Mario digs the coal for Senore Davidson at Felco, and that is where I go to live. I watch the names from the train. Carbon. Winco. Felco. I like the name of Felco because it sounds Sicilian. I think of home. The olive trees, the orange trees, Mama. The towns in West Virginia are all the same—the houses are white and they have eyes. Their windows are black, eyes that do not sleep, that need rest.

Mario takes me to his house. The floor sags. When we speak the house speaks back. We have our iron bed, one chair and a table. Mario says it will be better. He saves the money. I cook our first dinner, pasta slippery with fresh tomatoes and peppers. We have baccala on Sunday for our wedding. Special. The priest comes to our house because there is not yet a church. We cannot talk to him because he is the Irish. I wear a white chemise with the cutwork on the front. Mario comes into my bed and I think of Mama, I want her to comb my hair once again.

The women watch me when I go to the store. They are very pale and their dresses are faded. I wear a red skirt. They turn their heads and whisper. Little boys cry, Dago, Dago.

I tell Mario and he is angry. I kill them, little sons of bitches.

He drinks wine. He doesn’t like me to drink it, but I pour a little into my cup when he is gone. The Tally wine is sweet. Sometimes we have the Spanish wine, sour as an olive. The water is bad here. The house is so cold. The wine warms me. But Mario measures how much is in the bottles and he hits me.

Do you think I am made of dollars? And what shall I do with a woman who is ubbriaca?

Mario whips my babies. Francesco says he will not go in the mine. Lazy, Mario says. He ties him to the fence, pours the slops down his back, sets the pig on him. Francesco bleeds and bleeds, my sheets are bloody. How? says the doctor. He slip and fall down the slate pile, I say. Cut his back.

My hair is still black. I catch it with a net, like black lace. I make it myself. I watch for the butterflies to return. Then I will leave this place.

Five

C. J. MARCUM

I NEVER THOUGHT MUCH OF ISOM JUSTICE WHEN HE WAS A BOY. Oh, I like Isom well enough. A body can’t help it, him always with a grin on his face and acting silly. But he never has been serious about nothing, wasn’t then and ain’t now. Not the union, not the land.