause, the junior choir stepped forward and began singing, “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” Jesus, who’d somehow been forgotten in her manger, climbed out just before the fourth verse and toddled toward the congregation on the words, “O holy child.” Laughter erupted as Alice Harris ran forward and scooped her daughter into her arms.

  * * *

  John Roberts filled two cardboard tubes with black powder, folded the ends, and handed them to Owen, who tamped them four-and-a-half feet into the boreholes. John motioned to the drills, picks, hammers, shovels, and rods scattered across the floor, and he and the butties carried them off a safe distance away. Before lighting the squib, Owen called out, “Fire, fire, fire!” as a warning to any man happening by, and waited. John yelled, “All clear!” from behind a pillar. Owen touched his lamp to the squib’s fuse and headed behind his own pillar a minute or so before twin explosions erupted. A cloud of coal dust rushed toward the miners, who crouched with their faces tucked between their knees. They stayed in that position a few minutes longer, waiting for the debris to settle.

  Once the air cleared, all four men returned to the area to see the result. They’d added five or so feet to the length of the chamber, but they would have to mine this vein on their backs. Owen grabbed a crowbar, walked along the front ribs of the room, and tapped the roof for weak spots. Two of the front props groaned under the weight, so Owen and John set about adding additional supports to avoid a squeeze.

  At that moment, the men heard, “Fire, fire, fire!” from further up the gangway. With part of their own roof still unstable, Owen yelled back, “Hold off!” a second before the powder exploded, dropping thirty tons of coal in their chamber.

  * * *

  As rehearsed, Flo Watkins lit the Christ Candle at the conclusion of the evening prayer. The Davies boys stepped forward, tipped their candles into Christ’s flame, and proceeded up the middle aisle, lighting the candle of the first person in each row. In turn, the flame passed from one pew member to the next, until all in attendance held a glowing taper. The congregation sang their final hymn, “Silent Night,” then paused to hear the steeple bells before stepping back out into the cold night air.

  Instead, they heard three short whistles—an accident at the mine.

  The men jumped up first. Some rushed straight to the mine, others stopped off at their houses to grab picks and shovels. None of them took the time to change out of their church clothes. Seconds counted when it came to the difference between pulling a man out alive or dead.

  The women and children moved just as purposefully, but toward a different end. Instinctively, they formed a prayer circle and bowed their heads. Adelaide cleared her throat before opening her mouth, giving Hattie enough time to ask, “Sister Griffin, will you lead us in prayer?”

  Jane Griffin, the Sunday school’s superintendent, prayed for the fifty or so men working that night—husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons. She prayed for the wives and children standing within eyesight of heartbreak and poverty. She asked the women to call out the names of their loved one if he happened to be working the mine that night. When Grace’s turn came, she said, “My husband Owen,” in what Myrtle Evans would later describe as an “even tone,” which she attributed to “a lack of emotion.”

  At the prayer’s conclusion, the women and children scurried downhill toward the mine, with only the light of their candles to lead the way.

  * * *

  Within an hour, most of the miners were accounted for. Some walked, some crawled, some had to be carried. “A Christmas miracle!” one woman exclaimed as her husband ran to her.

  The mine owner, George Sherman, headed toward the crowd of women and children huddled outside, their faces hidden behind thick scarves. Some held candles, others gripped rosary beads, but they all prayed for mercy to the same God.

  “It could have been much worse,” Mr. Sherman announced. “The damage is limited to the lower gangway, mainly, the last chamber. We should be back up and running in a few days.”

  “We don’t care about the mine!” Louise shouted. “What about the men?”

  Harold Bowers, the mine foreman, stepped forward. “Of the fifty-two pegged in at the time of the squeeze, we know of forty-eight souls who survived.”

  “Thanks be to God!” someone called out, and the crowd repeated the sentiment.

  “Of course, four still remain inside,” Harold continued, “and we’ll not give up till we find them.”

  Hattie grabbed Grace’s hand as Mr. Sherman read the names: “John Roberts, Owen Morgan, and two Poles from the Patch, mining butties who worked alongside them.”

  “Lithuanians,” Harold corrected.

  “Same difference,” Mr. Sherman replied, and trudged back toward the mine.

  Hattie and Louise each took one of Grace’s arms. “Let’s get you home,” Hattie suggested. “This night air’s no good in your condition.”

  Grace pressed both palms on her belly and waited. “My husband’s in that mine. I’ll not budge till there’s word.”

  * * *

  Sometime before midnight, the mine foreman suggested that the waiting families move to the above-ground stable. At least they’d be protected from the elements and have a place to sit while they waited. By two in the morning, Louise finally convinced Violet to curl up on a bed of hay in the empty last stall. Grace still refused to sleep but, for the baby’s sake, agreed to sit on a makeshift bench with her legs outstretched and her head propped against a beam.

  She’d been too harsh with Owen that last night. She knew that now, and frankly, she’d known it then. She’d always thought there would be time. To forgive. To be forgiven. Such foolishness. Soon enough they’d unearth his corpse. She shuddered at the thought of another body to tend.

  She remembered sprinkling dried lavender into the basin of water alongside Daisy’s bed. Grace closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of early summer.

  “Dear Lord . . .” she’d said, more out of reflex than inspiration. When no words followed, she’d abandoned the prayer and turned toward Daisy.

  She had dipped the rag into the water and started with Daisy’s face, first the brow, then the eyes. Someone had shut her eyes—Owen, if she remembered correctly. Next the cheeks, the nose and lips. The scar on her chin where at three she’d caught the corner of the kitchen cupboard, splitting the skin and toppling a sack of flour. At the time, Daisy had stood in stunned silence, covered from head to toe in the white powder. Grace remembered taking one look at her little snowman, and laughing out loud. That got Daisy laughing so hard, she doubled over, sending a flurry of flour into the air and onto the floor. When she lifted her head, Grace saw the blood for the first time, and started to cry at the sight of it. Frightened, Daisy began sobbing and kicking up an even bigger snowstorm, which sent Grace into a fit of giggles in spite of her
best intentions. By the time Owen entered the room, he couldn’t tell if they were laughing or crying, and neither could they. For months after, whenever Daisy got near flour, someone would tease, “Feels like snow.”

  Grace had dabbed the scar one more time, kissed the tip of Daisy’s nose, and turned to rinse and wring her cloth. Owen had suggested she let her sister Hattie or her friend Louise help, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She’d do for her daughter as long as she could. She rubbed the unblemished skin, then patted and rebandaged the burns, taking great pains not to disturb the unhealed flesh. When she finished, she draped a clean sheet over Daisy’s body, up to the neck, and placed a wet lavender-scented rag on her face to keep it fresh.

  “Goodbye, my pet.” She had kissed the top of her head and breathed her in for the last time. She turned to Owen, pressed into the corner, waiting to bring the body out to Mr. Parker, the undertaker. “Make sure he treats her kindly.”

  Owen had nodded as he lifted his daughter and carried her out of the room.

  Grace remained in the girls’ bedroom and took out her sewing. Daisy’s only other good church dress needed mending if she was to be buried in it. She’d ripped the stitches in the smocking after an evening church service not two weeks earlier. Unbeknownst to Grace at the time, Daisy had been playing hide-and-seek with Janie Miller and caught the top of her dress on some rough bark as she hid behind an oak tree. Owen had threatened to take a switch to his daughter for not acting like a young lady, but of course he never did.

  Hattie had made two matching dresses out of a bolt of robin’s egg–blue cotton as birthday presents for the girls. Although Violet was the younger of the two, she had received her dress on February 19, the day she turned eight, almost a week and a half before Daisy, who would turn nine in March. More than once in the stretch between birthdays, Violet told Grace how much the dress meant to her. Familiar with hand-me-downs herself, Grace understood. And she understood Violet’s disappointment when, ten days later, Daisy received the same exact dress, just one size bigger. Hattie had meant well, but she should have known to vary the styles.

  Once Grace finished the mending, she’d wash, starch, and iron the dresses for both her girls. She’d also have to do up Owen’s suit and dye one of her shirtwaists the same shade of black as her good skirt. And then there were boots to polish and baths to take. They’d start viewing the body in the morning, and Grace wanted folks to see she took pride in her family’s appearance.

  * * *

  Grace looked around the stable at the other people, all contemplating the fates of their own families. What’s to become of us?

  Grief poked his head in the stable door and opened his mouth, poised to answer.

  “Get away from here!” Grace shouted. When Hattie looked in her direction, Grace swatted at the air, as if shooing a fly.

  Hattie turned to Violet, still sleeping on the straw.

  “Come home,” Grief said, swinging one leg inside and then the other. “It takes days to dig out a body.”

  “He’s not dead yet,” Grace whispered sharply before closing her eyes to him.

  * * *

  After nearly six hours of pounding away at an endless wall of anthracite, Harold ordered his men to take a rest. Initially they objected, but eventually the desires of the heart succumbed to the needs of the body. Many of the men hadn’t had their evening meal, and had been without sustenance for half a day or longer. Some of the women whose husbands had survived the collapse returned to the mine with supper for them. The men ate greedily, not stopping to talk about what they all feared.

  Finally, after about fifteen minutes, Albert Adamski said what many of the others wouldn’t dare: “Dead by now, for certain. Air’s no good in there.” He looked back at the mountain of coal filling the entrance to the chamber. “Never had a chance.”

  Tommy Davies jumped to his feet. “We’ll not give up!” The twelve-year-old eyed the men, daring them to disagree, then began piling rubble into a waiting mine car. The other miners stood up, grabbed picks and crowbars, and started back to work.

  About an hour later, Albert unearthed tag number 194, attached to the buttonhole of a torn-off shirt pocket. “Told you,” he said, as he waved his find in the air.

  Tommy snatched Owen’s tag out of Albert’s hand and went running for the stable.

  * * *

  Louise watched her son as he entered the barn. He wore a look she’d seen before, a look no child should ever have. He didn’t speak, but simply held out the tag on the torn pocket.

  Grace wrapped her arms around her belly, rocking herself, rocking her unborn child. “Shhh,” she kept saying, as if to quiet the baby inside. “Mother’s here.”

  Louise held Tommy while Hattie comforted Grace. One of the miners who’d been working on the rescue peered into the barn and asked, “Which of you is the widow Morgan? I’m to see you home.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  TEN HOURS AFTER THE ROOF COLLAPSED, John Roberts and his butty broke through the boarded-up entrance of the old, adjacent slope mine. A minute or two later, the second Lithuanian laborer hobbled out on a broken ankle, with Owen beside him as a crutch. The orange sun rose from behind slag mountains, and each of the men squinted at the sight.

  Harold was the first to spy them, pillars of coal with breath, eyes half-shut, hands bloodied, but alive. He yelled to the hoistman who signaled the workers, and within minutes, a crowd rose up and overtook them. Melba Roberts pulled her toddler into her arms, ran to her husband, and hugged him with the child pressed between them. Two young women, no more than sixteen, pushed through the people to find their beaux. Upon seeing his sweetheart, the injured Lithuanian nodded his thanks to Owen, and draped his arm around the babushka-topped girl. She smiled as he shifted his weight to her shoulders.

  Owen stretched up and searched the crowd. He knew he had no right to, but he’d hoped, if he made it out alive, to find Grace waiting for him. After all, it was her face he had seen in front of him as he crawled blindly on his belly through the old rat-infested tunnels. He and the other men had quickly realized how grim their circumstances were. Ten minutes into the collapse, they knew they’d die for sure if they had to depend on the rescuers to get them out the way they’d come in. Too much coal had dropped in front of them, and in the case of one of the Lithuanians, a chunk of it had broken his ankle. It was Owen who’d thought of the old adjacent mine. It hadn’t been worked in twenty years, but thanks to the blasting they’d done before the squeeze, they were five feet closer to it than anyone on the outside knew. With only enough room for one man, each of them took turns on their backs, picking away at the coal that separated the two mines. Soon enough, Owen noticed the toll the work was taking on the injured Lithuanian, so he took over the man’s share of digging to allow him to rest. Once they breeched the wall, they squeezed their way through at some points, and picked their way through at others. About six hours into the collapse, the man with the broken ankle seemed ready to give up. Owen refused to leave him behind. “A few more feet,” he’d say, not knowing if the man understood him. “A few more feet.” By the time they’d crawled out, their hands and knees were shredded from the jagged rocks.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Bobby Lewis said, slapping Owen on the back. “Thought you were a goner, for sure.”

  “Grace?” Owen asked the question he did not want answered.

  “We gave you up for dead,” Bobby said before adding, “Went home sometime this morning. Sure be mighty pleased to see you, though.”

  Owen closed his eyes and saw her face before him, the face he’d followed out of the darkness, into the light. Her cheeks reddened, her brow dappled with sweat, strands of dark hair falling on her cheeks, rushing into Hattie’s dining room that first Thanksgiving. Gave you up for dead. So that was it, he thought. Gave you up.

  Owen turned to Bobby and asked, “Where can a fellow get a drink on Christmas morning?”

  Bobby laughed. “Let’s go see if they’ll open up Burke’s for a man
come back from the dead.”

  When they reached the square, Owen looked to the right toward his home before Bobby pulled him into the tavern.

  * * *

  As soon as the news hit Spring Street, Myrtle Evans rushed across the yard to Grace’s house. “And where is he?” she asked as she pushed through the door.

  Both Louise and Hattie looked up from the table, confused.

  “Who?” they asked simultaneously.

  “Why Owen, of course. Thought he’d be home by now.” She looked around the room. “But I must have thought wrong.”

  “Owen is gone,” Grace said as she came into the kitchen, surprising them all. “Owen is gone,” she repeated, as if her tongue were trying a new language.

  “Anything but,” Myrtle explained. “Mrs. Proudlock saw him with her own eyes, black as pitch, but Owen for sure. Near the Christmas tree at the square. Brought the children down to see the—”

  “My Owen’s alive?” Grace interrupted as Hattie led her to a seat at the table.

  “They all are.”

  “Thanks be to God!” Grace cried, and stood to hug Myrtle.

  “Said they worked their own way out. No more than half an hour ago. Naturally, I assumed he’d come straight here.”

  Grace rushed toward the front door, stepped out on the porch, and peered down the street.

  Myrtle followed her outside. “Though come to think of it, Mrs. Proudlock said he turned left at the corner, into the beer garden. Probably had the stink of whiskey on him too.”

  Grace stepped back inside and Hattie shut the door with Myrtle still standing on the porch. So that’s it, Grace thought.

  “He’s alive,” Hattie said, her voice thick with emotion. “Thank the Lord.”

  “But married to the drink,” Grief called out from the bedroom.

  “But he’s alive!” Grace yelled back to him.