Misisipi

by Michael Reilly

“Bernard. I’m worried he’s been busted. It’s really George’s fault. A-hole! He’s got my phone, my wallet, and camera, everything—not George, Bernard. It’s Ber’s car and… No, really it’s his Mom’s. Oh crap! Will she be an accessory? What if they hurt him? They might even waterboard him. That’s what I heard they did to some guys in Kentucky. I just wanna get him and go home.”

  “Where’s your sign, the thing you were holding outside?”

  “I tossed it.”

  “You another one of those lettuce liberals protesting the war?”

  “A what?”

  “Lettuce liberal. A wet green flip-flopper.”

  “I don’t care about the war.”

  “You ought to. I’m betting folk round here who have family serving sure as hell do.”

  “I’m just trying to make things better at home.”

  “Really? By how exactly? By ripping up the white picket fences of one generation to make into your little placards to dis crap you know nothing about?”

  “You never had a cause you thought was worth fighting for?”

  “I work for a living. I resent that the taxes I pay go on policing your uppity little antics whenever you feel like sounding off. My contribution to the cause is making sure people like you don’t kill people like me when you do.”

  Becky eyed the water glasses. “Can I at least take a sip of one of those and then I’ll leave. I’m hot. I’m hungry. I’m thirsty. Bernard should have been here hours ago. I don’t know what else to do.”

  Scott pushed one of the tumblers toward her. After a moment’s hesitation, she took it and sipped.

  “And you really shouldn’t be talking to strange men from out of town,” he chided her. “You’re liable to end up in a whole worse mess.”

  “I know,” she nodded. “I don’t, honest. You looked… safe. Nice car, smartly dressed. You look too cleancut to be a serial killer.”

  “Harmless?” he said, disappointed. She nodded.

  “Well,” he leaned forward, “24 hours ago, I was locked up in a Winchester police cell. Then some nutjob threatened to crush my skull with his bare hands. Then he tried to run me off the road.”

  “Is that how you got the bruises on your face?”

  “No. Same day, different nutjob. And last night, I was robbed by a hooker. Now I’m driving to Dallas where some mad woman is going to put a voodoo curse on me.”

  “Is that why you’re wearing a black suit?”

  “Nope. I have to put the band back together and save the orphanage too.”

  “You’re a musician? Awesome,” she chirped.

  Scott shook his head as he watched the reference disappear over hers. He smiled. It was the first time ever he’d been made confront the supplanting of his generation, its retirement from Cool. He knew his old man would get a kick out of watching this.

  “I’m not trying to hustle you or jerk you about. Honest. It’s just so hot out there. They wouldn’t let me sit in here without buying something. I don’t have a dime on me.”

  “They’d let you use the phone.”

  “I didn’t want to push it. There’s lots of folk here who don’t have a good opinion of the anti-coal movement. Any what do wouldn’t necessarily like to be seen as such. These towns still keep right-side of the mining companies, like they think it’s preserving some kind of status quo. More like turkeys voting for Thanksgiving, if they could only see it.”

  “So that’s your crusade? Maybe you should switch to Iraq.”

  “It’s all the same. If we fixed our problems here at home, we wouldn’t need to go looking for trouble abroad. Energy and stuff, complete world suck.”

  “That’s a very naïve perspective,” he said, setting his laptop on the table. “You can finish the water. I have to check emails.” He flipped the screen open between them.

  There was an email from the store back in Williamsport. When Scott opened it, his screen filled with an attached graphic of the photograph Nita had taken of the broach. Marion’s accompanying note was brief but it made Scott’s jaw drop.

  Hello Mr. Jameson.

  I hope you still have the piece in your possession. Nita has completed her assessment. The gold content is 18K and in today’s money is worth about $2,000. But there’s more. The maker’s mark turns out to be from Boston. Paul Revere Jr. to be precise. He’s the son of Paul “The British are coming!” Revere and his works are just about the most sought-after antique pieces in US metalcraft. This would date your piece as being from the late 1700’s to the early 1800’s.

  Are you sitting comfortably?

  With that in mind, the market value of the piece starts at around $100,000 (No typo, Lol - ONE-HUNDRED THOUSAND!)

  We are waiting for provenance on the original owners. If it has some historic association, you might think of doubling that.

  Will continue to try and track down that information.

  Best Wishes

  Marion

  Scott’s ribs arrived.

  “Can I get you folks anything else?” the waitress dared to ask. Becky looked from Scott to his plate and back again. He pushed the ribs in her direction.

  “Peace offering. Knock yourself out,” he said and ordered a second for himself, offering a boyishly contrite smile to the waitress as he did.

  Becky rummaged in her satchel and presented a sheaf of papers across to him.

  “If you’re interested, this is what the protest was about. If you at least read it then my day won’t have been totally wasted. If I convert you, that’s one in the eye for George, that I did more for the cause than he did.”

  Scott read while Becky ate. He never looked up from the pages, even as he fetched her a fresh napkin when she went to grab it herself with sticky neon-tangerine fingers. Habitually clicking his pen, he took another napkin and began doodling on it as he scanned Becky’s pages.

  The waitress returned with the second order. Scott closed the laptop and pushed it aside. He set Becky’s pamphlets on the lid.

  “Somebody obviously skipped breakfast,” the waitress remarked as she fetched up Becky’s polished-off plate. “You leave room for pie?”

  “Dunno.” Becky glanced Scott’s way. Scott squinted from one woman to the other. “Go on,” he smirked, “order away.”

  The waitress brought Becky’s cheesecake order and Becky revolved the plate just-so before picking up her fork.

  “So this MTR?” Scott said, nodding at the pamphlets.

  “Mountain top removal. It’s how they get the coal out of the mountains.”

  “They lift the top of the mountain off?”

  “No. It’s not like eating a boiled egg. They don’t just”—Becky made a karate chop gesture—“crack the top open and scoop the coal out and replace the lid like they were never there. As if!”

  “It says they leave the place like a moonscape. What does that mean?”

  “Well,” she said, between bites, “after explosives break the surface rock, they haul away the soil, trees, vegetation, all the rubble; dumper trucks bigger than this building here. They strip the rock back to get at the coal. When they’re done, there’s nothing but bare rock, nothing living. So we say it looks like the surface of the moon. Dead. I think the moon looks prettier; it’s natural. They do it in layers, eating into the mountain in stages so it looks like giant steps. Totally unnatural.”

  Becky began now to carve and consume the cheesecake in a similar fashion to illustrate her point. “Layer by layer, the same spot over and over until it’s completely eroded.”

  “It says here that they replant the land after, restore it to a natural state.”

  “Oh yeah! If you consider it natural that where there used to be a mountain, there’s just a low meadow after. No one realizes that the Appalachians are the second-most diverse ecosystem on the planet, after the rainforest. When you blow up a mountain, remove all the woodland, and destroy the habitat of every species that depended on it, you think they’re gonna be happy to live in an open field after?�
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  A few biscuit crumbs remained of the cheesecake and Becky held up the plate for effect. “Thanks for dessert,” she said flatly, hardly a trace of pleasure. “There are 400 recognized mountains that are now gone. Vanished. They’re not coming back. So much for the myth of clean coal, huh?”

  “So you fight the good fight?”

  She smiled. “Good Huguenot stock. Scottish and Powhatan too. Born fighter, me.”

  “A mishmash.”

  “I guess.” She sighed. “The mountains alone are worth saving. We don’t get a do-over on this. When they’re gone, they’re gone for good. Tourism brings more money into Virginia than coal, employs more people too. Still, the State thinks it’s smarter to destroy the thing that makes folk wanna come here in the first place. And the coal doesn’t stay here. It goes to power plants out-of-state. The money doesn’t even stay here. Most of the companies that get permits—Dominion, Massey—are out-of-state too. So the coal leaves, the money leaves, the tourists leave, the jobs dry up, and when the seams run dry, the mountains become memories. It’s funny; they like to leave the lights on all night in the skyscrapers in New York City, cause the tourists think it looks prettier. Cause of that, the lights are going out down here. When they knock down two towers up there, the whole world is watching and they get angry. Right out there”—Becky motioned to the hills above town—“they’re leveling entire communities, day after day, killing folk and no one sees a thing.”

  “Killing folk?”

  Becky swallowed a knot in her throat. “We used to live in Roderfield. My best friend, Trish, lived outside town. A few years back, a spring flood washed down from the mountains. Trish and her Mom tried to drive into town to shelter with us. They got swept off the road into a drainage ditch.”

  Tears started down Becky’s cheeks now. Scott handed his napkin to her.

  “They were found the next day, still in their car.”

  “That was caused by the mining?”

  “Yeah. Every year, the rains wash down, with less and less mountain to absorb them. Mom didn’t hesitate. That summer she sold up and moved us all to Staunton.”

  “I’m sorry bout your friend.”

  Becky nodded. She blew her nose in the napkin. After, she stared into it at Scott’s doodle. Embarrassed, she folded it shut and offered it back.

  “I don’t think so,” he chuckled.

  “I’m sorry. I messed up your writing.”

  “It’s ok.”

  “Did you like Mardi Gras?”

  “Huh?”

  “You drew the balcony. I figured you must have been at Mardi Gras this year.”

  “Mardi Gras? New Orleans?”

  “It’s on your doodle.”

  Scott took the napkin, peeled it open, and saw that he had sketched the broach design on it. “You know this?”

  “Yup. The Pontalba Apartments in New Orleans. It’s the crest,” she explained. “Nawlins, Lou-Is-Yanna.” She grinned broadly.

  “How do you know? It’s just a pretty design. I’ve stared at it long enough.”

  Becky tried to prod the napkin. Scott stopped her. “Gross! Wait.” He opened the laptop and spun it where they could both see the image on the screen. “This?”

  “Much better,” she agreed. “Totally is the balcony. Look”—she traced her finger around the bold inner lines of the design—“A!” She carried on with the remaining portion. “P!” She did the entire thing in one motion. “A-P. Almonester-Pontalba.”

  “Holy Shit,” Scott whispered, finally seeing it. He repeated her path with his own finger. It was blindingly obvious, when you knew it was there. “Say again. Al-what?”

  “Almonester-Pontalba. It’s a famous building in the French Quarter. It has this real intricate iron balcony that’s made up of this emblem.”

  “How do you know?”

  “My cousins live in Alexandria. They took me and Bernard to Mardi Gras last year. People stand on the balconies and throws beads and candy down at the people in the street. I spent enough time looking up at them, trying to get em to throw stuff my way. There was a picture of it in a tourist book that I took back for Mom and some stuff about the history of the place. And no, I did not!”

  “Didn’t what?”

  “You know… flash, like the other girls do. So tacky!”

  “Eh, ok, What does it mean, the name?”

  “I think it’s the family that built it, way, way back.” Becky’s expression darkened. “Not a good place to be right now. Are you headed there?”

  “I guess I am now. You mean the hurricane?”

  ‘Katrina, yeah. Didn’t you hear the news this morning?’

  “No.”

  “They’re freaking out right now. They really think it’s gonna hit head-on.”

  “Starting when? Now?”

  “I think so. They keep saying that this is gonna be the big one.”

  Scott looked at his watch. “How long does it take to drive there?”

  “From here? I’m not sure. Eight hours?”

  He started to rise. “I need to settle up. Where’s the bathroom anyway?”

  “Little boy’s is at the back,” she replied.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  With the bill paid, Scott had three bucks to his name. He barely had enough gas for the trip. He clenched the $100,000 trinket in his pocket as he came back to the booth, unsure of his next move. Becky’s bag was still there but she was gone. A pile of fresh printout sheets sat on the table. Scott noticed a red Chevy Camaro now parked beside his BMW. A youth shrank sheepishly into the passenger seat. Near the restaurant entrance, a tall athletic boy confronted Becky as she gestured wildly at his companion in the Chevy. As she yelled and tried to shove past to get at the car’s occupant, Scott wished he could turn the sound up on it all. It looked like fighting talk.

  “Friends of yours?” he asked when she stormed back into the Applebees, breathing hard, heckles high.

  “That’s Bernard. I told him not to come in. He’s in so much shit right now!” she hissed. “You won’t wanna see what I do to him, believe me.”

  “Want me to go out and knock him about for you?”

  “Don’t… tempt… me. The jerk in the car is George. Him you can dump in your trunk and toss when you get to the state line but I can’t let you hurt Bernard. He’s my guy. That privilege is mine.”

  “Maybe it’s the man, not the cause, huh? At least he’s not in jail.”

  “Hey,’ Becky said, “I used their wi-fi to print some stuff about the Pontalba and the family. Even a good photo of the balcony. It’s an exact match.” She handed Scott the papers.

  “Thanks. I guess this is goodbye,” he said, as she shouldered her satchel. She nodded.

  “I’m sorry I was mean earlier,” he added.

  “That’s ok. You’re old. It happens. If you do have the time, go up to Flat Gap and have a look at what a coalmine actually looks like. Words don’t describe it. I know you probably can’t, but in case you want to, I drew you a map too.”

  “Ok. We’ll see.”

  She hugged him tightly.

  “Hey. You’ll get me beat up at this rate,” he laughed.

  “Not by Ber. He’s a softie really. You’ve got about 50 pounds and three inches on him. A little jealousy makes for good payback though.”

  “Good luck in the fight,” he said.

  “Good luck in New Orleans. Stay safe, ok? Hey, what’s you name anyway? You never said.”

  “Scott Jameson.”

  “I’ll remember you, Scott Jameson,” she said, with a last back-stepping wave to him, and turned toward the exit.

  Scott sat down. From the Chevy’s driver seat, Bernard glared in at him, wounded and threatened. Scott turned and sent back his meanest You want summa dis! stare, secretly enjoying Bernard’s stupefied reaction.

  Becky marched around the Chevy, dragged George from the front seat, and dumped him in the rear. She took her appointed place beside the love of her life and, with a
scything hand gesture, killed all discussion about Applebees, hugging the hot older guy or anything else to do with the day’s nonsense in Norton. Drive! her motion commanded. The love of her life duly complied. Her icy expression broke only to offer a warm smile for Scott alone to see as they headed for home.

  When Scott reversed out of his own space, he discovered where Becky had dumped her placard: under his car.

  Environmentalists my ass! he thought, as he tossed it in his trunk.

  He looked at the map she had drawn. Now stone-broke, he’d be sleeping al fresco tonight. A mountain top was as good a place as any. He put the map on the dash and pulled into the early evening traffic leaving town.

  Chapter 35

  Becky’s map to Flat Gap was accurate in all but one detail; as Scott climbed higher into the mountains, the road she had sketched as a simple straight line quickly became, in reality, as twisted as a mangled corkscrew. The slow ascent saw him constantly pull the steering wheel to follow the sharp winding way.

  He was on the point of rethinking the whole quest when the mountain leveled out and he arrived at the turn onto Donald Branch road, into the heart of the peaks. The access road was a strip of white shale and stone, an industrial track built for far-hardier rides than a luxury German sedan, and his tires bobbled and spun over the loose grit of it.

  Daylight had dropped all around as he came to a barren 2-way-T, two even-smaller tracks breaking off in either direction. Becky had instructed he go left for a few hundred yards, to a high vantage point in the middle of the mine. When he followed, he ran out of road—literally—50 yards in. He stopped, stepped out, and stood on the edge where the track dropped treacherously down a sheer slope to the mine floor some 200 feet beneath.

  I guess you didn’t know they blew the shit out of this one sometime since, he thought.

  He backed up and took the other track. It went farther at least, though to make any progress he had to weave around pot holes big enough to mire a golf buggy.

  A mile in, he came to a small huddle of trees stood on the side of the track. It was fully dark now and he decided it was as far as he dared go. He pulled up onto the oasis of grass, parked between the trunks, and killed the engine.