Read Yonnondio: From the Thirties for Free Online Page A

arms,
     and Marie Kvaternick hurting her shoulder. “You see, Anna. They be up. These big ones—they
     save; nothing happen. Only little accidents they die. But if Andy stay—” she pushed
     out fierce—“if Andy stay, better for Andy. Wots matter, Anna? You see, Jim’ll be back,
     they be up. Only … Chris …”
    And could you not make a cameo of this and pin it onto your aesthetic hearts? So sharp
     it is, so clear, so classic. The shattered dusk, the mountainof culm, the tipple; clean lines, bare beauty—and carved against them, dwarfed by
     the vastness of night and the towering tipple, these black figures with bowed heads,
     waiting, waiting.
    Surely it is classical enough for you—the Greek marble of the women, the simple, flowing
     lines of sorrow, carved so rigid and eternal. Surely it is original enough—these grotesques,
     this thing with the foot missing, this gargoyle with half the face gone and the arm.
     In the War to Live, the artist, Coal, sculptured them. It was his Master hand that
     wrought the intricate mosaic on this face—splintered coal inlaid with patches of skin
     and threads of rock … You will have the cameo? Call it Rascoe, Wyoming, any of a thousand
     towns in America, the night of a mine blowup. And inside carve the statement the company
     already is issuing. “Unavoidable catastrophe … (O shrink, super’s nephew, fire boss
     that let the gas collect) … rushing equipment … bending every effort … sparing no
     expense … to save—or recover the bodies …”
    (Dear Company. Your men are imprisoned in a tomb of hunger, of death wages. Your men
     are strangling for breath—the walls of your companytown have clamped out the air of freedom. Please issue a statement. Quick, or they
     start to batter through with the fists of strike, with the pickax of revolution.)
    A cameo of this, then. Blood clot of the dying sunset and the hush. No sobs, no word
     spoken. Sorrow is tongueless. Apprehension tore it out long ago. No sound, only the
     whimpering of children, blending so beautifully with the far cry of blown birds. And
     in the smothered light, carved hard, distinct, against the tipple, they all wait.
     The wind, pitying, flings coal dust into their eyes, so almost they could imagine
     releasing tears are stinging.
    “He’ll be back.” Brought up quiet and shaken five days later. Gaunt and bearded so
     that Ben wailed when he saw him. “In March, Anna,” he said, “March, if I have to pick
     the sun outa the sky for a gold piece.”
     
    Whispering—“Just give me one third for the scrip. Just one third cash. You know it’s
     worth more than that. I’ll buy the stuff for you, so they’ll think it’s me, and you
     pay me one third cash.”
    Pushing the words out from where they stand so humbly in her throat. “I thought maybe
     around theholidays there might be extra work. Scrubbin or washin. I know you got a cook. I’m
     not askin much, just fifty cents the day.”
    Fear. You got no business doin it, Jim, workin under loose roof like that.
    But March—a new life … And they dont pay for pullin it down and clearin. And I cant
     do nothin unless I’m gettin paid for it.
    “Ma. They growin chicory instead of coffee? Aint we ever gonna have coffee again?”
     “Ma, my teef hurts.”
    “Ma, I can push my finger in Mazie’s skin and it goes in, way deep.”
    “Ma, this all to eat, Ma?”
    “In spring, in March, we’re goin, baby. Hushabye now. Hushabye. Momma’ll sing you
     to sleep.”
     
    March. Raw with blistering winds and snow. I see even the weather’s against us. No
     use, we can’t leave. But April. April first for sure.
    All winter his reckless work under loose roof, because pulling down and clearing meant
     unpaid labor. All winter the children puffing out with starch. All winter her hands
     cracking with the extra work.
    But the decrepit wagon waits outside, and Jim pounds on an extra rude seat, a rough
     removable canopy. There is an ancient