Page 10

10

The Western Falls History Center, outside Union Hill

E van Jeffries, Ph.D., sat on a curved bench in the small, empty lobby. The history center had closed almost an hour ago, and the last volunteers had left, flipping the sign on the door to ‘closed.’ Evan stood and walked through the exhibit space, turning off lights as he went. He paused in front of the replica company home set up in the biggest of the four rooms. Incredibly, the small wooden structure that had housed an entire family fit within the room.

He imagined what life must have been like for the children who’d grown up in the cramped quarters. Had they played jacks on the rough-hewn floors? Gathered around the pot-bellied stove for warmth? Chased their siblings through the narrow hallways?

Then he reminded himself that these long-ago children hadn’t experienced much of a childhood at all. Many of the boys left school and joined their fathers in the mines when they were as young as eight or nine—working six days a week as breaker boys, separating out slate and other impurities from the anthracite. And the girls, not permitted to work in the mines, helped their mothers try to stretch their pennies at the overpriced company store, as well as with the washing and cooking.

No, it wasn’t a pretty past. Not one to cast a nostalgic glow over. But it was the history of this region, and it was being erased.

It had been being erased, but no longer. Thanks to Aurora Westin. The photos and the oral histories she gathered from the surviving miners would preserve their stories and the story of the region for future generations.

He walked back through the lobby, let himself out, and locked the door behind him. He was grateful to Rory and genuinely wanted to help her get eyeballs on her new exhibition. He hoped that the plan they’d cooked up earlier in the morning would do just that.

As he started the short walk to his cottage situated off the trail before it reached Union Hill, he thought back over their conversation.

She’d begun by explaining that the show in Pittsburgh had been abruptly canceled. “Over creative differences,” she’d said. But the tightness around her mouth and the set of her slim shoulders suggested the differences had perhaps been more personal than artistic.

Evan didn’t pry. The reason was immaterial—whatever had precipitated it, the exhibit had been summarily canceled on short notice. And Rory was scrambling to find a new location to host the installation. Despite his reserve, after a moment, the ugly truth behind the cancellation spilled out of her.

He could have suggested the art school at the college where he taught. Or another history center or museum in the region. Even a church fellowship hall or a library. He knew people. He had colleagues and friends who worked at all these places and more. One of them, he imagined, would have been happy to provide Rory with a space.

But he didn’t mention any of them. It was clear to Evan that she needed more than a location—she needed an event. He’d crossed his legs at the ankles and rocked back in his chair. It was his thinking pose. She’d waited patiently until he sprang forward again.

“We need to borrow a page from protest art,” he declared.

“Protest art? It’s not really a protest. Yes, it’s social commentary, but?—”

“—Fine then, activist art,” he amended, warming to the subject. “From what you’ve told me about Push/Pull it goes beyond what the work you’ve done in Vanishing Coal Country. You’ve not only recorded the stories you’re telling, you’re not only asking the viewer to feel something, to consider a point of view, you’re taking a stance. Aren’t you?”

He watched her consider the question. Finally, slowly, she said, “I suppose I am. I’m not simply presenting the situation. I’m, well, I’m making a judgment.”

She looked slightly queasy at this realization. He hurried to assure her, “It’s perfectly acceptable to stake out a position, Rory.”

“I guess. But I’m not one of the people being displaced. I don’t want to be predatory or to use them in some way.” She struggled to articulate her concern.

“Ah, but haven’t you been displaced? Otherwise, you’d be hanging your photos in the Hot Metal gallery.”

Once she’d seen the righteousness of her position, the idea to make a splash through a guerrilla art installation had seemed natural, almost inevitable. And he was more than happy to help her make it a reality.

He reached his front door, slightly winded from his brisk pace, and turned the key in the lock. He stepped inside, switched on the lamp, and stooped to pet Kathleen Guinan. The tuxedo cat wound herself around Evan’s ankle, rubbing her head on Evan’s shin and purring loudly.

“Ready for dinner?” he asked the cat, who responded by running to the pantry where her kibble was stored.

After feeding Kathleen Guinan and then himself, Evan went to bed early with a snifter of brandy and a well-worn copy of Homelessness in America: A Forced March to Nowhere . Tomorrow would be a long and busy day. He’d be wise to get a good night’s sleep.