40 Patchtown

by Damian Dressick

  “A gut-wrenching tale of a coal-mining community’s bitter-most failings and one Polish family’s glorious rising. 40 Patchtown is evocative, haunting, told with page-turning momentum, and reveals an insider’s understanding of the societal complexities that keep miners returning to the earth’s dark underbelly. Damian Dressick, a talented and thoughtful writer, is the freshest voice to come out of Appalachia since Wiley Cash arrived on the literary scene.”

  —Karen Spears Zacharias, author of Mother of Rain

  Appalachian Writing Series

  Bottom Dog Press

  Huron, Ohio

  Copyright © 2020 by Bottom Dog Press & Damian Dressick.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. With the exceptions of brief appearances by historical personages, all characters are solely the products of the author’s imagination.

  ISBN: 978-1-947504-196

  Bottom Dog Press, Inc.

  PO Box 425, Huron, OH 44839

  Lsmithdog@aol.com

  http://smithdocs.net

  Credits:

  General Editor: Larry Smith

  Cover & Layout Design: Susanna Sharp-Schwacke

  Front Cover Art and Photo on Page 2: Eureka Mine No. 37, Windber Pennsylvania,

  Coal Culture Project, Indiana University Library

  The author would like to thank

  the Blue Mountain Center

  for its generous support.

  That which is crooked can not be made straight:

  Those which are wanting can not be numbered

  — Ecclesiastes

  But what is the strength of a boy!

  — Iliad, Book XI

  For Alex and Jessie & Henry and Maggie

  One

  I can smell the bony fires blowing up the ridge from Eureka 40. The sulfur smoke drifts over the powerhouse, the driftmouth and across the railyard, tops the frame houses, wafts through McKluskey’s stubble pasture and slides up into the bare trees, where it mixes with the cigarette smoke and corn whiskey stink coming off my brother Buzzy’s pea coat—which is two sizes too big for me.

  Little Mikey and me, we’re keeping a watch. We’re laying stock still. Our legs wrapped tight and our shoulders held low, our fingers is fixed fast to the fat high limb of the big silver maple jutting out of the woods off to the side of McKluskey’s barn. Behind us, on the ground, in a tight cluster of oaks, my brother Buzzy—and Stash and Baldy, friends of his from down Eureka 37—stand waiting. It’s been near twenty minutes since the mine whistle let loose the shift. Looking through the woods, cross the far pasture, I can already see a thin sliver of moon hanging low above McKluskey’s barn.

  My elbows ache fierce and I’m getting distracted, watching the breeze catch hold of my breath and push it up through the smooth, bare branches when Mikey digs his fingers into my arm.

  “Look, Chet,” Mikey cups a whisper into my ear. “Them damn scabs is coming up the hill!”

  At first I don’t see ’em, but when the scabs get over the next rise and start through the pasture, I can make out the light from their carbide lamps. I count two, then three, and I’m glad Buzzy brought his baseball bat. Mikey drops a rock to signal the fellas below us and I watch their shadows move forward in the darkness. I tighten my grip across the sharp-edged rock I snatched up down in the Paint Creek shallows.

  But I ain’t gonna hit nothing from here, so I slip the rock back in my pocket, and branch by branch, Mikey and me, we climb down outta the maple. At the last limb we let go and drop down into a thick pile of soggy leaves. Buzzy pulls me up by the hand and wraps his arm around my shoulder. He nods to me and Mikey. Stash and Baldy hold up their sticks and slap them into their hands. We get tight up against the trees and wait. I share a tree trunk with Buzzy. The dark brown bark is rough right flush up against my cheek, but I ain’t gonna kick none about that. Buzzy sticks his head out every couple of seconds, keeping his eyes peeled for them scabs.

  But in the end, it don’t matter, cause them scabs coming up the rise is singing. A little quiet, maybe, but singing for sure. Some damn Eye-tailyan song that I can’t make out quite. I poke my head out for a peek. When them Eye-ties draw even with the stand of oaks, I can see clear that there’s really four of them. The one out front looks to be my age, fourteen, and the fat one in the middle with the cigarette, is maybe seventeen like Buzzy. The other two look grown. The one in front is thick-chested and limping a little. The scab trailing up the rear is tall, but real thin, like he ain’t ate good for a while.

  Buzzy takes a deep breath and steps out from behind the oak tree. I pop out on the other side. Buzzy pulls back his arm and heaves his rock. The piece of fieldstone whizzes right towards the chest of the scab with the limp.

  Even through the heavy leather pit vest, Buzzy’s rock must thud good and hard, cause the scab doubles over like and the rock plops to the ground. The scabs start yelling some kind of shit in the Eye-tailyan and one of the other scabs grabs the one that got hit by the crook of his arm and pulls him back up to standing. Then them Eye-ties start running like all hell.

  Watching them scabs, Buzzy starts to yelling. His voice loud and deep, he’s cursing them scabs out fierce. He calls them scabs “stinkin dagos” and “sunsabitches” as they dash by.

  “Try and take my job, younz scabs better run,” Buzzy shouts.

  Them Eye-ties are going full-tilt when I let my rock fly. I take aim at the scab closest to the trees, but I don’t hit nothing. Buzzy looks over at me sharp and quick. I wanna tell him I done my best, but I can see it ain’t gonna make no difference to him. Either I hit the scab or I didn’t—end of god damn story.

  Scrambling into the woods, them Eye-tie scabs is dropping lunch pails, headlamps, blasting caps, the whole shooting match, making back for the showerhouse where they come from. Waving hickory switches, we’re after ’em like dogs on a rabbit. They’re cursing and we’re heaving chunks of rock and yelling for them not to be scabbing on us.

  Halfway down the ridge the scabs divide up and Mikey and Stash and me follow the kid, the limper and the old man through the woods along the edge of the pasture. Out the corner of my eye, I see Buzzy waving his bat while him and Baldy chase deeper into the woods after the tall scab.

  Letting my switch drop to my side as I run in the twilight, I use my hand to keep the fast coming branches from smacking me cross my gob. I catch up to Mikey and Stash real easy cause I’m the fastest runner in all of 40 Patchtown.

  When I get even with them, Mikey and Stash is whooping and hollering for them scabs to keep running. “Back ta Itlee, ya dagos!” After we been running a time, I can see Mikey and Stash are getting tired. Maybe losing their wind a bit. But I catch a flash of one of the scabs headed over the hill back towards McKluskey’s farmhouse. I give a whoop and take off full of vinegar for the top of the rise—leaving Mikey and Stash to catch up with me as best they can.

  When I get to the top of the hill, I rake my eyes cross the fields from the farmhouse down towards the tipple. But I don’t see nothing. I turn back to look for Mikey and Stash. But the big chested scab must have been hiding hisself behind one of them oaks or locust trees, cause when I turn around for a second gander at the fields, he’s standing there starring at me.

  I raise up my switch and he eyes me curious. He says some shit in dago and starts walking towards me like he’s just wanting to ask where they keep the lamp oil stocked in the pick-me store. I start whipping my switch around a bit, just to show him I mean business. But he keeps closing on me anyhow and I’m getting spooked and start shouting for Stash and Mikey.


  The scab don’t pay no mind till he hears Stash yelling back to me through the trees. Then he’s in front of me quick and I realize for the first time just how much bigger the scab is than me. I know I’m small for fourteen, but you’d think I could do more than just look him right in the middle of his scab chest. Worrying I won’t get no chance to get in a shot, I tighten my grip on the switch and wind up to take a poke. But the scab catches me by the wrist. I’m hollering blue murder and thanks to Christ, Stash and Mikey are both hollering back.

  The scab looks back over my shoulder, and before I can say so much as boo, he lets me have one across the kisser. The punch puts me right on the ground and when I look up that scab’s off through the woods back in the direction of the 40 driftmouth. Breathing hard, I rub my cheek and I can feel the smear of blood on my hand fore I even look. Mostly, I’m just in shock, like. I been in my share of scraps like all patchtown boys, but I never knowed anything could happen so fast as that scab’s punch landing on me.

  Stash and Mikey come crashing through the bushes at the top of the hill. Mikey’s saying “Christ Almighty, Chester! Ya alright?” I’m nodding and then Stash is picking me up off the ground and putting my switch back into my hand.

  I tell them that the scabs split up and I come face to face with the toughest one. Stash is laughing and says we should find Buzzy and Baldy and head back to 40 Patchtown.

  When we find Buzzy, him and Baldy got the long-legged scab cornered down in McKluskey’s drainage ditch. Baldy’s on one side of the ditch and Buzzy’s on the other. Every time the scab tries to climb out, they give him a whack on the hands.

  “There’s one scab gettin more than he bargained for,” Stash says.

  We’re watching Baldy rap the Eye-tie a good one on his wrist when he tries to grip the straggly clusters of roots hanging down into the ditch. Mikey and me, we nod and the three of us push forward for a closer look.

  The scab’s splashing round in a foot or two of water and his hands is getting to look pretty well whacked apart, all scraped and bleeding. We’re all yelling at the scab, telling him he’s in deep. Stash and me start picking up little rocks and whipping ’em at the scab, catching him in his chest and his legs. He’s putting his hands up and cursing us in dago.

  Not one to take a cursing out from no scab, Buzzy jumps right down into that ditch. He’s swinging the bat round, and the scab’s ducking and bobbing and looking to bolt. But the scab, he can’t get away cause the ditch is high on the sides and where the water comes down, it’s steep and slick.

  Scab oughtta know, we catch him he’s due for a beat down. It’s only fair. Ain’t none of us been on strike six months starving so sunsabitches can come into Windber, Pennsylvania and earn four dollars a day scabbing Eurkea 40 Patchtown mine.

  “Stand still and take yer medicine or you’ll catch it worse,” Buzzy tells him.

  But the scab don’t listen nohow and charges on Buzzy. Splashing through the water, he’s reaching out like to grab Buzzy by his throat. But I ain’t scared for Buzzy, cause he’s plenty tough and got muscles like an ox from shoveling coal into them two-tonners on the B seam since he was younger than me. Besides, he’s taller than our pa was ’fore he got killed down in them West Virginia mines.

  “See how much ya can load with a broken arm, ya scabbin bastard!”

  Buzzy swings on the scab like he’s going hard for a fastball down Delaney Field. The bat’s a blur, and I can hear it cut the air with a whiiiff and then there’s a sound like a brick hitting a watermelon.

  The scab’s standing there all still, and Buzzy pulls the bat away from his ear. None of us are saying nothing. Buzzy lets the bat drop to his leg. The scab stands there for a second like he’s froze, and we look at each other face to face round in a circle and there’s a stillness, a calm like—like time can’t go forward at all.

  Then the scab crashes down into the dark water and it’s like everyone can move again. Baldy says, “Jee Suss Christ.”

  And Stash is squinting and looking at the body floating in the drainage and he says, “Jesus Christ is right.”

  “Is he dead?” Mikey asks.

  “Buzzy,” I says. “We better get outta here.”

  Buzzy shakes his head and shoves the bat in the water a couple of times trying to wash off the blood. He says, “My brother’s right. Let’s go.”

  We get clear of that drainage ditch right away and head back through the woods towards 40. We don’t need telling, but Buzzy says we gotta keep our traps shut about the scab.

  “It’s a bad business,” Stash says.

  Buzzy nods and pulls a plug of tobacco from his britches. He bites off a corner and passes it round. When it comes to me, I gnaw a piece off and work the bitter plug back into my cheek. When everybody has some, Buzzy puts it back in his pocket and we start hoofing down the reddog toward the lights of the 40 Hotel.

  Two

  Our house is on Second Street of 40 Patchtown. We’re to the front porch ’fore Buzzy notices my face is all swolled and cut. I don’t feel like talking none. But he gets it out of me what happened. Then he whacks me on the side of my head. He says I shouldn’t worry ’bout it now.

  “Can’t ya see ya gotta be tough to survive in this damn patchtown,” Buzzy says.

  I tell him okay. I spit the tobacco out of my mouth into the yard before I go in the house.

  Cabbage is cooking on the coal stove. My ma is at the zinc table wrapping pieces of ground meat into cabbage leaves, which is what us pollocks call “pigs in a blanket.” I’m hungry as hell, but my guts felt twisted up since we walked away from that drainage and I don’t feel much like eating. My ma’s bitching that the twins ain’t back from 40 rock dump with the coal for tonight. She says it’s getting damn late.

  “They’ll be alright,” my sister Lottie says. “Them kids been going down there since this damn strike started six months ago.”

  Lottie’s next oldest to Buzzy. She’s almost seventeen and don’t take no shit. She got long hair, dark as percolator coffee and bright green eyes. She’s so pretty most everybody takes her shit—’cept for me and Buzzy. We laugh and tell her she must think she’s the Queen of England always running round pulling back her hair and pushing her tits together in the kitchen mirror.

  My ma’s stirring cabbage leaves into tommorow’s soup and yelling for me and Buzzy to go down the rock dump and get the twins.

  “Stop foolin with your tresses, she tells Lottie. “Get them potatos ready. We’re gonna set down to eat soon as them twins get back.”

  Buzzy’s idling in the parlor. I go in and sit down next to him. He’s already got dry pants on and his bare feet propped up on the sofa. The baseball’s on the radio, but he don’t look to be listening none.

  “I ain’t goin to no slag heap to git them twins,” he yells to our ma. “Send Johnny!”

  Now, I know this is crazy, cause Johnny’s eight but he’s slow in the head. He probably couldn’t find the rock dump, let alone the twins, and sure not his way home even if he did get there.

  I poke Buzzy in the ribs and ask him what he’s thinking. Ask him if he’s drunk. He shushes me with his finger and pulls me closer to him on the sofa.

  “Quiet!” he says to me. “I don’t wanna us seen outside the house no more tonight.”

  My mother yells again from the kitchen about fetching Esther and Frankie. Buzzy jabs his fingertip into my chest, keeping me on the couch.

  “Send Johnny down there,” he yells to our ma, “he don’t do shit all day.”

  My ma drops the lid back on the soup pot. She comes stomping into the parlor. She’s a big woman and heavy, so the floor squeaks when she walks. When she comes in the parlor she’s glaring and the floor sounds like somebody’s killing a rat.

  She’s yelling at Buzzy for being so selfish and so lazy. Then she sees that my face is all cut and swolled.

  “Chester Pistakowski,” she says to me. “What the hell happened to you?”

  I look at Buzzy, then at the radio and f
inally at the big crucifix up on the parlor wall. I start to say something about scrapping with some boys from 37, but my ma don’t let me talk. She just starts in on Buzzy, telling him that he’s no good, telling him he’ll get me in deep someday.

  “Wuzza fair fight,” is all Buzzy says to our ma.

  I can see him rubbing his fingers together like he got nerves. He’s looking out the window, watching the street. He ain’t even looking at our ma no matter what kind of stuff she says to him.

  In the middle of getting yelled at, Buzzy just gets up and drifts into the kitchen. My ma follows him, but she should know not to keep on Buzzy like that when he’s getting pissed, cause he’ll take a poke first and he ain’t going to confession no time soon.

  Staring outta the kitchen window, Buzzy finally says something. He says, “Them twins is back.”

  I race over to the window and look out and I see Esther and Frankie coming down through the yard past the shithouse and the chicken coop. They’re near ten, but stooped over carrying them flour sacks of coal from the rock dump.

  When they come in, my ma gives ’em hell for taking so damn long.

  “How younz gonna stay in fourth grade if ya can’t even fetch coal?” she says.

  Frankie shrugs and takes the coal down to the bin in the cellar. Esther stands in the middle of the kitchen fisting up the linen of her dress. She’s shouting about how they had to go behind Third Street cause the Pinkertons is all up and down Second.

  “Whatcha mean the Pinkertons?” Buzzy asks. He looks at Esther with his lips curled and his eyes pinned. I can see he’s wound up but good.

  Frankie comes running back up from the basement, all excited. He says, “They was on horses coming up Second Street. We watched ’em from behind Zachek’s chicken coop. They was banging on doors. Going into houses. They was gettin men out in their yards.”