Beside him, standing, Bonali had just received his hysterical daughter. The kid was blubbering something about her Uncle Ange. Bonali’s boy swaggered up, apparently regretting his old man’s escape, and, around the cool stab of a toothpick that pricked out of his mouthful of flashy white teeth, dropped the tidings that Angelo Moroni had been killed. Sal Ferrero, smeared with soot, came up and confirmed it, half in tears, he and Bonali embracing like women. Bonali told his daughter to hurry in and inform her Mom that he was okay, and that she should go stay with Angelo’s wife tonight. “Mom’ll be at the church,” Bonali said. He gave the girl his handkerchief and she ran off, emptying her excited tears into it, made awkward by the big word she bore. The boy had already disappeared without another nod between him and his old man.
Bonali said to come on. Duncan stubbed out the butt, stood cautiously, unlocking his sore knees, and followed his faceboss to the Salvation Army canteen. They located Lucci and Brevnik there, munching apples. Bonali showed he was glad to see them, but gave them hell for losing their heads and bolting the section. They looked pretty sheepish but tried to cover by saying they were going back down soon on rescue crews. Bonali asked them where Cravens and Minicucci were, but they didn’t know, they had come out alone.
Outside the canteen, Bonali discovered Cravens’ wife, Wanda. First time Duncan had met her, frail and weary type with nothing between the bones. She said there was still no word.
Seven men more are retrieved, but this time four live yet: Martini, Wilson, Sicano, Cooley. Wives gather, cluck and weep. Two white ambulances receive them horizontally, under face cages that pump oxygen purely. It is all, really, that Sicano and Cooley, uninjured, require. Martini’s sleeve is empty below the elbow. Wilson’s spine is wrecked. He revives briefly. Does he recognize his wife’s quivering smile? It is hard to tell. He cannot move and can barely speak. “Dog,” he says. And then: “Ely.” With that, he loses consciousness once more. The dead, meanwhile, Catter, Wosznik, and Harlowe, join Lawson and Moroni inside a hastily thrown-up tent — already dubbed “the basket”—where they are officially identified and tagged by a company representative, union man, and the company doctor.
The ambulance doors snap shut, the drivers leap behind the wheels. Red fists on top wheeling and sirens howling, the two carriers ark down the mine road toward town. Traffic is still in a snarl in spite of an army of angry bellowing cops, but the appearance of the ambulances breathes an urgency that works miracles. Now people ditch their cars without even being asked: peeling quickly like playing cards into the cuts on each side of the road. But not quickly enough for Eddie Wilson.
“I see Him, boys!” said Ely Collins, though his eyes were closed. “He’s beautiful! And He’s gonna take good care of us!” Lee Cravens asked, “Who, Ely?”
“Why, the white bird! He’s spreadin’ His great wings over us, yes, I kin see it! and He’s smilin’ down!”
The other five looked at each other, but nobody laughed. Strelchuk saw Lee Cravens looking up, and he looked up too. The slabs of black rock still hovered there, but they seemed not so heavy somehow.
Collins’ breath started coming in short gasps. “Pray with me boys!” he pleaded.
Juliano glanced up at Pontormo. “You think it’s okay?” he asked.
“God’s a good God,” Cravens said. “It’s what Ely always said. He’s got room in His heart for everybody.”
“God, be with Clara tonight, and Wanda, and all our wives and loved ones,” the preacher said.
“He ought to take it easy,” Pontormo urged, but more gently than usual.
“Give them courage and strength and …” Collins’ voice faded. Mike and Lee edged toward the old man, Mike reaching for his wrist to check his pulse, but just then Collins’ eyes opened and fixed on Mike. The old man smiled feebly, closed his eyes once more. “And, God, whatever happens, take good care of Mike. He done more than any man need t’ve done for anybody.” Strelchuk felt a wash of pride and embarrassment pass through him. “He’s a good …”
“Now, you just better rest a little,” Strelchuk said awkwardly. Collins began to sing. “So I walk with him … and I talk …” Lee Cravens, eyes damp, picked it up:
“… And I talk with him,
And I tell him I am His own;
And the joys we share—”
“Boys!” gasped Collins. His breath was coming hard and his face was screwed up with pain. “Y’ got any more water?” Strelchuk gave him what he had, but giving up the last of it made him worry. He held it to Collins’ lips himself, careful not to waste any of it, since the old man’s hands were shaking badly. Collins licked his lips, then asked, “Where’s Giovanni?”
“Who?” asked Cravens.
“He means Bruno,” Strelchuk said. “I forgot all about him.”
“He’s running around down here somewhere,” Mario Juliano explained to Cravens and Minicucci. “He was with us at first, but he busted off while we was cutting Collins free.”
“Is that so?” said Cravens. “We never seen him.”
“Didn’t come ou’ way,” Pooch confirmed.
“Could’ve took a different course,” suggested Strelchuk.
“God, be with Giovanni …” Collins whispered.
“He’s a funny guy, that Bruno,” Juliano said.
Ten more bodies are recovered, and hope wanes for the remainder. Nearly two hundred night shift miners have surfaced, turning in their tags, or gone back below to seek survivors, leaving about a hundred still in the mine. Ministers and priests keep vigil. First National Bank president Ted Cavanaugh continues his restless rounds, huddling here with a team of sweating, sooted miners, there listening intently to the wranglings of state mine inspectors and UMW officials; now turning a heartening phrase or two for Greater Deepwater Coal Company people, then offering hope and consolation to waiting or grieving mining families. The surfeit of volunteer rescuers gather in the Salvation Army canteen, await their turn, speak in whispers. Many of the merely curious have, since there’s really nothing much to see, gone home. Rescuers, coming up, report greater and greater violence the farther south they push.
Dr. Wylie Norton, the veterinarian, arrived home from his house call to find his wife Eleanor in the brightly lit and silent house, poring through her logbooks. “Eleanor!” he said with alarm. “What is it? You’re pale!” He set his bag down, approached her tentatively.
“Not a trace.” She spoke gravely, evenly. ‘“I have been all the way through, Wylie, and … there is not a word.”
He sat down at the kitchen table across from her, adjusted the glasses on his narrow nose. “You mean about the mine?”
“Yes,” she said. “There’s no denying it, Wylie. I was not told a thing. Not one single word suggests it.”
“Well,” he said. His voice was hushed, his eyes, avoiding hers, fixed on the journals. He rubbed his hands, pressed together the fleshy tips of his supple tolerant thumbs. “Well.”
“Why do you suppose Domiron did not … did not enlighten me?” Her voice, against her will, slipped a pitch higher. “Do you think he’s … he’s leaving me? Wylie! What have I done? Have I—?”
“Oh, well, now,” cautioned Wylie, shifting in his chair.
“Wylie, the mine, this town’s life, its essence, our town, Wylie, it blew up, it all blew up!” Her voice was leaping and breaking and pitching like a wild animal. Lost!
“Yes, dear, but—”
“Men are down there! Hundreds! Dying! Perhaps beneath our very feet!” Tears sprang. She bit down on her lip. “Wylie, we have come here, found a pattern, and in one split second it has all been destroyed and we did not receive so much as a hint of it!”