Light to the Hills: A Novel (32)

“Get you a hank of pork shank with some good fat on it. If it’s a lean year, it won’t hurt none to add lard instead. Brown it up nice in your skillet; then chop it into pieces. Put you in some water kindly like you’s making gravy so as to get the nice bits from the bottom. Add a bit of sorghum and a bit of apple vinegar. How much? Oh, you know, enough so it looks right. You need to have a good bit o’ paprika on hand ’cause that’s the mainest thing. Let all that set and cook. Add a splash of water if it looks dry. Then, you can put in whatnot from the garden—carrot, parsnips, maybe a pepper. Salt and pepper it, you know, to make it taste right. Make you up some taters to sop it up, and that’s a right nice goulash supper of an evening.”

Amanda estimated the measurements based on the way Rai held her cupped hands while she described what to add and her own skills at pulling a meal together. In the space of a few minutes, she had set down recipes for cherry cobbler and goulash while Fern drew a pattern on another scrap of a magazine page.

“It’s a rabbit,” she explained. “You can piece it into a quilt or stitch it back-to-back and stuff it with sawdust to make a rabbit like the one in the book.”

“Fern, how clever! I love the idea of having something to make that represents the books. I know the other ladies at the WPA office will think this is a grand idea.” Fern beamed under the praise. “The flour mills have started making printed sacks instead of just plain white since so many folks use them for dresses and curtains. If I can get some together and bring them to you, do you think you could make some rabbits like that? Only if you have some free time, of course. Wouldn’t that be a special thing to pass along to the children on the routes?”

Fern looked to Rai for her answer. When her mama nodded her assent, Fern burst out, “Yes! I think I could do that. Little’uns could have something to play with ’sides hollyhock and corn-husk dolls.”

“That seems like more than a fair trade for a few fried pies.” Amanda collected the books and magazines into a pile and started filling her saddlebags. “I best be on my way.”

“So quick?” Finn asked. “Seems like you just walked in the door. It’d be a favor to me if you’d sit awhile.”

Amanda paused as she deposited the last of the books in her bag. She was grateful for the loose fall of hair that had slipped out of its knot, hiding her face from the color she was sure he could see in the flush of her cheeks.

“I reckon I have some time to spare. Junebug wouldn’t begrudge the extra breather.” Amanda settled onto the stump beside Finn’s bed and folded her hands in her lap, where she hoped they would leave off the unexpected tremble that had started when he had asked her to stay. The rest of the family busied themselves around the cabin, but Amanda could feel their eyes on her back as she and Finn spoke.

Despite asking her to stay, he shifted and picked at the quilt, suddenly quiet. Amanda cleared her throat and patted the covers.

“Why don’t you tell me about it?” she said. “What’s it like in the coal mine?”

Finn met her eyes and nodded. This, he could manage. “I been in the mine almost seven years,” he began in his low, firm voice.

Amanda cocked her head and smiled. “Honest work.”

He smiled back, warming up. “It is, but there’s a lot to worry about. A man can get into a pocket of bad air and be knocked out cold before he knows what hit him. He can get winched between cars hauling out loads. Spend enough time down there, and the cough takes hold. All said and done, a body weren’t meant to bend and crawl beneath tons of limestone.”

Amanda was silent, and again she leaned forward on her stool to hear Finn better. She must have looked stricken. She imagined soft-spoken Finn coughing as he breathed in coal dust, and some part of her wanted to protect him.

He cocked his head. “Now don’t look thataway,” he told her. “I’m not meaning to scare you.” He sat up straight against the walnut-plank headboard. “I’m what you call a mule skinner. I drive the horses, collecting tubs of coal and delivering them to where they can be hoisted to the surface.”

“One of our other deliverers has a mule that used to do that. She said he didn’t like tight spaces.”

“Some of ’em don’t, that’s for certain. But the ones we got showed me the ropes. I learned which tunnels held ventilation doors by watching the sides of the mule I drove. Deeper breaths mean approaching air. A slower pace usually means narrowing tunnel walls or lower ceilings. They trace their noses along the stones, you see, their whiskers sensitive to where a turn opens up. At some point, I’d let my pony go, and it would know to bolt to its underground stable as much as three miles off, where it could get a drink and a mouthful or two of hay before its next load.”

“Sounds like Junebug.” Amanda laughed. “If there’s a meal in it, he’s ready to go. I trained him to follow me around when I was younger by keeping carrot tops in my pockets.”

Rai bent to fill Finn’s water cup. She placed a warm hand on Amanda’s shoulder as she leaned over and squeezed. Amanda lifted her chin and smiled at Finn’s mother, glad for the encouragement. She didn’t want to overstay her welcome, but she was enjoying the time with him. He paused for a sip of water and nodded his thanks to Rai before clearing his throat to continue.

“I’m talking your ear plumb off,” he said.