Gray Mountain: A Novel(49)

It was a desolate landscape, with open gashes where coal was being extracted when the crews suddenly stopped, and mounds of overfill left to sit forever, and all over the site scrawny trees trying desperately to survive. Most of the mine was rock and soil, but patches of brown grass had grown up. The valley fill dropping from the site was partially covered with vines and shrubbery. As Donovan began to circle, he said, “The only thing worse than a reclaimed strip mine is one that’s been abandoned. That’s what happened here. It still makes me sick.”

“Who owns it now?”

“My father, it’s still in the family, but it’s not worth much. The land is ruined. The streams disappeared under the valley fill, all the fish are gone. The water is poison. The wildlife ran off to a safer place. Did Mattie tell you what happened to my mother?”

“She did, but not in detail.”

He descended and banked steeply to the right so she looked straight down. “Do you see that white cross down there, with rocks around it?”

“Yes, I see it.”

“That’s where she died. Our home was over there, an old family place built by my grandfather, who was a deep miner. After the flood destroyed the home, my mother found a spot there, near the rocks, and that’s where it happened. My brother, Jeff, and I found some old timbers from the house and built that cross.”

“Who found her?”

He took a deep breath, and said, “So Mattie didn’t tell you everything?”

“I guess not.”

“I found her.”

Nothing was said for a few minutes as Donovan buzzed the valley on the east side of Gray Mountain. There were no roads, homes, or signs of people. He banked again and said, “Just over this ridge here is the only part of the property that wasn’t ruined. The water flows in another direction and the valley was safe from the strip mine. You see that creek down there?” He banked steeper so she could.

“Yes, I got it.”

“Yellow Creek. I have a little cabin on that creek, a hiding place few people know about. I’ll show it to you sometime.”

I’m not so sure about that, Samantha thought. We are now close enough, and pending some change in your marital status, I have no plans to get closer. But she nodded and said, “I’d like to see it.”

“There’s the chimney,” he said. “It’s barely visible, both from here and on the ground. No plumbing, no electricity, you sleep in hammocks. I built it myself, with help from my brother, Jeff.”

“Where’s your father?”

“Last I heard he was in Montana, but I haven’t spoken to him in many years. Have you seen enough?”

“I believe so.”


At the Noland County Airfield, Donovan taxied close to the terminal but did not kill the engine. Instead, he said, “Okay, I want you to get out here, carefully, and walk behind the airplane. The prop is still spinning.”

“You’re not getting out?” she asked, pulling the latch on her shoulder harness.

“No, I’m going to Roanoke to see my wife and daughter. Be back tomorrow, and at the office.” Samantha got out under the wing, felt the rush of air from the propeller, walked behind the tail, and waited at the door. She waved at Donovan, who gave her the thumbs-up and began taxiing away. She watched him take off and drove back to Brady.


Saturday dinner was a pot of Chester’s legendary Texas chili. He’d never been to Texas, as best he could remember, but found a great recipe (only two years ago) on a Web site. The legend part seemed more or less a creation of his own imagination, but his enthusiasm for cooking and entertaining was infectious. Mattie baked corn bread and Annette brought a chocolate pie for dessert. Samantha had never learned to cook and was now living in a tiny apartment with only a hot plate and a toaster, so she got a pass. While Chester stirred the pot and added spices and talked nonstop, Kim and Adam made a pizza in Aunt Mattie’s kitchen. Saturday was always pizza night for them, and Samantha was delighted to be at the Wyatts’ and not stuck again with Annette and the kids. In their eyes she was no longer a roommate/babysitter, but in one week had risen to the hallowed status of big sister. They loved her and she loved them, but the walls were closing in. Annette seemed content to allow the kids to smother her.

They ate in the backyard, at a picnic table under a maple tree ablaze with bright yellow leaves. The ground was covered with them too, a beautiful carpet that would soon be gone. Candles were lit as the sun disappeared behind the mountains. Claudelle, their paralegal, joined them late. Mattie had a rule that over dinner there would be no shop talk—nothing about the clinic, their work, their clients, and, especially, nothing even remotely related to coal. So they dwelt on politics—Obama versus McCain, Biden versus Palin. Politics naturally led to discussions about the economic disaster unfolding around the world. All news was bad, and while the experts disagreed on whether it would be a minor depression or just a deep recession, it still seemed far away, like another genocide in Africa. Awful, but not really touching Brady, yet. They were curious about Samantha’s friends in New York.

For the third or fourth time that afternoon and evening, Samantha noticed a detached coolness in Annette’s words and attitude toward her. She seemed fine when talking to everyone else, but slightly abrupt when she said anything to Samantha. At first, she thought nothing of it. But by the time dinner was over, she was certain something was gnawing at Annette. It was puzzling because nothing had happened between them.