ourselves, up. I figured we just knew what we were doing, not counting the hot water heater incident. That had been all my fault, anyway, when I’d gotten too cocky and full of myself. I had to watch that tendency the whole time I was a rocket boy.
Where was Sherman now? Was he coming back to Coalwood for the summer? He’d gone to West Virginia Tech up in Montgomery, working his way through. Likely he’d stay there, I supposed, to keep working to help pay the tuition. O’Dell Carroll and Billy Rose were in the air force. Roy Lee was married and attending Concord College. Quentin Wilson, the “brains” of the Big Creek Missile Agency, had hitched a ride to Huntington and just showed up at Marshall College. There, he’d gone to the registrar’s office, introduced himself, reminded them that he was, after all, the cowinner of a National Science Fair medal, and informed them he was willing to give their school a try. The Marshall officials had been so astonished by his brass that they’d signed him up and given him a little scholarship and odd jobs to pay for his tuition. Now I didn’t know where he was. I wondered if I’d ever see any of the boys again.
I had absorbed all the old memories I could stand in the basement and went back upstairs and finished heating the stew and beans. I ate my share, put the rest in the refrigerator, taped Rosemary’s note to the refrigerator door, then carried my little duffel bag upstairs. When I opened my bedroom door, I caught the familiar whiff of model airplane glue and old books. There was my desk, marred by paste and paint, and my dresser with charred steel rocket nozzles and splintered nose cones arranged atop it. The shelves on the wall were choked with my books. A wedge on the top shelf featured the complete set of Hardy Boys mysteries. In another place was a row of science fiction—Heinlein, of course, along with Verne and Asimov and others. John Steinbeck’s books were there, too.
My room, my wonderful room.
Yet it wasn’t exactly mine. I wasn’t that boy who used to live in it, not anymore. I wasn’t exactly certain who I was, but I knew I wasn’t him.
I sat on my bed beneath the window that faced the coal mine. How often had I lain in that bed, Daisy Mae asleep by my leg, and looked up at the ceiling, dappled by the lights from the tipple, and wondered where my future would take me? Surely I would go to Cape Canaveral or someplace where I could work on the space program. Roy Lee had called us the “designated refugees” of Coalwood, propelled by our parents and all the townspeople to leave to find a new life—propelled by all, that is, except for my father. He’d wanted me to leave, all right, but he’d also wanted me to return as a mining engineer to help him run the mine. It was the only time he’d ever asked me to do anything important for him, and I had turned him down. I doubted that he’d yet forgiven me for it, or ever would.
It was past midnight when I awoke to the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Every step had a distinctive creak, and I remembered each one. Dad was in from the mine. He walked past my bedroom door without pausing, and then I heard his bedroom door click shut. For some reason, it gave me a sense of peace just knowing he was home, and I went right back to sleep.
M ORNING BROUGHT a dull gray light announcing there had been a sunrise somewhere behind Substation Mountain. The clouds had been blown away, but it would still take some time before the sun could struggle high enough to top Coalwood’s mountains and penetrate its narrow valleys. Dad’s bedroom door was standing open, his bed roughly made. The kitchen revealed no sign of his being there. An investigation of Mrs. Sharitz’s pots showed that he hadn’t opened them. There was no note from him or evidence that he’d eaten breakfast. Dad had come and gone, like a shadow. I wasn’t even sure he knew I was back.
I contemplated going up to the mine to say hello to him,
Where was Sherman now? Was he coming back to Coalwood for the summer? He’d gone to West Virginia Tech up in Montgomery, working his way through. Likely he’d stay there, I supposed, to keep working to help pay the tuition. O’Dell Carroll and Billy Rose were in the air force. Roy Lee was married and attending Concord College. Quentin Wilson, the “brains” of the Big Creek Missile Agency, had hitched a ride to Huntington and just showed up at Marshall College. There, he’d gone to the registrar’s office, introduced himself, reminded them that he was, after all, the cowinner of a National Science Fair medal, and informed them he was willing to give their school a try. The Marshall officials had been so astonished by his brass that they’d signed him up and given him a little scholarship and odd jobs to pay for his tuition. Now I didn’t know where he was. I wondered if I’d ever see any of the boys again.
I had absorbed all the old memories I could stand in the basement and went back upstairs and finished heating the stew and beans. I ate my share, put the rest in the refrigerator, taped Rosemary’s note to the refrigerator door, then carried my little duffel bag upstairs. When I opened my bedroom door, I caught the familiar whiff of model airplane glue and old books. There was my desk, marred by paste and paint, and my dresser with charred steel rocket nozzles and splintered nose cones arranged atop it. The shelves on the wall were choked with my books. A wedge on the top shelf featured the complete set of Hardy Boys mysteries. In another place was a row of science fiction—Heinlein, of course, along with Verne and Asimov and others. John Steinbeck’s books were there, too.
My room, my wonderful room.
Yet it wasn’t exactly mine. I wasn’t that boy who used to live in it, not anymore. I wasn’t exactly certain who I was, but I knew I wasn’t him.
I sat on my bed beneath the window that faced the coal mine. How often had I lain in that bed, Daisy Mae asleep by my leg, and looked up at the ceiling, dappled by the lights from the tipple, and wondered where my future would take me? Surely I would go to Cape Canaveral or someplace where I could work on the space program. Roy Lee had called us the “designated refugees” of Coalwood, propelled by our parents and all the townspeople to leave to find a new life—propelled by all, that is, except for my father. He’d wanted me to leave, all right, but he’d also wanted me to return as a mining engineer to help him run the mine. It was the only time he’d ever asked me to do anything important for him, and I had turned him down. I doubted that he’d yet forgiven me for it, or ever would.
It was past midnight when I awoke to the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Every step had a distinctive creak, and I remembered each one. Dad was in from the mine. He walked past my bedroom door without pausing, and then I heard his bedroom door click shut. For some reason, it gave me a sense of peace just knowing he was home, and I went right back to sleep.
M ORNING BROUGHT a dull gray light announcing there had been a sunrise somewhere behind Substation Mountain. The clouds had been blown away, but it would still take some time before the sun could struggle high enough to top Coalwood’s mountains and penetrate its narrow valleys. Dad’s bedroom door was standing open, his bed roughly made. The kitchen revealed no sign of his being there. An investigation of Mrs. Sharitz’s pots showed that he hadn’t opened them. There was no note from him or evidence that he’d eaten breakfast. Dad had come and gone, like a shadow. I wasn’t even sure he knew I was back.
I contemplated going up to the mine to say hello to him,
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