Talcott was working at a union mine at Point Lick, on Campbells Creek near Charleston. He came into town often to talk things over with me. He was in charge of the men from his mine. They met every other day for drill, hid their guns afterward. Talcott has been in the Army, knows what war is like.

He knew I didn’t like to go up Campbells Creek with Mommy around. I went up to Point Lick once, took Carrie along just because I knew it would make Mommy mad. She’d stayed seated when I introduced them, but still managed to look down at Carrie. Her nostrils quivered like the gills of a fish.

“I know what kind of woman takes up with this boy,” she said.

Poor Carrie was so earnest. She wore her good green dress and her hair was pinned up neat on top of her head.

“I’m a widder woman,” she said. “My husband was a preacher.”

“Do declare?” Mommy’s eyes narrowed. “What persuasion?”

“Hardshell Baptist.”

“Them’s all lost,” she said.

“If my husband is lost then they aint no God,” Carrie said.

“With that kind of heathen talk, you and this youngun of mine must git along just fine.”

On the train back to Charleston I said, “She thinks the wrong boy got kilt in the mines.”

Carrie looked out the train window. We passed a tugboat pushing bargeloads of coal down the green Kanawha River like a scissor slicing through velvet.

“I talked to her some more while you and Talcott was drinking beer on the porch. She said she’d burn in Hell for all eternity if she could only have her boys back again.” She touched my sleeve. “Rondal, she didnt mean just the one.”

I was furious. “Hit’s none of your goddamn business, none of it,” I said fiercely. “My kin aint got nothing to do with you.” I got up and moved to an empty seat at the front of the car.

It was the worst moment we had in our two weeks there. I waited for her on the station platform but she walked right past me. I let her go, bought a cup of coffee inside the depot. From the restaurant window I watched her disappear across the curve of the bridge, swallowed by the buildings of downtown. She didn’t come to the Fleetwood that night. Doc Booker called me the next morning. We had often visited him in his house on Shrewsbury Street, and Carrie had spent the night there. I found her drinking coffee in the kitchen.

“I should have gone back to Kentucky,” she said. “I got enough money for a ticket.”

“Why didnt you?”

She blew her cheeks out full like she does when she’s being stubborn. “I wont do you like you do me. I’m better than that.”

I sat down at the table and Doc went into the front room.