Fiction Contest Runner-Up
Haley Kouba
Bianca’s sun-soaked yard looks lonelier without her boys. The simple wooden swing that hangs from the orange tree always has a small child occupying it, but the presence of her sister’s family is a poor substitute for her own. Bianca sighs softly and looks away from the window. She takes a spoonful of honey and stirs it into the bowl of orange slices in front of her.
It’s not like her boys will be gone forever. Pietro and Mansueto went with their father to earn money in America. Once they’ve earned enough to rebuild their bakery, they can come back home. She even approved of the idea before they left. Even so, Bianca will miss them desperately every day.
She adds one more dollop of honey, and then she brings the dish over to the large table in the next room. It’s covered with different plates and platters to feed everyone. The different patterns on the dishes flicker with the light of the lamps lining the center of the table runner.
She loves having the table set up like this. The lamps, especially. It reminds her of how family dinners used to be. Bianca straightens one of the plates, and then she grabs the little copper bell resting next to the door. It’s time to call everyone to eat. She hopes that her boys are also eating well tonight.
.
Thousands of miles away, Pietro takes a large bite of his potato and tries not to make a face as the undercooked vegetable slides down his throat. He coughs loudly and reaches for his water cup. He gulps down half of its contents before Mansueto even finishes his first bite. A moment later, Mansueto also reaches for his cup.
Pietro laughs loudly and reaches for the bread sitting in the center of their small, wooden table. It serves him right. Mani should have taken the cooking lessons that Mamma offered before they moved out here. Pietro tears off a hunk of hard bread, almost knocking over a lantern with his wrist, and scrapes the cheese from his potato onto it.
“I’m glad that you didn’t like the potato either, Mani. I don’t think I could have forced myself to stomach it,” he says, shoving a bit of his makeshift sandwich into his mouth. It tastes significantly better than the potato, and Pietro manages to swallow a second bite before getting in another comment. “Well, not again anyways. Are we having these tomorrow, too?”
His brother scowls at him and uses the table knife to saw off a slice of bread for himself. “You should try to eat it anyway. You didn’t eat lunch either, and you’ll need a full stomach if you’re going to come to the mine with me tomorrow.” Mansueto’s face turns down with a pinchy-looking frown, and Pietro sighs.
“I’ll be fine,” he says confidently. He’ll be more than fine, actually. Pietro can’t wait until he gets to send his first payment home to Mamma. “Papa said it was okay before he left to get supplies from Morgantown. He wouldn’t let me go if it wasn’t safe.” He looks up from underneath his bangs and smiles with a mouth full of bread and cheese.
Mansueto grimaces and stays silent, chewing hard on his food. Pietro takes the time to look his brother over. He’s covered in a thick layer of coal dust, and the only bright spots left on him are his eyes. His hair even seems blacker than usual. His hands are kind of clean, but Pietro knows that Mansueto scrubbed at them for about fifteen minutes before he started cooking dinner. Pietro, by comparison, looks tidy enough to be a footman.
Mansueto’s been working overtime in the mine while Papa is gone because he needs to earn enough money for food and rent by himself, and he needs to save some to send back home. Pietro thinks that his brother is working himself into the ground, literally. He’s glad that he’ll be able to help out, even if he isn’t officially allowed to help in the mines.
Manseuto doesn’t want to bring him along, but he’s only three years older than Pietro, so he doesn’t get to decide. Papa had wanted to be here for Pietro’s first time in the mine, but he had to go get supplies from a bigger town to help out one of their neighbors. He’s taking a cart there right now. Mansueto said it’s probably even better than the one that brought them here a few weeks ago.
But while he’s gone, Pietro feels like he has to help. The sooner they get enough money sent home, the sooner they can go back. Besides, all of the other miners bring their families to help. Why shouldn’t Mansueto?
Their papa’s work fell through in Positano. They had been running a family bakery, but the building burned down, and they didn’t have the funds to rebuild. He thought that they could make more money in America and then send it back to rebuild. Monongah wasn’t their first choice, but there are plenty of mining opportunities here.
The table lantern flickers for a moment, casting dancing shadows across their dented metal cups. Pietro stares at the flames, remembering the tarts that his mamma made for his last birthday. They were filled with honeyed oranges and vanilla cream. She even let him help bake them. He misses her a lot. She always gave him the warmest hugs. He hasn’t seen her in weeks, and he doubts they’ll be able to meet up in time for his fourteenth birthday. Maybe Papa will make him a tart this year.
Pietro finishes his bread and cheese, and he tries to choke down a couple more bites of his raw potato. When Papa gets back, Pietro is going to insist Mansueto learns how to cook. At this rate, he’ll never be able to survive on his own, even if he marries a girl that likes to bake as much as Mamma does.
He stops fiddling with his food and sits quietly while his brother finishes eating. Mani shoots him some of his big-brother looks, but he doesn’t say anything. When Pietro stands to collect the dishes, his brother shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it tonight, Patatino. I’ll wash them,” he says seriously. “We’ll have to be up at dawn to leave for the mines, so you’ll need to get to sleep early.” He gathers up the dishes himself and nudges Pietro toward the hallway. Pietro doesn’t know why Mani’s trying to baby him. He’s going to the mine tomorrow, and he still gets to do the dishes. It’s like he thinks Pietro is some silly kid, like their little cousins back home.
Pietro sighs and goes to his and Mansueto’s room. There isn’t a lantern in here, but Pietro doesn’t need one. He shucks off his day clothes and pulls on a nightshirt. He slips under the cool sheets on their bed and pushes himself up against the wall so that Mansueto will have room when he comes in.
He hears the creaking sound of the pipes in the kitchen, followed by the soft splashes caused by his brother washing up. Despite Pietro’s earlier complaints, in a matter of seconds he’s fast asleep.
Mani shakes him awake while the sky is still dark. He’s already dressed in his dusted up overalls and soft, cotton cap. Pietro has his own set of crisp, black overalls, and Mani helps him tug them on. They’re stiff as plaster, but Pietro loves them. He thinks they make him look like a real miner. He pulls on one of Mansueto’s spare caps and tugs it down as far as it will go. It presses Pietro’s hair against his head, and the tips of his bangs form a curtain over his eyes.
Pietro wants to leave them be. He thinks it makes him look like a suave sort of guy, but Mansueto forces him to brush them to the side. Pietro has a slight suspicion that he’s just jealous. Mani’s hair is too short to look cool.
They finish getting ready by shoving on long, wiry socks and heavy working boots. They sound like thunder on the floorboards, and Pietro makes sure to stomp his way into the kitchen like his papa does. There they eat a breakfast of bread and apples.
Fruit is usually only for special occasions nowadays, but Mansueto seems to think that Pietro’s first day of work is a special occasion. Pietro savors the sour slices with a slightly puckered smile.
They leave the house soon after, making sure to lock it behind them, and they start the trek to the mine. It’s not a long walk. The mine is just outside of town, and Pietro thinks it’s fun to walk through the empty streets. The only other people up and about at this hour are the other miners who are going in for their shift.
They all follow the same path together with leather-weighted footprints and baggy overalls. Most of the men carry picks and augers like Mansueto’s, along with other tools for the mines that Pietro doesn’t know the names of. He sees several other boys his age, and even a few that look younger. He wonders why Mani is so worried. There are tons of other unofficial miners here. If it really were dangerous, surely the company wouldn’t let all of these people come in unaccounted for.
Once they reach the company office, which is up on one of the hills surrounding the mine, Mansueto makes Pietro wait outside while he grabs a set of copper markers to put on the carts that they load. Pietro stands in the cool morning air and tries to slow down the racecar heart in his chest. Each moment that he has to wait makes him even more nervous and excited. Finally, his brother comes back out, and they join the stream of men entering the mining shafts. Pietro feels like an ant entering an ant hill. He wonders if this is how Papa and Mani feel every day.
They go down into the mine in groups of thirty for their eight-hour shift. Mansueto has Pietro carry a lamp, while he carries all of the other supplies in a dirty, burlap sack. They walk past sets of large, loud fans that seem to filter enough air for an army to breath. Pietro stares at them with wide eyes, before stumbling after his brother. He’s never seen anything this interesting before.
Some of the taller men have to duck as the dirt ceilings sink lower and lower. Pietro would like to say that he also has to start crouching, but he’s just tall enough to brush the ceiling with his hand. Hopefully he’ll have a growth spurt before long. Mamma always laughs because she’s still taller than Pietro by a couple of inches. He needs to catch up before she sees him again.
Their footsteps echo through the shafts like a canary’s wing flaps, and the fans push through hot, musty air. Mansueto breaks off from the group and goes down another passage, dragging Pietro with him. They end up in a small, cramped cavern with two other men.
The first man is large and round, with red cheeks and a big, black beard that covers the entire bottom half of his face. He laughs with his whole body as the other man scowls. He’s skinnier than the first man, with red hair and fireant-freckles all over his face. Actually, now that Pietro’s looking at him, he’s downright twiggy. Pietro feels slightly better at his own lack of muscles. If this guy can mine, so can Pietro.
He sets the lantern down on the uneven ground and grabs a pick from their sack. With hunched shoulders and a small frown, his brother shows him how to chip away at the crumbling rock face with the tools. Apparently, they have to work at undercutting the rock to make spaces for explosives later on. Pietro mimics his brother’s serious expression and swings the pick at the wall experimentally. It shakes up his arm on impact and then clatters to the floor.
One of the other miners, the round one, laughs and tips his cap back on his head. He looks at Pietro with smiling eyes. “This your first time in the mine, kid?” he asks. Pietro puffs up his chest and smirks confidently, trying discreetly to shake his bangs back in front of his eyes.
“It might be. What’s it to you?” he answers. He thinks he read something like this in a book about war once. It seems to be the right answer. The other men in the room laugh uproariously, and even Mani chuckles a little. He reaches up to pat Pietro on the head, ruffling his hair so that it sits properly, and faces the men.
“How’re you, John? This is my little brother, Pietro. Our papa decided to let him come down with me for the first time today.”
“Ah, I remember now,” John’s friend says. “He’s the one who tried to sneak in when you first started here.”
Pietro huffs and goes back to chipping away at his section of the wall. Mani absently corrects his stance but lets him keep working. He didn’t try to “sneak” in. Papa had forgotten his lunch on his first day, and Pietro didn’t want to bother any of the officials when he brought it in. If he just happened to get a glimpse of the mine shafts before his father dragged him back home, well, that was a coincidence.
John, Mansueto, and the other man, whose name is Anthony, continue trading stories about silly things that their family members have done while they work. It makes Pietro feel warm inside. John talks about his twin daughters, and how they just started learning to paint because his wife shared her watercolor set with them. Anthony rants about how his family keeps sending him packs of cigarettes as a joke because they think he’s a big, tough miner now. Mansueto even gets into it by sharing about how Pietro broke one of their stools the other day when he tried to patch the hole on the roof.
His brother has been so reserved since Papa left, and it’s nice to see him loosen up a bit, even if it is at the expense of Pietro’s pride. He’s missed seeing his brother happy. He always used to be cheerful back home. Then again, he used to have a better life then, too. Pietro frowns, and his next swing of the pick is particularly hard.
They work for hours and hours in the small room. Pietro and Mansueto swing their picks with the other men to undercut the rocks, and then they set up explosives and clay. They all run out of the room while the explosives go off, and then run back in to cut away the coal from the debris. It’s almost rhythmic. All around them, Pietro can hear the same pattern happening in the other tunnels.
He can feel the sweat and dust build up on himself like a second skin. It congeals and sticks to him, dripping off in sopping, sticky glops. His cap is sliding back on his head, and the hair underneath is wet with sweat, too. His arms ache and his chest burns, but it’s a satisfying kind of burn. Well, the ache in his muscles is, anyway. The burning in his chest is probably from breathing in so much dust.
He feels like he did when he used to run papers across town all the way back home in Positano. Monongah doesn’t need anyone to run papers, but this is just as satisfying. Pietro doesn’t think he’s ever worked this hard in his life. He thinks that Papa will be proud of him when he gets back.
After they’ve managed to fill one full cart of coal, Mani lets them stop for a break. They set down their picks and shovels and lay out on the hard dirt. Pietro leans back on his hands and makes a face as he feels some chopped up bits of rock dig into his palms.
John and Anthony leave to eat in the outer walkway, and Mansueto pulls out a large sack that holds both his snacks and Pietro’s. It’s just bread and cheese again, but Pietro doesn’t mind. He’s so hungry that his stomach is starting to make sounds like an engine.
“How’re you doing, Patatino? Is the work right for you?” Mansueto asks, handing him a generous portion of the bread. He looks Pietro over, and a concerned frown tugs at his mouth again.
Pietro nods jerkily, stuffing his mouth full, despite the dirt coating his fingers. It tastes gross, but he doesn’t think there’s any way to wash his hands down here. “It’s great,” he mumbles. “It reminds me of how I used to work in Italy.”
Mani smiles slightly and quirks a brow as he bites into his own portion. “Is that right? Didn’t you used to run papers? I think this might be a little bit harder than that,” he says. He reaches over and pokes Pietro in the side. “I think you’re bluffing.”
“What? Not at all. This is easy, Mani. It’s like cake.” Pietro puffs up his chest again and reaches for the flask of water sitting next to his brother. He’ll never admit it out loud, but his brother might be right. This is harder work than he’s used to. He still likes it though. He’s finally earning his keep.
Mani shoves another piece of bread in his hand and rolls his eyes. “What do you think of John and Tony?”
Pietro smiles and fiddles with his bread. “They’re all right. I like their stories. Do you get to work with them every day?” He hopes his brother says yes. It would be nice to know that he has something to look forward to every day, even if it is just talking with some of his mining buddies.
“Not always.” Mansueto pauses and rubs his chin. “But I get to see them almost every day. Sometimes John likes to arm wrestle on his breaks. He’s beaten quite a few people, and if I’m not working with him I can come see that.”
Pietro thinks that sounds amazing. He loved to arm wrestle his friends back home. “Have you ever wrestled with him, Mani?”
“I have. I’ve won a couple times, too.” Pietro thinks his brother looks almost smug in the dim lighting.
Pietro puffs up his chest again. “I think I could take him.”
His brother laughs and starts to call him on his bluff, when a rumble violently shakes the room. Rocks crash from the ceiling, falling around them and scattering their supplies around the space. Men shout from the other tunnels, and Pietro thinks he shouts, too.
He stumbles to his feet and turns to ask Mani what’s going on, when his brother shoves him back to the floor, throwing himself on top of him.
A second later, the room explodes.
.
It takes Pietro a few minutes to realize what’s happened. The ringing in his ears is loud and jarring. He can’t move his legs, but he’s able to lift his hand to his head. His ears are wet with something hot, and the room is black, and everything smells like burning gas.
Something heavy is on top of him, pinning him to the crumbling gravel ground. He shoves at it and feels dust-covered cloth.
“M-mani?” he asks, voice wavering. He tastes salt on his teeth, and it smears when he licks his lips with a cotton-swollen tongue. “Is that you?” No one answers him. Something drips onto his face.
The room is hotter than it was before, if that’s even possible, and it’s eerily quiet. Just a few minutes ago there were the sounds of miners talking and singing as they worked, the sounds of picks slamming against coal, and the loud humming of the industrial fans filtering in clean air.
Now, Pietro can only hear his own heaving breaths and the pounding of blood in his head. His lungs feel tight, and his mind spins slowly. Where did everything go? The fans filter in clean air. Without them, the air is full of gas and toxins. Pietro remembers his papa explaining the fans when they first moved here. He struggles under the weight of whatever is pinning him down. Inside his head he knows that it’s Mani, but he doesn’t want to think about that right now. He can’t think about that.
The smell of gas and smoke gets stronger every second, toxic and cloying, and Pietro can’t make sense of what’s up and down. His lungs seem to shrink and he feels lightheaded. He pulls and kicks with all of the strength that he has left, but it isn’t enough. He can’t break free.
So he closes his eyes, cries, and pretends that he’s at home waiting for his mother’s orange tarts to finish baking.
.
A small bowl of oranges sits tipped on the floor at Bianca’s feet. She braces her hands on her knees and starts gathering up the bruised pieces of fruit. She can wash them off and give them to the littlest children later. She stands back up and looks over at the letter that her sister is still holding out to her.
“Who’s it from?” she asks, setting the bowl back on the counter. She doesn’t wait for her sister to answer before grabbing the letter. Her sister tuts quietly, then resumes cleaning up the counter where Bianca left off.
Bianca looks down at the envelope in her hands. “Oh, thank you.” It’s from her husband. This is strange; he just sent money three days ago, and he never sends letters so close together.
The writing is smeared and erratic, but Bianca is still able to make out what it says, even if she wishes that she couldn’t.
At ten twenty-eight in the morning on December sixth, 1907, the mines exploded. The mines that her boys were working in exploded.
By the time her husband had made it back to town to see what had happened, there were already people flooding the area. There were men with buckets and hoses and sand to put out the fires. Within twenty-five minutes, they’d organized rescue parties.
Men had torn through the collapsed entrances of the mines with desperate urgency. They came back up fifteen minutes later with nothing to show for it but gas-torn throats and dusted visages.
Bianca’s knuckles turn white as she grips the paper with all her strength. She bites her lip hard, bracing one hand on the counter, and she reads the last paragraph. The rescue crews, all of them, had only been able to rescue one Polish man, who goes by the name of John. Four other miners managed to find their way out on their own.
The other three-hundred and sixty-two men are unaccounted for. Her sons are unaccounted for.
The rescue attempts have stopped, and the clean up crews are coming in.
.
.
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The Rocky Mountain Review 