MISS BEULAH CHUCKLED AS she felt the pink sandpaper of the dog’s tongue. The great hound had remained by her side since his appearance last night, though a can of red salmon from her prized stash of relief truck delights hadn’t hurt, nor a bite of lard-soaked bread from her supper.
As a girl, she’d given names to every half-wild dog, cat, and raccoon running around the fields and barns, but she’d never had one of her own. In the coal camps, it was hard enough to fill the bellies of her own family. She’d heard talk of feeding bones and table scraps to dogs, but she’d never had any such leftovers. The dishes were licked clean and the bones went to broth or stew. Many a finger was cut on the lip of a soup can, scouring for one last taste. Not to mention those suck-egg Baldwins were always itching to get their pistols out, and it wasn’t rare to see somebody’s pet shot down in the street.
But this boy here, she couldn’t help but smile as she scratched his chin and behind his ears. She missed having somebody to spoil. Her husband had allowed her to dote on him when she could, to scratch his scalp with her nails or surprise him with an unexpected can of peaches or plums from the company store no matter how steep the price. But Frank never trucked with that kind of thing. Said he couldn’t even taste the sweetness—the company gouge was too bitter on his tongue.
Miss Beulah always knew such a man mightn’t be suited for happiness in this world. But then the world wasn’t like to change without people who’d rather die than buckle. That’s where the damn Baldwins came in, happy to oblige.
The wiry-haired hound put his chin on the arm of her chair, looking up at her with puffy eyebrows. She knew some dogs to give a sweet face when they wanted something, only to steal away the moment they got their morsel. But this boy here didn’t act that way. He was giving out sweet eyes all the time, unconditional.
“We got to name you, I reckon.” She took an old piece of coal scrip from her pocket, rubbing it under her thumb. “What name you want?”
The dog perked his ears at the question mark in her voice. It was dusk and the sun was low, coppering the high trees of the ridge. The hound turned his head, hearing something in the distance. A great chestnut tree hovered on the hillside over his head, the branches sun-flamed like a thick set of antlers.
“Moose,” said Miss Beulah. “That’s your name. I never known one till you.” She set the old piece of scrip on the arm of her rocker, pocket-worn blank, and began to scratch at one side with her knitting needle.
As the shadows grew longer, sprawling across the camp, Moose seemed to get nervier, cocking his tufted ears here or there, hearing things she could not. She wondered how far gunshots could carry for a hound. Whether he could hear the guns of Blair Mountain like distant thunder. Wouldn’t surprise her. Back in 1864, when Sherman swept through the land in a storm of fire, people knew he was coming long before the news reached them. The birds had flown, the hogs dug deeper wallows, and the dogs crawled up farther beneath the cabins each night.
She scratched Moose between his ears. “It’s okay, sweet boy. They a long way off yet. We got plenty a time.”
She believed that, too. It wasn’t just jawing. Ask her two days ago, and she’d have said the reaper-man was knocking his blade against her door. But she didn’t want Moose to worry about such things. He had the look of a creature kicked and harried every minute from his mama’s belly, yet gentle besides. His ears jumped again and she decided he needed a song, something pretty for his ears, such as she had to give. She cleared her throat and decided to sing him the song of her own name—the song her own mother had loved so much.
Down in Babylon, on that old field,
He saw that chariot wheel,
Well, not so p’ticular bout that chariot wheel,
He just want to know how the chariot feel,
Way down yonder on Jordan shore,
Angels say that time will be no mo,
Well, some come crippled, and some come lame,
All come hoppin’ in my Jesus’ name,
Well, got me a home in Beulah Land,
Not goin’ to stop until I reach that land,
I’m a-gon meet my mother in Beulah Land …
It had been years since she’d sung that song, and it seemed just the time to raise it again. Finished, she leaned back in her rocker, feeling the welcome weight of the dog’s head in her lap. It was full dark now and she felt tired, her eyes heavy, but that was okay. She had somebody here to wake her if need be. She could rest.