Mrs. Lilly scooped up the smallest one, Cecilia, who was still in diapers. “Jake!”
Clay and Jake bolted toward their mothers.
“Junior?” Mamaw asked Will.
Will gave her an okay sign.
Bone pointed to him. He nodded and pointed a thumb toward Marvin and Garvin.
“You go take care of them,” Bone said.
Will trotted back to the Linkouses, steering them all toward the ambulance.
He really could look after himself and others, with or without a voice.
Still, the waiting was torture.
“Mamaw,” Bone asked, “did we do this when Will’s daddy died? Stand out here, I mean.” Bone had only been a couple years old at the time.
“Yes,” Mamaw said with a sigh. “I’ve stood out here all my life.”
Bone wondered if her mother could’ve saved Will’s father. The sweater was silent.
About an hour later, the mantrip bumped back up to the surface. Several coal-and ash-covered men gingerly lifted another one out. The ambulance folks loaded him onto a stretcher. Mrs. Whitaker handed the little ones to Clay and Jake, and followed her husband into the ambulance. Jake’s mom quickly swooped in and took all of the children under her wing.
A wiry black figure that Bone knew was Junior Reed straightened a kink in his back as he scanned the crowd. Ash waved him over.
Bone had never been so glad Daddy was elsewhere, even if he was in just as dangerous a place. Ruby bolted to hug Junior. She emerged from the bear hug smeared in black.
“Poor baby,” Mamaw murmured as she cleaned Ruby’s face with a kerchief and a little spit. Then she hugged Junior herself. “I never will get used to this.”
“How’s Chuck?” Ash asked.
“Lawd, this is the last thing they need,” Mamaw said.
First Clay’s big brothers went down with their ship in the Pacific. Now his father was hurt or worse.
“He’s alive. At least got a broken leg. Garvin’s got a busted arm or shoulder.” Streaks of sweat ran down Uncle Junior’s black and ashy face. He reached his hand out to lean on his brother for a second. “Damn, I’m getting too old for this,” He said, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.
“Let’s get you home so you can call the girls.” Mamaw steered his exhausted body toward the truck. Even over in Radford, Fern and Ivy would’ve probably heard about the accident by now.
“I’ll meet you at the truck. One thing first.” Junior walked slowly back over toward the entrance. The ambulance was already speeding away, and families were dispersing with their miners. Nobody bothered to wash up. Grimy, blackened men and boys had smudged their loved ones with their coal-and-ash embraces. Will and his mother were beginning to walk home. Junior stopped them and shook Will’s hand. He told Mrs. Kincaid something that made her straighten up and take Will’s arm.
Later that evening, after Junior had called his girls, scrubbed himself pink, enjoyed a big supper, and collapsed in his chair by the fire, he was ready to talk about the accident. The story was eerily familiar to Bone.
“Me and Will were blasting a new shaft. Chuck and the twins were taking timbers from an old one. Since we don’t have anybody left to run the mill, we get most of our support timbers from played-out shafts. When the mine rumbled, Will took off running toward them, with me on his heels.” Uncle Junior shook his head in admiration. He then explained how they found Marvin frantically digging. “He’d been carrying the timbers toward us when the roof caved in on Garvin and Chuck. Marvin didn’t want to leave his brother, but Will made him go get help. He pointed and that boy took off. Will then just about single-handedly rescued Garvin.” He looked at Bone. “Your Will crawled right in there and cut Garvin loose where he was pinned. After that, it took the rest of us digging for an hour or so to reach Chuck.” Uncle Junior sank back in his chair.
Mamaw passed Junior a cup of coffee.
“Uncle Junior, what did you tell Will and his mom?”
“That I was damn proud of him. And that William would’ve been proud, too. If that young man could talk, he’d be quite a supervisor someday, or anything else he set his mind to. Those boys would follow him anywhere.” Junior sighed.
“He could still work the mines the rest of his life, couldn’t he?” Bone asked. “He loves the work.” Even as she said this, Bone thought of Mr. Whitaker getting carted away in an ambulance.
“I know.” Junior blew on his still-steaming coffee. “Only I don’t know how long these mines will hold out.”
“What do you mean?” Bone had never considered that something might happen to the mines. The miners, yes, but not the mines themselves. Then Bone remembered Uncle Junior’s Gift. She’d never seen him using it, or even heard him talk about it. “Did your Gift show you this? How does it work?”
“Yes and no. If I put my hand on a vein of coal and concentrate, I can see a map in my head of how it runs. Lately, the veins are petering out—or they go way too deep for us to get at with pick and shovel.” He straightened up in his chair and looked at Bone. “Even if it weren’t my Gift, I know there’s only so much coal in the ground around here. I wouldn’t be surprised if these mines get played out in a few more years. It’s already happening at Great Valley.”
“What would you do if it did?” Bone asked.
“Oh, I could go to work at the powder plant or another factory in the area. Or I could help Ash and Mother farm. Your daddy and me talked about building houses—once folks had money again.” Uncle Junior yawned mightily. “Or maybe I could retire by then. I think we all got at least until after the war.” Uncle Junior closed his eyes. “And we’re gonna dig as much as we can for the war effort.”
Mamaw gently took the cup from his hand.
Bone sat on the hearth and pondered. So far war had killed Uncle Henry, the Whitaker brothers, baseball, and now maybe the coal mines.
Daddy could do all of those things Junior mentioned and more if the coal ran out. But Will probably couldn’t do any of them—not without a voice. Will needed his voice—and as crazy as it sounded, that jelly jar had it. Bone had to warn Will not to use the jelly jar.
And Bone needed to figure out how to get his voice out. She had to touch it.
16
THE EVENING WAS right airish. It was only a few days until Halloween, and Bone hated that it got darker earlier and earlier each day. The headlights of an approaching truck danced in the woods like ghost lights. Bone pulled her butter-yellow sweater around her tight and dashed to the Kincaids’.
Bone rapped on their door. It was late, but the lights were still on in the front room.
Will opened the door.
“You okay?” Bone plunged her hands in her pockets.
Will nodded.
“We need to talk about the jar.” Bone whispered the last part.
Will ducked back inside and emerged with his coat on. He patted the lump in the pocket. He pointed toward the boardinghouse. Bone understood. He didn’t want his mother to hear.
They sat on the back porch of the boardinghouse in their usual spots on the steps, the jar between them. Will pushed it toward her.
“Mamaw says we shouldn’t mess with it anymore.” Bone pulled her sweater tight around her.
Will put his hand over the jar.
“It’s stealing sounds!” she blurted out. “Uncle Ash said Mr. Childress’s dogs lost their voices.”
Will put the jar back in his pocket and pulled out his notebook. Then he scribbled out something.
I know. Figured it out after the crickets.
“Crickets?” Then Bone remembered that night on the back porch. The crickets had gone silent. “Oh! Why didn’t you tell me?”
Will shrugged.
“You knew it was stealing sounds!” Bone leapt up and faced him.
He nodded without looking at her. I’ve been real careful, he wrote.
“You need to stop!”
Will shook his head. He wrote furiously and shoved the note into he
r hand. I ain’t caught nothing new since the ballgame.
He wrote some more. And I listen only where it’s real quiet.
“You mean at the cemetery.”
Will glared at her. Then he nodded.
Bone paced up and down in front of Will for a couple moments. “That dang jar stole a bunch of sounds ever since your daddy died holding it.” She let that sink in.
Will gawped at her. Then he scribbled out: How do you know that?
Bone sat down beside him again. “Uncle Junior said so. They found your daddy with that jar in his hand. Must be why it’s got power.”
Will pulled the jar out of his pocket and slid it over to her once more.
I’ll stop—if you read the jar.
“He died with that thing in his hand.” Bone pointed to the jar. “Do you really want to hear about that?” She didn’t want to see more than she already had.
I need to know everything.
“Oh, dang it,” Bone muttered. She took a deep breath, grabbed the jar, and closed her eyes.
What do you need to show me?
The jar was warm like an ember to the touch, but it didn’t burn her. Instead it pulled at her, like it wanted to embrace her. She saw Will Sr. sitting in the mine, only the light of his mining lamp—and Mr. Scott’s next to him—illuminating the lunch spread in front of him. It was dark as it was now. Between them, they had a small picnic of fried chicken, dill pickles, and white bread, slathered with apple butter, spread out on their kerchiefs. Mr. Scott was talking about football. Mr. Kincaid scraped the jelly jar clean, licking it for good measure. Then he leaned back against the wall of coal and daydreamed about picking apples in the summertime, birds chirping overhead, cicadas whirring in the distance, and little Will at his side, jabbering away. Both of them laughed at the four-year-old’s bad jokes.
Will elbowed Bone slightly. She explained what she was seeing. “You told some terrible jokes.” Will chuckled.
He loved apples and apple butter, Will wrote.
“He loved you, silly.” And he missed the summer and the sunshine. Bone recognized the feeling of longing. She dove a bit deeper. She could feel a wave of longing washing over her. Will’s dad was longing for the sunny days in the orchard, swimming and fishing in the river, and, most of all, time spent with his boy. Then the mine rumbled and the timbers above them cracked. A rock fell, and the roof collapsed around William and Scotty. Bone felt dark, cold, and hollow.
“William!” Scotty yelled. It sounded a million miles away.
Mr. Kincaid uttered a muffled reply. Inside, she could feel him screaming, but the screams stayed bottled up, unable to get out. He spit out dirt and ash as best he could. And he was still holding the jelly jar. A burning, gnawing hunger radiated off it.
Will’s dad filled that jar with his longing—for all the things he was going to miss. Apple orchards. River. Baseball. Trains. Laughter. Sarah. And most of all, Will. Hearing his jokes. Seeing him grow up. Teaching him to hit a ball. Watching him graduate. Get a job. Have kids of his own. The wave of longing was so strong, Bone could barely breathe. It was crushing. She almost dropped the jar.
“I love you, son,” William managed to whisper into the jar. The world went black—except for the ember of longing burning in the jelly jar in his hand.
Bone set the jar down gently between her and Will.
Will snatched it back.
Bone felt like crying, but the tears wouldn’t come. Will’s daddy poured all his love and longing into that glass jar—and he loved Will so much … so much that it made Bone jealous and ashamed of that jealousy. And even a bit angry. She whispered what she’d seen.
Will sat there mutely.
“Say something,” Bone whispered.
He opened his mouth, and nothing came out.
All that, and Will still couldn’t talk. Her Gift was useless.
Bone dashed into the house, feeling hollowed out yet burning inside.
17
BONE TOSSED AND turned in bed, thinking about Will’s dad—and her own. She’d had the nightmare again where Daddy was wandering through cold, dark woods, lost. This time, he only had the light of a Jack o’lantern to show him the way home. Or was it a jelly jar? Or was he following a Jack ma lantern into the swamps? Somewhere in the dream, one thing had turned into another and another. And the big iron gates of heaven and hell had swung shut on him.
Bone stared at the cracks in the bedroom ceiling. She did not want to go back to sleep. How did Will’s voice get into the jar in the first place? Would she have to read the jar again to find out? Or had his mother seen something? Bone sat up. Was that what Mrs. Kincaid hadn’t wanted to say?
The clock on her bedside table said it was only 9:30 p.m. Mrs. Kincaid might still be up.
Bone threw on her dungarees and sweater, grabbed her boots, and crept down the back stairs of the boardinghouse. Someone was still listening to the radio in the parlor, Uncle Junior by the sound of the snoring. Bone tiptoed out the back door and slipped on her boots.
The lights still burned bright at the Kincaids’—and Mrs. Kincaid sat on the porch, knitting and rocking.
Bone’s boots crunched on the dry ground as she approached.
“Is that you, Will?” Mrs. Kincaid stood up.
“No, ma’am,” Bone said, coming into the light of the porch. “He’s not here?”
Mrs. Kincaid tossed her knitting down beside the chair. “No, and he keeps coming home later and later. I thought he might be doing something he ought not to with you, but Mrs. Price assured me you were in bed promptly at 8:30 every night.” She looked suspiciously at Bone.
“I couldn’t sleep.” Bone couldn’t imagine what Mrs. Kincaid thought she might be doing with Will. But that didn’t matter. Bone knew where he was: the cemetery. “I’m worried about him, too.” Bone walked up the steps of the Kincaid porch. “But I know where he is.”
“Where, young lady?” Mrs. Kincaid stood, hands on hips, towering over Bone.
“The cemetery. Talking to his daddy,” Bone added softly.
Mrs. Kincaid gawped for a moment and then crumpled back into her rocking chair like the air had gone right out of her. “The cemetery,” she muttered in disbelief.
“Why did you give his father’s dinner bucket to Uncle Junior?” Bone asked as kindly as she could.
Mrs. Kincaid looked at her strangely. Finally, she spoke. “I found Will playing with his daddy’s gear after the funeral. He was talking to his daddy and telling him knock-knock jokes.” Her voice caught. “I just couldn’t bear to watch it. Couldn’t bear to have the dinner bucket especially in the house. So I asked Junior to get rid of it. Scotty was still in the hospital at the time, or I woulda asked him.”
Bone had seen a flash of Will in his Sunday best talking and holding the jar. Now Bone could see clearly what had happened. Will had told his joke into the jar at the wake. And his mama gave away the jar.
“Did Will stop talking right after that?” Bone asked. She already knew the answer, though.
Mrs. Kincaid considered it. “Yes, he did. I never heard him utter another word after that. At first, I thought he was mad at me for giving away the gear. But the doctor said it was grief. And maybe he’d grow out of it.”
Mrs. Kincaid picked up her knitting again, but she just stared at the needles like she’d forgotten how to work them.
Will wasn’t going to grow out of it. That crazy jar had captured his voice. That’s why just reading it didn’t help. Bone was stumped, though, about what to do. How was her Gift supposed to solve this?
18
IT WAS HALLOWEEN at last. Bone didn’t know how to help Will, but at least she could be there for Ruby and Clay. And she had eggs. First, though, they had to collect tin cans for the 4-H scrap drive. Between houses, Bone told Ruby and the boys that she was in. The boys whooped in delight. Ruby merely cracked a smile. She whispered a thank-you as they knocked on the next door. They stopped at every house in Big Vein except the parsonage.
&nb
sp; Later, when Uncle Junior was snoring away in his room, Bone slunk down the back stairs, boots in one hand and a sack of old eggs in another. She laced up her boots on the porch, and then took off running toward the parsonage. It was almost 10 o’clock.
Jake and Clay jumped out of the bushes and about gave her a heart attack. “Is this it?” she whispered. She’d expected the whole school the way Jake had talked.
“They’ll be along directly,” Clay assured her—or himself, more likely—as he glanced up the road.
Three figures came creeping alongside the parsonage. Giggles escaped from Pearl and Opal. Ruby whirled on them with a sharp hiss. They fell in meekly behind her.
Each had a few eggs in hand. They scrunched down behind the azalea bush across the road and counted up all of the eggs. They had fewer than a dozen between them. Some were rottener than others.
Pearl couldn’t help giggling, and Opal didn’t want to throw any eggs, so Ruby glared at both of them. “You’re useless,” she muttered, sounding every inch her mother. The Little Jewels looked crushed.
“Why don’t you two keep an eye on the road,” Bone whispered. “Pearl, you head up yonder. Opal, down there. Let us know if anybody is coming.”
Pearl and Opal mouthed their thank-yous at Bone and took off.
“Useless,” Ruby muttered again. She handed the boys and Bone their share of the eggs.
Jake nudged Bone. “You get the honor of the first throw.”
Ruby and Clay nodded.
“She about killed you,” Ruby reminded her. Again.
For a second, Bone thought she spied a light at the edge of Flat Woods. Foxfire, she told herself. Only foxfire.
She turned to face the parsonage. Again, it was sealed up tighter than a pickle jar. Bone stood there, her arm cocked and ready to hurl an egg. She could still taste the cold iron of that bathwater Mattie almost drowned her in. Aunt Mattie was why Mama died. No, Mama picked Aunt Mattie over her and Daddy. And Daddy chose the war over Bone. She couldn’t move. A redhot chunk of coal ate at her gut. Still, she was stuck there, unable to throw the stupid egg.
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