Tom Bennitt was born and raised in Butler County, Pennsylvania. He earned an MFA in Fiction from the University of Mississippi, where he was a Grisham Fellow and Managing Editor of The Yalobusha Review, and a PhD (English) from the University of Nebraska. His work has appeared in several literary journals, including Texas Review, Prairie Schooner, Word Riot and Descant, and his first novel, a literary thriller called Burning Under, will be published in 2018 by Stephen F. Austin University Press. He now resides in central Pennsylvania with his wife, son, and two dogs. More information can be found at tombennitt.wordpress.com
The Miner’s Wife
From the bay window, Denise watched two ambulances race down Fulton Street, heading east of town. Her mom, in a pink velour jumpsuit, sat on the couch and read a tabloid.
“Come talk to me, girl. Before you move to the big city and never return.”
“It’s not California,” Denise said. “I’m less than two hours away. And I’ll come back most weekends, since Luke’s staying here.” She’d just accepted a nursing job at Pittsburgh Presbyterian Hospital, starting Monday.
Her mom set the magazine on the coffee table. “He’s not going with you?”
“I’m staying with a nursing school friend, ‘til I find my own place.”
“You kids’ll patch things up. You always do.”
“I don’t know.” Denise walked to the kitchen and pulled a can of Diet Coke from the fridge. “Feels different this time.”
“Marriage is a marathon and not a sprint,” her mom said. “Remember that.”
“Let’s go out for lunch. Eat N Park, maybe? The one by the mall.”
“Do I need a coat?”
Denise turned on the radio, hoping to catch the local forecast, but instead she heard breaking news: Multiple reports of a coal mining accident in Seneca County. Still trying to confirm location, but we’re told it’s the Sarver Mine, near Millburg, with several miners trapped inside. Of course, we will provide updates as they come in.
“Not Luke’s mine, is it?” her mom asked.
Denise nodded. “I gotta go. I’ll call you once I found out what’s going on.”
She staggered to the guest bedroom and grabbed her hoodie. A dim ringing noise, like that of a dinner bell, vibrated through her head.
In the car, she cracked her window and lit a cigarette. She’d been trying to quit, but today she’d give herself a hall pass. Outside Morgan’s diner, a group of older men were talking with their hands. Kids poured out of the elementary school, cancelled for the day.
She headed east on Route 422, past the mushroom farm and the County Line Tavern. After crossing the river, she turned onto the mine access road, leading up a hollow. Patches of snow covered the hills. The trees resembled naked old men: skinny and crooked.
She parked in a field beside the Methodist church. Half the town was already here, hovering around the barricade that blocked off the mine entrance. She spotted her Uncle Bob, a retired miner, and approached him.
“What’ve you heard?” she asked.
“They’re saying about ten or twelve miners are down there.”
“Luke?”
Bob looked down. He adjusted his Penn State cap.
“Oh God.” Denise rubbed her temples.
They watched a journalist interview a young woman.
“Damn reporters. Been stirring up shit all morning.”
Denise glanced at the sky, darkening with anvil clouds.
“I need to run home,” Bob said. “But they opened the church up to family members. You should go in, find out the latest.”
A frantic woman ran past them. “Where’s my son?” she repeated.
Denise grabbed a seat in the back pew. She recognized a few faces from the company cookout last summer, but had forgotten their names. The only other miner’s wife she knew was Gina, a high school friend. They’d been teammates on the rifle squad. Gina was always on Facebook, posting photos of her kids in matching outfits, like denim overalls.
Glancing around the church, Denise felt like a heretic. She hadn’t seen Luke in two weeks. She wanted to start fresh and make a new life in Pittsburgh, and the word divorce had been floating around her head. Yet, somehow, she’d always expected this. Coal mining had killed her dad. Black lung. A slower method, but the same result.
A large, dark-haired man entered the church. White oxford shirt, dark jeans, cowboy boots. Everyone got quiet as he marched down the center aisle. He climbed the steps, then turned and faced his audience. His face was notched and grooved, like the surface of some cold, distant planet deprived of light or heat.
“Good afternoon, folks. I’m George Faust, president of Faust Energy. We’re still gathering information. It looks like an explosion. Lightning could have struck a power cable that ran into the mine, and triggered a blast. But the high-methane sections are sealed off with concrete walls, so the miners should be fine. Trust me, we’re doing all we can.”
When he said the word explosion, something inside Denise cracked.
Groans and whispers issued from the other pews.
An older man in front stood up. “How many are down there?”
“Ten, we believe We don’t have names yet. But all the miners have access to oxygen, first aid, and food.”
“How can you know that for sure?”
“No need to panic.” Faust raised his hands like stop signs. “The rescue teams are going in soon. We’ll give updates. The church will stay open, and supper will be provided.”
Faust escaped out the side door, flanked by two state troopers.
The woman beside Denise, with a mullet and camo jacket, shook her head. “I don’t know. Smells like horse shit to me.”
Denise covered her face, fighting back tears.
“Sorry, hon.” The woman touched her shoulder. “The Lord’s looking after them.”
Denise glanced up at a stained-glass window, depicting the image of Christ: resurrected and rising from the grave.
That evening, trays of home-cooked meals – lasagna, meatloaf, chicken noodle casserole – and paper plates were placed on a long table in the church kitchen. She went through the line, then carried her plate outside and sat on a park bench.
A rheumy mist filtered through the valley. It was colder now. The rain had changed to sleet, with roads and sidewalks freezing over. Ice coated tree branches, and little pellets of ice were sticking to Denise’s hair. After a few bites of lasagna, she quit eating and lit a cigarette.
Across the road, a silver-haired journalist in a white button-down was preparing to give a live report. Denise crept closer and tried to listen:
Good evening from the coal region of western Pennsylvania,
where a methane gas explosion has left several miners trapped
inside the Sarver Coal Mine. A rescue team has been deployed,
but they must get through smoke and carbon monoxide. In their
press release Faust Energy, indicated that the miners are trained
to survive these in conditions. However, several fines and safety
violations have been issued against the Sarver Mine by the federal
Mine Safety and Health Agency.
Denise felt a tap on her shoulder. It was Gina, greeting her with a wide smile. She’d put on weight and cut her hair short, but still had the same girlish face.
“I thought that was you in church!” Gina said.
Denise smiled. “Can you believe this circus?”
“Don’t get me started. I think my husband’s down there.” Gina wiped her eyes.
“Mine, too.” Denise forced a smile. “They’ll be okay.”
“I wonder how long can they survive.”
“A long time. Maybe even a few days.”
Denise pulled the last cigarette from her pack and looked around.
She noticed her uncle running up the hill, toward them.
He stopped, then waited to catch his breath. “You girls hear the news? The rescue team radioed a message. Said they heard voices.”
Word spread like a gasoline fire. Friends and strangers hugged, and the church bells rang out. Camera crews retrieved equipment from their vans. Together, George and the Pennsylvania governor gave a press conference. They stood before the microphones, chests puffed out. “Believe in miracles!” George proclaimed. The silver-haired reporter issued another report:
Here is what we know. This is unconfirmed,
but we’ve been told that all the miners have
been found alive. Stay tuned for more updates.
After being told the miners wouldn’t emerge for another hour or two – the rescuers were using extreme caution – Denise drove down to Sheetz for a coffee. She needed to escape the nuthouse, if only for a few minutes.
She returned just before midnight, as a light snow began to fall. Another candlelight vigil had formed, the video cameras still rolling. Hollywood, she thought, had come to Millburg.
Off to the side, however, a small circle of men – George Faust, two cops, and two company officials – spoke in hushed tones. When they broke their huddle, they rounded up the family members and told them to report back to church for an announcement. Biting her nails, Denise followed the herd back inside.
Faust took the podium, once again, only now with bloodshot eyes and a pale face. Behind him, there was a sculpture of Jesus nailed to the cross.
“Folks, there’s been a mistake. We had some bad information. The truth is we found all ten miners, but only two are alive.”
A baby started to wail. Denise recalled that Bible story about King Solomon and the child. Two women knelt before the king, both claiming the same baby as their own. Solomon’s answer: cut the child in half.
A woman in the front row stood up. She cried “No!” Then, she ran toward Faust. She lunged at him, but her punch missed wildly. She collapsed near his feet. A state trooper picked the woman up and took her outside, as her desperate cries faded into the cold night air.
Denise wanted to rage, too, yet something in her body told her Luke had survived. And when a company official took her aside and confirmed her intuition, she remained calm. She didn’t know what to feel. Joy? Relief? Guilt? The man told her Luke was being flown to Pittsburgh Presbyterian.
Holy shit. Her hospital. What were the odds?
Driving south, toward the city, she thought about her people – poor white trash – and how they were always paying for the mistakes of the privileged, the CEOs and journalists and politicians who didn’t have to live with the consequences, the ones who could wash the blood off their hands and return to their normal lives.
In her head, she replayed the image of the woman in church throwing a punch. She hoped someone had recorded it on their phone. So the world might truly understand what happened here. So they could see the damage done.