As soon as he had left, Miller hurried to the back, found Jones there, standing over the linotypist’s shoulder. Miller scanned the opening lines of the story in a hot galley that sat on a stone about four feet away, counted the galleys already set, gave Carl and John makeup instructions. Carl’s fat back protested with shouldered silence. “No paper next Saturday,” Miller said. “Long weekend.” Carl, enlivened, commenced a round of whore stories, and his hands woke.
Miller, en route to the newsroom, pulled a Coke from the machine, dumped his exposed film in the darkroom. Driving himself now. Front page forming up. No time to ready the photos. Just as welclass="underline" need them during the collapse next couple days. Put Annie on getting sandwiches and beer sent over from Mick’s, setting up distribution of the Extra. She had already obtained notes on Bruno and his family, following Jones’ arrival with the news, and her information on the other six was longwinded but useful. Good goddamn girl, he had to admit it.
Jones wheezed in and together they worked out a front-page layout. Jones dug up a pile of old cuts, including a couple Miller had shot down in No. 9 about two months ago that they hadn’t used yet, and wrote up a rough summary of Big Pete’s version of the rescue for Miller to polish. Decided to banner it with MIRACLE IN WEST CONDON just to wow the homefolks. Jones seemed to be carrying his belly a foot lower than usual, so Miller told him he could do the rest alone; a moment later, the jobroom sofa received Jones’ hulk with a sigh that was no doubt meant to strike envy into the benefactor’s heart — Jones never took a favor with grace.
Miller called the hospital, learned from Dr. Lewis that Bruno, in a coma, was still hanging on, but that complications, as expected, had set in. In short: “critical.” Read Annie’s notes. Parents born in Italy, old man a retired coalminer. Five children, two sons killed in the mines and a daughter dead of diphtheria, Giovanni and Marcella remaining. Marcella. He printed the letters on his desk blotter, lit a cigarette, and stared down at them. Marcella Bruno. Agreeable images roamed randomly through his forebrain. Eyelids weighted. He smoked. She knew his name. Turns — Christ! Blinked at his watch: nearly two! Attacked the old Underwood. Cursed, typed, cursed. Stubbed out smokes, lit new ones. Food came. Slowly, the bog of his mind hardened and the way became easier. On the jobroom sofa, Jones snored.
When she calls, Rosalia from next door answers. Marcella hears threats and intermittent gunfire. Rosalia says Mama is in bed and resting peacefully after praying at the church all day. Papa watches the television like usual. “I got plenty company here and don’ worry about nothing.” Sure, she knows all about Papa, she has changed him once already, no trouble. More gunfire. “He don’ even know they’s been a accident, child.”
On his way to the Collins house, Miller kept the car radio on to make sure they announced his special and the pickup points. Heard it three times on the short run. Most of their musical library inapt for the funereal occasion, they apparently appreciated anything out there that would eat up time. He found the Collins place, sturdy old yellow frame, broad porch bellying out, big trees in the yard.
He was met at the door by the girl Elaine. Miller introduced himself, asked if he could speak with her mother. The girl was reluctant, but finally pushed the screen door open for him. Her eyes looked clawed and her hair hung loose. Inside, there was a stale vegetable scent that reminded him of his carrier days, those wrecked Saturday mornings when he had to collect for the week’s newspapers, had to step inside cabbage houses and choke while the wide housecoated women searched absently for their purses and fifteen cents and old men in undershirts scratched their beards and glared. While Elaine went for her mother, Miller roamed the room. Not much choice, for the furniture was buried under stacks of laundry. A sentimental religiosity prevailed: evangelist pamphlets, dimestore plaques, cheap Biblical prints. A gold star tokened a war death, and from the pictures Miller gathered it was an only son.
Elaine returned, said her mother was coming. They stood awkwardly to wait. The girl’s front teeth were crooked; she covered her mouth when she talked. She said almost nothing and could hardly be heard, just stared mournfully into corners. She was frankly homely, strawlike hair, patch of freckles on her nose, sallow unhealthy pallor about her skin — her hands were coarsely pink, hands of a woman of forty. A simple print dress hung on her slight frame limply.
Mrs. Collins, dry-eyed, stepped broad-shouldered into the room, put her hand on her daughter’s frail back, said she didn’t want any publicity.
“My reason for coming, Mrs. Collins, was only to bring you this.” He handed her the note. “It was found in your husband’s hand.”
Mrs. Collins accepted the note, faint tremor in her roughly reddened hand, studied it. “Child,” she said, “go get my glasses.” She shifted a stack of laundry — Miller noticed now it was tagged with people’s names — and sat on the couch, squinting at the note. She was gangly like her daughter, but large-boned, stouter. Same straw hair, even more freckles, but her skull was larger, her neck thicker, her body more massive, her hands tougher. She, too, wore a print dress, but unlike Elaine’s, it was dominated by her form. She had quick nervous eyes, wider set, more determined and aggressive than her daughter’s. And she spoke with the absolute authority of a longtime matriarch. “I cain’t understand it,” she said. “It don’t make sense that Ely should die.”
Elaine returned with the glasses, fragile rimless spectacles with thin gold bridge and earpieces. The woman hooked them on cautiously, unused to the feeble claws, and struggled with her husband‘s dying hand. Collins must have been very weak when he wrote it; the scrawl staggered almost illegibly and fell away at the end.
“‘Abide in Grace,’” the woman read. She looked up at Miller. “If they was any man alive a saint,” she told him firmly, though her eyes had misted and contracted behind the lenses, “it was that man! — He walked amongst the blessèd, Mr. Miller!”
Miller, on his feet still, found himself nodding in agreement. “Mrs. Collins, I wonder if you—”
“Ely Collins did not deserve to die like that, Mr. Miller!”
“No, I believe you. I’m truly sorry.” Miller ventured on, aware he might be trespassing family ground. “But can you tell me what you think he means about having disobeyed?”
“They was a bird in the mine.”
“A bird?”
“A white bird, like a dove. He seen it.” She paused, eyes testing his sincerity in asking. “He knowed he was maybe jist seein’ things, like you ofttimes do down there, but he was afeerd too as how God might be tryin’ to tell him somethin’. He was afeerd God was tellin’ him to git outa the mines and go preach.” Tears rolled down her broad cheeks and her voice quavered, but she held on.
“You mean he was afraid there would be a disaster?”
“No, I don’t think he thought of it like that. He only thought as how he might be sinnin’ agin the Lord, might be committin’ greed and avarice, to go on workin’ for money when the Lord was callin’ him to go do His work.” She swallowed. Her hands shook. “We wanted to git Elaine growed first,” she said, and now the tears were streaming. “He was a good man, Mr. Miller!” she cried in sudden protest. “He done no wrong! He didn’t deserve to git killt like that!” Swallowed sobs shook her. Miller felt her grief, but was helpless. “Ifn he died like that, they must be a reason! The Good Lord would not take Ely away ifn they weren’t no reason! Would he, Mr. Miller? Would he?” Her wide tortured bespectacled face seemed to be accusing him. “Why did Ely die and his partner live? What is God tryin’ to tell me, Mr. Miller?” Tears flowed; she didn’t even see him now. “Why?” she screamed.