Those Who Favor Fire by Lauren Wolk (no david read aloud TXT) 📗

had worked in those tunnels who knew, who told you, that you had to keep digging and you had to dig faster, shifts around the clock, no time off, no holidays, no goddamned lunch breaks. You had enough men. You could have had it out before it got anywhere near us, Mendelson. But you did too little, too late. And now look at us.

“Stopping the fire would have meant stopping the gravy train,” she said. “Stopping the fire would have put you out of a job. Digging this new trench, on the other hand, will keep you and your people busy for a long time to come. And once you’ve dug that trench, you’ll no doubt mine all that lovely coal. That’s the real issue here, isn’t it, Mendelson? There’s a fortune down there waiting to be made, and you’re the one who’s planning to make it. You and Uncle Sam.”

Mendelson folded his papers and slipped them into his breast pocket. “Night, everybody,” he said, waving. “It’s been fun.”

“Everybody knows something’s got to be done for us,” Rachel said as he walked past her, down the aisle toward the doors. “Everybody knows the government’s going to have to spend some money on us. So they figure, why not make back thirty, forty, sixty million while we’re at it? Dig the trench north of here, save the town, and what does the government get? A few hundred votes, maybe. Dig it south of here and make a killing. There’s no profit in trying to save this town. Right?”

Mendelson stopped, turned to look down the length of the room. “Right,” he said.

From where he sat in a shadowy corner, Joe watched Mendelson’s departure. The man wore his clothes well, was lean and shaven, held his head up, did not slink. He looked capable and calm. He was clean. He had not lifted a hand against anyone. But as Mendelson walked toward the back of the auditorium, Joe found himself breathing lightly, through his mouth, as if newly aware of a stench. He, too, had noticed Mendelson’s long fingernails. He had seen, through Ian’s screen door, Mendelson’s eyes. Joe knew all about contradictions, knew how it felt to harbor them, knew that they were as much a part of human chemistry as blood, marrow, and elation. But Mendelson’s incongruities were less savory than most, less acceptable, like a froth of grime on a bar of white soap, and Joe looked upon him with great unease.

He heard the door close as Mendelson left and watched Rachel standing in the aisle, her arms hanging at her sides, one foot pointing in. Then, as the people around her rose suddenly to their feet and began loudly to debate the proportions of their predicament, Rachel seemed to melt down to nothing, as if drawn in all directions, diluted, and absorbed by their immediate, collective need.

Chapter 37

        “Why didn’t you want to go, Gran?” Rusty and Dolly sat side by side on the couch, waiting for M*A*S*H. She was drinking a Dr Pepper out of a bottle. A slice of pizza drooped in her hand.

She had been married for nearly twenty years before having Angela, against all odds, and was therefore a much older grandmother than she might otherwise have been. But she had a knack for putting herself in other people’s places. She was a quiet woman who listened well and thought before she spoke. And she had won Rusty’s confidence as well as his heart. He never lied to her.

“You first,” she said.

“I was going to go.” Rusty went into the kitchen, came back with a sack of ginger snaps and some milk. “Want one?” He tipped the sack her way.

“Maybe later,” she said. She was thin, like her daughter, but darker, her hair the color of cinders and ash.

Rusty settled down with the sack in his lap. “I would have gone,” he said. “But Mom didn’t really want me to. She said there wouldn’t be any kids there.” He put a cookie into his mouth, whole. “I know some kids who were going with their parents, but I let her decide. I guess she’s got a reason for wanting me to stay home.” He dunked a second cookie in the milk. “Well, actually”—he turned his head and grinned at her—“I didn’t want to go. Mendelson’s a creep. And I’d rather stay here with you.”

Dolly dusted the crumbs from her hands.

“Took the words right out of my mouth.” She drank the last of the Dr Pepper. “We probably should have gone, though. Your mother talks tough, but the fire’s got her scared.”

Rusty huffed with impatience. “I don’t see why,” he said. “It took years and years for the fire to come a mile. It ought to take years for it to come the rest of the way into town.”

“Ought to.” Dolly held out her hand for a cookie. “Two words that don’t amount to a hill of beans.”

“You two eating all the cookies again?” Angela stood in the doorway, unaware of the catastrophe of her face.

“Never, my girl,” Dolly said, rising. “Come sit down here. I’ll make some coffee.”

Angela sat down, eased off her shoes. “What’s on?” she asked, looking at the TV.

“M*A*S*H, in a minute.”

“Good.” She reached for a cookie.

“So what happened?”

“If it’s okay with you, Rusty, I’d just as soon not talk about it right now.”

He hadn’t wanted to hear about it anyway, knew that he would soon enough, but he said, “Why not?”

Through his father’s long absence, through the perpetual struggle to make ends meet, through housemaid’s knee, the parching of her skin, the way her body was slowly bowing to gravity, Rusty had only very rarely seen his mother as she was now. When he turned to her, all innocence, for his answer, he was unprepared for the sight of her, immobile, her hands in her lap, her head nodding heavily, her face slack with worry and fatigue.

“Never mind,” he said quickly. But she either had not heard him or intended, by