Furnace Mountain: or The Day President Roosevelt Came to Town Read online

  “That’s all right then,” Alice said, but she didn’t hide her disappointment well. For some reason, Nicholas found himself mad and frustrated with her.

  Without saying goodbye, he jumped off the porch and marched down her path, paying no heed to the eyes he could feel boring into his back–a gaze that was stronger and hotter than the sun itself.

  ***

  With Nicholas gone, Alice found herself feeling lonesome. Robert hadn’t come home the night before. She wasn’t sure what that meant; it had happened before. She just hoped he’d been put in jail for the night, for that would have been better than spending the night lying in a ditch somewhere.

  Alice was pleased with the tablecloths Nicholas had brought her and proud he’d gone to so much trouble. He was smart in school but didn’t always take initiative. His gumption needed improving.

  Now that she had a project to complete over the summer, Alice felt as though she had direction. She felt useful to someone–someone other than her father. Although she had enough around the house to keep her busy, the housework was tedious and nothing out of the ordinary. This new work gave her purpose. Now, she could get up in the mornings, do her chores, and spend the hot afternoons under one of the trees, embroidering. It made her smile to think she would be able to get out her mother’s old sewing kit and use some of the skills Martha had taught her before she passed.

  The tablecloths would be beautiful, too. When the president came to Furnace Mountain, he would see the very things that she, Alice Johnson, created. Nicholas said there might even be other reporters there. That they would interview some of the townspeople and take pictures. She imagined herself standing by a table, smiling widely, while the cameras clicked around her.

  Oh, it’s so hard not to feel vain when you’re excited, she told herself.

  President Roosevelt’s arrival was making her summer bearable. She wished she could thank him.

  Still, when she was left alone during the day like this, it was lonely. The daytime sometimes felt worse than the night. At least at night the darkness acted as a blanket, blocking everything out. At night, she’d light the lamps and curl up to read. The outside world was gone, the night sky thick with comfort. During the day, however, she could see the fields and the woods and everything that existed outside of her small house and it was quite obvious that she was very much alone.

  It was too much to expect Nicholas to come over as often as she wanted him, but she still wished she could see him every day. His visits broke the monotony.

  “But of course he can’t spend all his time with me,” she sighed aloud. “He’s more important things to do now.”

  Alice wasn’t surprised that Nicholas didn’t want to help in the garden. It was terribly hot, and within minutes she was sticky and her dress clung to her legs in clumps. She had trousers she could have donned but at least her dress was thin enough to allow circulation; the trousers were thick and cumbersome.

  Their garden was smaller this year because the money hadn’t been there to buy the seeds, but it was still big enough to feed her and Robert when he was around enough to eat. She would have enough to can for the winter, too, so they wouldn’t starve.

  Soon, Alice was so caught up in the rhythm of snapping peas off of the vine that she forgot all about Nicholas, her tablecloths, and the deafening silence that was brought on by simply being alone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  HOMER STOOD BACK and measured the group of men working around him. He had to admire their stamina. The heat was stifling and more than a couple of them had sweat running down their backs, darkening their shirts and trousers. Still, they climbed ladders, hammered, and passed planks to one another as the depot slowly started taking shape.

  Louella’s church ladies stood in a small group huddled under a maple tree. They chatted and laughed as they dished out fried chicken, potato salad, bread, and water. They had been handing out lemonade as well, but then they had run out of lemons on the third day and nobody had the funds to purchase anymore. Since Nellie Barnett’s husband was a chicken farmer, it was unlikely that they would run out of chicken any time soon, at least, and there was always an abundance of potatoes if nothing else. Louella could make approximately forty-six recipes with a potato.

  He was proud of their work but still felt a nagging pull on his conscience over the fact that they couldn’t be compensated in some way other than with food. Jerry Maynard, fort–five years old and a former lumber yard worker, stopped for a breather close to Homer so he walked over to him and patted him on the shoulder. His hand came back soaking wet. He and Jerry had gone to school together in Four Tree and had known each other all their lives.

  “Good work today, Jerry,” Homer stated. “You all really have it coming along good.”

  Jerry spat out a wad of tobacco and turned a sunburnt face towards the building. “Go better if it weren’t for the damn heat.”

  “Sure am sorry I can’t offer you any money. You know I would if I could,” Homer sad apologetically, more for himself than for Jerry’s sake. “I wrote up to Frankfort, but they got nothing to send. Money’s going around, but with the New Deal old train yards aren’t real high on the list right now.”

  “Oh, hell, Homer,” Jerry smiled, revealing two broken front teeth, scars from a work accident of long ago. “Most of us boys, we’re just happy to have something to do. A reason to get up every morning. That’s the worst of it, you know. Well, ‘sides from not having any money. But just not having nothing to go to no more. Kind of makes you wonder why you even get out of bed.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  “Yeah, well,” Jerry nodded. “Afore too long, I expect to see more boys wandering out of the hills, coming to look to help. Right now, we don’t got too many working cause of the pay situation. You wait, though. Later, the sounds of work, it will bring ‘em. You mark my word on that. Most men around here, they ain’t shy of working. Women, too.”

  Homer gazed up and down the long stretch of the quiet street. Nobody was wandering in or out of the few stores that were open and aside from the activity at the depot, the town was quiet. “I sure hope so.”

  He was surprised, though, at how quickly the word had spread and people had shown up. There were only three on the first day. They’d come with their tools and patiently waited for the wood to be delivered. They’d only stopped on the fourth day when they’d run out of nails. On the sixth day, however, eight of them had shown up–and one had brought a whole carton of supplies. He’d found them in his barn, he said.

  Now there were twelve men working, plus the half-dozen women from the church. So many Jerry had something there. Just when Homer thought they couldn’t push any farther, something came through for them and they were able to move on.

  Done with his break, Jerry took a drink of the lukewarm water, gave Homer a curt nod, and then went back up the ladder propped up against the shortest side of the depot. Within seconds, he had scurried up on the roof and was out of sight.

  “He’s right, you know,” Louella murmured from behind him. Homer startled, for he had not heard her approach. She had eyes and ears everywhere and now apparently the footsteps of a ghost. “It will bring people out. Onlookers who are curious, of course, but other people, too. People who want to work.”

  “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

  She nodded, her blue eyes shaded by the man’s cap that she wore to protect her face from the sun. “I hope so. Ought to have more for them to do. Depot work won’t take all summer. Sure would be nice to get some other things done around here while the getting’s good.”

  Homer smiled. “What do you have in mind, Lou?”

  “Well, it would be nice to get some of these storefronts cleaned up. Some paint wood do a bit of good. Might help to have the school painted, too, since it’s right here on the tracks and can be seen. President might want to see the place responsible for the letter.”

  “The school’s not a problem. Marianne will be happy to
have something done to it. Hasn’t been painted since it was built. Some of these stores, though, they’re owned by the bank. Bank’s not just gonna let us get out a bucket of paint and start slapping it on. Nobody can afford to open anymore stores anyway. They’re gonna stay empty.”

  Louella gave him the same look that she had given him when he was nine years old and had run over her daffodils with his bicycle. “Oh, hell, Homer. ‘The bank?’ You know as well as I do that Jimmy Wayne isn’t going to care if we paint a few buildings. And if he does I know his mama and he knows that I’m not afraid to use that against him.”

  Jimmy Wayne was the bank president over in Four Tree and just two years older than Homer. They were also first cousins. “Jimmy wouldn’t care, but he has a boss, too. Up in Lexington. What would they say, someone painting their property? We wouldn’t want Jimmy to get in trouble.”

  Louella sighed. “And just when was the last time that anyone came down from Lexington and had anything to say about Furnace Mountain? I’ll talk to Jimmy and sort it out and you find me some paint.”

  “But–”

  She was already walking away. “Paint, Homer! Nice paint! And some brushes. We’ll start next week.” With that, she disappeared to the safety of the tent where the rest of the ladies were taking a break.

  Homer had to smile. People had been arrested in other towns for doing things to bank-owned property. But that had been because of vandalism, surely. Nobody got in trouble for trying to make something look better, had they? He would have to talk to the sheriff, naturally. Of course, it helped that he was also a cousin.

  Suddenly, the day didn’t seem quite as hot as it had before. The hammering, the wood bees, the sun, the cheery shouts as the men worked steadfastly on a building that was already lightyears ahead of where it had been in terms of repair–it all made sense.

  He was positive that Louella would come through as far as Jimmy was concerned, the same way that he was sure that he could rustle up some paint, even if it meant he had to dip into his savings and purchase it himself. Money stuffed in a vase in the parlor wasn’t much of a savings, really. After all, Louella was the only person in town that knew that he had stopped drawing a salary the year before. It just didn’t seem right to take money from a town that didn’t have any. They had to pay the fire chief and police chief but, as the mayor, he’d maintained an executive decision to cut himself off.

  No, he thought as he headed back to the office, it wouldn’t be right for a town to pay him when he hadn’t been able to help the town.

  ***

  Sam stared down at his plate. Twelve perfectly shaped fried green tomatoes, arranged in a perfect circle upon a circle, were placed neatly in front of him. A large slab of cornbread rested in a saucer next to a glass of water.

  Ruth watched him from across the table; her legs were crossed, her top leg swinging nervously back and forth. She was swinging it so violently that he marveled that her shoe was able to stay perched on the edge of her toe. And then he realized that she was wearing shoes. He couldn’t remember the last time she had. Her fingers tapped in a rhythm on the table as it rocked slightly from side to side. The place setting in front of her was empty.

  “I got a little carried away I reckon,” she said apologetically, darting a peek at him. She couldn’t tell him that she had gone through nearly twenty–five tomatoes to make the twelve perfect ones before him. She was so nervous that she hadn’t been able to take a single bite.

  “It looks good, Mama,” he said brightly, taking an uneasy bite. He wondered if she could tell that he was nervous for her and worried that if he didn’t react just the right way it would upset her and make her cry. She looked on the verge of tears as it was. Luckily, the tomatoes were wonderful and he didn’t have to pretend.

  “It is good, Mama!” he smiled. “Best tomatoes I ever had.”

  He wouldn’t have told her for a million dollars that Louella had fed him in town and that he was so stuffed he could barely move.

  Silently, they shared the kitchen–Ruth staring at the kitchen sink with her leg pumping and Sam doing his best to force each bite of food into his stomach. When at last his plate was clean, and the last crumb of cornbread was eaten, he stood and carried his plate to the sink.

  “No!” Ruth cried, jumping up as well and knocking over her chair in the process. Both stopped and looked at the ladder-back chair, now upturned on the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” she cried. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I just wanted to wash it for you.”

  “It’s okay,” he replied, picking the chair up himself and righting it. “Why don’t we just go outside and sit on the porch? It’s pretty out there you know and I can tell you about the train depot.”

  Gently, Sam coaxed her outside where the last of the rays were sliding into the mountains. It was that magical time of the day when both the sun and moon were out at the same time and the mist had already started rolling in across the valley floor. Off in the distance, Sam could see lightning bugs against the darkness of the forest.

  Ruth lowered herself to one of the chairs and Sam, after deciding against doing the same, plopped down at her feet– the same as he remembered doing when he was a very little boy.

  Together, they remained motionless, Sam afraid of moving or breathing too hard, lest he ruin the moment. Soon, however, he felt a soft whispering of fingers stroking the small tufts of hair on the back of his neck. He closed his eyes and smiled. Before long, it grew dark, yet neither made the motion to leave.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ROBERT WATCHED ALICE from behind the dusty window pane as she take a seat under one of the oak trees, embroidery basket at her side. She spread a glistening white cloth on her lap and diligently began working on a complicated pattern with little to no regard to the world around her.

  From where he stood, and with the grime on the glass, Robert couldn't make out what the pattern itself was, but the colors swirled around in a brilliant mass, almost jumping right off the cloth.

  Robert felt something that might have been guilt for not being out there helping her, but it was woman's work after all and what could he do? He thought that maybe he could take her something to drink because the heat was bad and she had to be hot out there. He started to the kitchen for water, but stopped short when he caught his reflection in the mirror.

  He looked bad.

  No wonder people aren’t looking at me when they speak, he thought.

  The last time Robert had tried to shave he had started on the right side of his face and then gotten sidetracked about halfway around. It showed. His hair was sticking up all over his head in brown clumps. He liked to think that it was because he had just woken up, but he knew that wasn't true. He couldn't even remember the last time Alice had cut his hair.

  He knew what Alice was doing out there. The whole town was in on it. He had been hearing a lot about that lately. It was hard not to hear about it, what with all the racket that everyone had been making. He hated to admit that he was interested in the whole deal. It would be the same if he took the water out to her. He would have to acknowledge what she was doing and then they would have to talk about it and he just didn't feel like it.

  Still, he mused as he tried to run a comb through his ratty hair, it might be interesting if the president really did come to town.

  Not that there was anything to see anymore. He didn’t know why he would want to waste his time coming to a shitty place like Furnace Mountain. Robert knew that he didn’t have the rose-colored glasses that some of the folks walking around town did–that Alice did. He knew from the way that she diligently stitched those damn tablecloths, and the way that she kept tearing out the thread and starting over, that she thought there was hope.

  There wasn’t any hope. They were all fools, every one of them.

  Robert did not believe that he was a complicated man. He believed in working hard and providing for his family. He used to think that he did a decent job of both. Of course, things had changed, s
tarting with the death of his wife.

  Still, he thought that he had done good by Alice–the best he could. He knew that growing up with just a daddy might not have been right but he had been working too hard to go out and try to find him a new wife, and anyway, that didn’t seem right either. He still had a wife and always would and didn’t people understand that?

  It was those church people that had sent him to drinking, if truth be told. Those people with their kind words and helpfulness. Telling him to move on and that she was in a better place now and that God had needed another angel…he needed her here.

  Then, the market had crashed and even though the town was already poor, things worsened. No more furnaces, no more lumber yard work, and no more trains. Railroad company had built the shops, yard, office building, passenger and freight station. They’d hired sixty men to build the railroad yards. Trains running every day, passengers getting off and on. People buying his creations…

  They’d moved the headquarters even before the stock market fiasco. And now…He didn’t understand why they would want to reroute the tracks, especially since the ones they had were just as good as any other, but people did funny things sometimes and he had learned long ago not to give any thought or reason as to why the government made some of the decisions that they made. Money talked and this time money had talked in another county just a little louder. Why not relocate headquarters to a place that was up to its ears in coal? That’s what the country wanted. Nobody needed their iron or ore and nobody needed their trains anymore.

  Don’t matter no how. Odds are always stacked against people like me, he thought with pity.

  There were people in town that thought the president was going to come and make things better–that just by him showing up things were going to get magically better overnight.

  “Fools,” he muttered. “Damn fools they are.”