HARLAN COUNTY
If you’da rode into Harlan County, Kentucky, that June in a shiny new 1932 Packard, you’da seen hickories, oaks, and maples leafed out with the promise of shady places to rest and listen to birdsong.
If you’da got close enough to set in one of them shady spots, you’da heard the chug of engines pulling coal cars that squealed on aged tracks. You’da heard swear-words of miners and seen coal dust that clung to their faces, filled their pores, and caused their lungs to heave out deep, retching coughs.
But even if you’da been close as a tick on a dog, you wouldn’ta heard the secrets each body kept, secrets not even told in whispers—secrets about my mama.
Secrets and gossip spread through coal camps like Smoke Ridge the way a fever does, keeping folks talking. Until new gossip seeps into their lives. Old gossip, like stale bread, is all but forgotten when there’s fresh bread to chew on.
When Hard Times hit Smoke Ridge, most folks talked about money and how they didn’t have none. But some old gossip come back around again and again, floating to the surface like dead fish. And smelt near as bad.
Whispers about Daddy wasn’t fresh. And they wasn’t secret. Each body, hound dog, and woods critter knew about Daddy. The string of words following Ray Cutler’s name was sure to include no-account, God-forsaken—and drunk. Folks said Daddy was so full of liquor most times, he ought’a have a cork in his mouth.
I’d heard those whispers since I was no bigger’n spring corn. I’da had to be deaf as a stump not to have heard them. Onliest reason they was said in whispers was to make sure us Cutlers knew we wasn’t fit to be spoke of out loud.
Ever’body knew liquor and spirits of any kind was unlawful, but it weren’t Daddy breaking the law that got folks bothered up. After all, lots of Smoke Ridge miners drank, but none of t’others seemed to git quite as mean and wrathful like Daddy got when he drank. So folks talked. And looked down on us.
Secrets about Mama was different. I didn’t rightly know there was any secrets until that June I turned thirteen. By then, I scarce remembered I’d ever had a mama. I was six when she left.
That June, I was in the company Dry Goods store, hoping to find marked-down fabric. My older sister Raynelle wanted to make a dress for Blissie, the youngest Cutler, who was growing faster’n a summer weed. I looked through stacks of dress goods, my hand in my pocket, clasping the steel coin Raynelle had give me. My fingers stroked its raised writing and the tip of my fingernail poked into the squiggle that was stamped clean through the middle of it. The squiggle was the letter S. S for Smoke Ridge. Not United States real American money—this was company scrip. The only kind of money we ever saw in Smoke Ridge.
A piece of pink-flowered cotton peeked from under several bolts of shirting, a color that would match the bloom in Blissie’s cheeks. I scooched down between the shelves to pry it from the bottom of the stack.
From my frog-like position, I heard the tinkle of the bell over the door, and Miz Myrtle Henry’s voice threw out a “Hey there” to Miz Sparks, who worked the store’s counter for the coal company. I stayed where I was, out of eye-shot of Miz Henry, but I heard ever’ word as she sized up and cut down ever’body in Smoke Ridge.
It didn’t take long for her to git around to Daddy—and to us. “Crying shame Ray Cutler ain’t suitable husband stock. Those Cutler young’uns ought’a have a woman around to look after ’em and keep ’em clean.”
I looked down at the gravy stain on my faded dress, but the stain was old and the dress fresh-washed. I had ironed it myself.
“Their mama would have a conniption if she seen ’em now,” Miz Henry went on.
“That no-account father of theirs don’t care a spit about ’em,” Miz Sparks said back. “Likely one day they’ll foller the same road Ada did.”
Ada. A name so like my own. But I hadn’t heard Mama’s name spoke out loud in such a long time, it startled my ears.
None of us Cutler young’uns knew exactly which road Mama took when she left. All’s we knew was what Daddy said back when Blissie was jist two. “Your mama done run off. Don’t rightly know if she’ll be comin’ back.”
And she never had.