Redemption Mountain (19 page)

*   *   *

L
ATE IN THE
afternoon, walking from the generator building to his office, Charlie glanced toward the main gate and saw a familiar figure riding his bike in circles just outside the gate. The boy didn't see Charlie, or maybe he didn't recognize him in his white hard hat until he neared the fence and called out to him, “Hey, Pie Man, get over here!”

The boy wheeled the bike around and pedaled to the open gate. “Hello, Charlie!” he said. “I am the Pie Man!” He held his hand up in the air for a high-five.

Charlie took the boy to the administration building and introduced him to the people working at the computers in the engineering room. The boy was amazed at the complex images dancing across the large-screen monitors. A young engineer lifted him up on a stool and showed him how to manipulate the mouse, moving trees and shrubs around the screen. Charlie watched as the boy's face scrunched up with glee or went slack with awe. As a new image came up on the screen, he pointed at the monitor and looked at Charlie with obvious pride. “Turbines,” he said.

Charlie laughed as he looked at the screen. “Right you are, Pie Man, that's where the turbines are going.”

The technician patted the boy's back. “Kid, you're a born engineer.”

“Pie Man is an
engineer
,” he said proudly, sliding off the stool. “I will be an engineer, like Charlie.”

Charlie glanced at his watch. “Hey, I've got an idea, Pie. C'mon, let's go outside.” On their way out, Charlie ducked into a storage room and came out with a brand-new white hard hat, which, after adjusting the fitting band, he placed ceremoniously on Pie's head. The boy's face couldn't have lit up brighter as he and Charlie walked through the site, headed toward the mammoth yellow and green vehicles. They finally stopped next to a huge yellow bulldozer. “Well, c'mon, Pie. Let's go!” said Charlie, scrambling up the ladder to the driver's compartment.

There was plenty of room for them on the wide seat, which was one reason Charlie had selected it. Another was the incredible noise it made when Charlie hit the starter button. Charlie laughed as he watched the expression of fear and excitement on the boy's face when the engine belched to life, puffs of black smoke exploding from the tall exhaust pipes.

“Hang on, Pie,” he yelled, as he squeezed the handgrips and pulled on the levers that sent the heavy treads into action. The boy pressed in close against Charlie and squeezed the bar in front of him. They left the equipment yard and headed toward a large open area at the northern end of the site.

Charlie noticed a white pickup moving quickly toward them on Cold Springs Road. The truck slowed as it came abreast of them, then came to a complete stop in the middle of the road. As they drew even with the truck, Charlie recognized the cold stare from the angry-looking driver. Pie stared at the truck, his happy face gone. After a few seconds, the driver turned away and the white truck accelerated out of view.

Back at the equipment yard, Charlie turned off the engine. The sudden cessation of the noise and the vibration engulfed them in stillness. The boy took off his hard hat and looked at Charlie. “That was my papa in the truck.”

“Is he going to be mad at you for being here?”

“No, Papa won't be mad. He won't be anything.”

Charlie let it go. He liked the boy, but he didn't want to push his way into a family problem. Better to stay out of it. They sat quietly for a few moments before Charlie noticed tears in the boy's eyes.

“C'mon, Pie Man. What's that for?” Charlie asked.

The boy stared at his shoes. Finally he looked up and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He glanced around at all the trucks and tractors that he'd played on so many times, alone at night after sneaking under the fence, then turned to Charlie. “Charlie, thith wath the betht day of my whole life.”

Charlie ran his fingers through the boy's hair, then placed the hard hat back on his head, knocking it down tight with a rap of the knuckles, making the boy laugh. “C'mon, let's go get a soda.”

*   *   *

D
RIVING BACK INTO
Old Red Bone as the falling sun cast its warm, comforting glow over the red-stone buildings, Charlie had an idea. On his cellphone, he called Hank and invited him over for dinner. Then he called Eve in the restaurant and asked her to pick up a box of spaghetti, some meat sauce, grated cheese, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of red wine before she closed.

“Sounds like a hot date.” Eve was curious.

Charlie laughed. “No, just Hank, and I feel like spaghetti. That's all. Hey, Eve, why don't you come up, too?”

“No, you'd probably make me do the cooking, but, thanks for asking, Charlie. I'll leave the food on the stairway.”

An hour later, Charlie and Hank sat out on the porch, drinking a glass of wine and enjoying the view of the setting sun while the spaghetti sauce simmered. A few minutes passed in silence. Then Hank asked, “Everything okay down at your power plant?”

“Oh, sure. Everything's fine, Hank,” Charlie said, before deciding to broach the subject of the cooling pond. Hank might have some insight into how the members of the planning board would react. “We do have one problem coming up, though, that we're going to have to bring before the planning board. We're going to have to move the cooling pond to another area of the site because of the underlying rock strata.”

“That's a problem?” Hank inquired.

“It's a significant change to the site plan, and the planning board has to okay it.”

“Planning board, huh?”

“You know those fellows?” Charlie remembered the thin manila folder with the information about the board members that Larry Tuthill had passed to him at their meeting in New York. The file was still tucked away, unread, in Charlie's briefcase.

“I know 'em,” said Hank. “Miserable pricks, all three of 'em.” He rose out of his chair and went to the porch railing to spit a large gob of tobacco juice over the side. “Be lucky to get out of that meeting with your balls still in your pants. Disagreeable old hillbillies, and dumb as rocks, too.”

“Really?” Charlie was alarmed at Hank's assessment. “This is an important variance and could be potentially a very expensive problem. If we can't move the pond, the project could shut down for months.”

Hank shook his head. “Well, good luck with that bunch.”

As they sat eating their spaghetti dinner at Charlie's small kitchen table, Charlie's thoughts returned to the Pie Man. “Hank, there's a kid I met out at the project the first day I got here, a kid with Down syndrome—”

“The Pie Man,” said Hank, a wide smile coming across his face.

“That's him. The Pie Man. You know him?”

“Burden, let me tell you something,” said Hank, shoveling another forkful of spaghetti into his mouth. “That kid's going to be governor of this state someday. An amazing kid.”

“He sure is,” Charlie agreed.

“O' course, to my mind, he won't be the first retarded governor we ever had, not by a long shot.”

Charlie laughed. “He came by the site today. I took him for a ride on one of the big machines. He had a good time.” He paused, then added, “So did I.” After a few quiet moments, Charlie said, “I met his mother, too, last weekend, down in the store.”

“Natty Oakes,” said Hank.

“She's got a funny sense of humor. Nice woman, seems like.”

“Nice, hell. Woman's a damn saint. Works like a dog, too, takin' care of the old people all over McDowell County. Home nurse kind of job. Takes care of two old miners across the street, she don't even get paid for anymore.”

“How's that?”

“Woody and Mr. Jacks. You've seen them probably, down in the restaurant. Eve don't charge 'em even half price.”

“Pie says she works a lot,” said Charlie.

“All the time. Works in the elementary school, too,” Hank replied. “She's a runner, like you.”

Charlie was surprised. “Is that right?”

“Comes up the hill every morning, rain or shine. I'm surprised you ain't seen her. Ain't a bad-lookin' woman, either.” Charlie didn't comment. “When she cleans herself up and does something with her hair,” Hank continued, “and don't dress like some Raggedy Ann doll. Little too skinny, though.”

“She's got pretty eyes, anyway,” said Charlie, trying to avoid the subject.

“Beautiful eyes,” said Hank.

Charlie refilled their glasses with wine. “What about her husband, Pie's father? We saw him today, and he and the boy didn't even wave.”

Hank pushed his plate away and took his time wiping his mouth, mustache, and beard with his napkin. “He's a bum. Drunk most of the time. He's bad news, Buck Oakes. Stay away from him.”

“The kid said he was a football star in college.”

Hank shifted around in his chair so he could see the last vestiges of the orange sun drop behind the mountains. “Buck played some football, all right,” Hank said, taking a sip of wine and pausing to recall some far-off memories.

“Source of all his problems, football. Buck Oakes was about the most famous football player there ever was at Red Bone High. Set all kinds of records as a running back. Played linebacker, too. I was still principal at the high school then.

“He was fast and strong—and cocky. Handsome devil, too, with black curly hair and a smile like a damn movie star. The girls were crazy about him.

“Football was also his daddy's sport. Big Frank Oakes, one of those blowhard Notre Dame fans, made it known to everyone that Buck was going to get a full scholarship to play for the Fighting Irish. Talked it up so big that everyone around here believed it, including the kid. It was Notre Dame for him, and then the pros.

“Then, toward the end of his junior year, Buck had a real unfortunate thing happen to him. He had one of those rare games that becomes a legend, you know? A game so big that it distorts reality. It was against a team from up in Wyoming County, kind of a weak team as I recall, but it didn't matter. Buck scored six touchdowns, couple of 'em on kickoff returns, and ran for about three hundred yards. Had a few interceptions on defense. Well, it was a big deal in the sports pages all over the state. Charleston sent TV crews down here. Buck even got his picture in that little column in
Sports Illustrated
, I forget what it's called.”

“‘Faces in the Crowd,'” said Charlie.

“That's it. But the game was a fluke. It happens sometimes. He was never as good as that game. Anyway, his last couple of games, college scouts were all over Red Bone, and Buck did okay. Had a couple of decent games and got a lot of interest from the recruiters. Started getting letters from all over the country. He'd bring 'em into school and toss 'em around and talk about Notre Dame being the only team good enough to get him and all that cocky rubbish.

“So Buck spends the summer before his senior year drinking and partying and he puts on some weight and slows down a little. Scouts stop coming around about halfway through the season, 'cause they seen enough, and Big Frank goes into a panic 'cause there's nothing from Notre Dame and nothing from Penn State, which would have been their second choice. In fact, there's hardly any interest at all from the big-time schools. No Ohio State or Michigan. Big Frank calls up Notre Dame, and they tell him they never heard of his son.

“Finally, Big Frank, who had some political connections 'cause of his county job, and the football coach at the high school, they get together at the last minute and get to somebody at WVU, and Buck gets a one-year scholarship, renewable if he makes the team.

“So Buck goes up to Morgantown, still cocky as ever, thinkin' he should really be at Notre Dame or Penn State and everything's going to be that much easier at a place like WVU, 'cause it's a couple of pegs down from where he belongs.”

From his experience with college athletics, Charlie could guess what was coming. “And Buck found out it was tougher than he thought, right?”

“As I heard it, first week on the practice field, Buck got run over like he ain't never got run over before. Welcome to big-time football. Those boys were all bigger and faster, lifting weights all summer long, while Buck was lifting sixteen-ounce Budweisers. Buck took a beating—physically and psychologically—he ain't never recovered from. Come back down here and been a fuckup ever since. Permanent chip on his shoulder. Still telling some story about getting injured at practice and the university screwing him. Pure bullshit,” Hank said. “Been nothing but trouble for a lot of people ever since.”

Hank rose to his feet in the dark kitchen. “Thanks for the spaghetti, Burden. Too late for cribbage now. I've got some reading to do.” He went to the rear door, limping slightly on his stiff legs. With his hand on the screen, he turned back to Charlie. When he spoke, there was sadness in his voice.

“Buck Oakes never wanted a kid. He didn't want to be married, but he got Natty pregnant, and Big Frank was disgusted with him so he made him marry her. And he
sure
didn't want the kid he got, so Buck's just pretty much ignored him his whole life.”

Hank stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the light-gray evening sky. “You know, Buck Oakes's 'bout the luckiest man in McDowell County, and he … he don't know a thing about it. Damn ignorance,” Hank growled. “Good night, Burden.”

“'Night, Hank.” After cleaning up the dishes, Charlie went over to the rolltop desk and opened one of his stuffed briefcases. Hank's ominous opinion of the planning board bothered him. He searched through the folders for the one in Larry Tuthill's nearly illegible handwriting:
Planning Board
. The file was in the middle of the briefcase, next to another thin folder marked
DeWitt.
It was the background information on the farmer. Charlie placed both folders on the desk.