He blew down the lantern’s chimney and the flame popped and died.

“I got to tell you something,” he said. “I come to a decision while I was traipsing this holler tonight. I’ve talked for a spell about leaving here, going to West Virginia. I been scairt to say too much to you for fear you wouldnt go with me and I’d never see you again. But the call is stronger and louder. I got to go, Carrie.”

“When?”

“Soon as I’m able. I plan to go down the mines. I know hit sounds crazy when I got such a good life here. But my daddy allays aimed to make it back there. He raised me with that notion. And God keeps telling me to do it, too. I’m a preacher, pledged to bring His word to the lost. There’s where they are, Carrie, over yonder there. I hear them crying out in my sleep. I got to go.”

He stood up.

“I wanted you to go with me. As my wife.”

“What about the Homeplace? Aint that my land? Ben and Florrie need me.”

“Talk to God about it. Stay in the barn ifn you need to.”

“Out here? In this haunted place?”

“It’s where you come to be,” he said. “I’ll be up at the house.”

I sat still, my hands in my lap, and waited for God to speak, fearing I would hear the old man instead. Nothing. “Hit aint Old Christmas,” I said aloud. I tried to imagine Albion selling the animals and setting out alone for a coal camp. I saw him disappear into a dark, gaping hole, not to mine coal but to preach the Gospel. And, God help me, I saw Rondal, another prodigal returned for a different reason, drawn, as he must be some day, to Blackberry Creek. I knew then that I loved them both, and that there must be a reason for it.

I gathered my skirt about me, rose up and walked to the cabin. Albion sat on the porch.

“He makes me feel alive,” I said. “But I’m at home with you. I want to go with you.”

He held out his arms and I went to him. He set his hand to my breast, then took it away.

“We’ll wait,” he said.

Twelve

C. J. MARCUM

THE COAL OPERATORS STARTED THE BASEBALL LEAGUES. I HEARD tell of baseball, but I never paid it much mind before that.

Davidson had a team, and Felco, Carbon, Chieftan, and Vulcan. They was a separate league for Negro miners. I thought baseball was silly, even wrote an editorial saying so in the Free Press. Every Sunday in the summertime, the miners and their families went to the ballfields. You couldn’t never get that many of them out to talk about something serious, like politics. And yet, when it come time to swat a little white ball, there they’d all be. Even worse, the baseball games caused the miners to turn on each other instead of cooperating. The Vulcan miners despised Carbon, Carbon detested Felco, they all hated Davidson, which usually had the best team.