more angry. “If the mills are so safe then why are you forcing your son to live a life he doesn’t want just so he doesn’t ever have to set foot in one of them?”
Rose threw the guest towel to the ground. “That is none of your business. And that’s the end of my sweet-act. You’ve pushed me over the line.”
Sara Clara jerked her shoulders in defiance.
They stared at each other.
“Can’t you just help me Rose? Please. Like I’m one of your patients, please. I feel so alone.”
“This is me helping you,” Rose said.
“You’re mean.”
Rose stood motionless. The corner of her mouth pulled tight, as if she were trying to hold back words. She headed for the door and then turned back.
“You have a job to do in this house. The rest of us depend on you to do your end of things. If you did that then you’d have less time to bellyache.”
Sara Clara sat back up. “We are moving back to civilization!” she said. “Right after Christmas. We’re headed back to North Carolina!” Sara Clara whipped the pillow, and it hit Rose in the chest and dropped to the ground in front of her.
Sara Clara thought she saw Rose smile under her scowl. Sara Clara drew her knees to her chest.
“You’re not going anywhere until you pay us back, Sara Clara. So toughen the hell up and do the chores you’re supposed to. I can’t do one more task at home and still do the work I’m paid to do. So shut the hell up and do your part.” Rose looked as though she had something more to say, but was silent. She closed the door and Sara Clara fell back on the mattress, hands over her face.
She had never felt so frustrated and helpless. She wondered if there was a way to make her life better, but no ideas came. She had made a vow to Buzzy. She was forever lodged inside a stifling life, in a town that sucked out all that was good, and she wondered if she’d live to see another sunrise. She decided that in Donora, home of the endless cloudy day, it was plausible the sun might not rise. And, she wondered, would she care if it didn’t?
Chapter 3
O n the edge of town a sign reads: Donora: Next to Yours, the Best Town in the USA . Donorans mean it, proud of the life they’ve built here, but they wouldn’t begrudge someone else their dignity either. That said, they don’t have time for lazy, arrogant fellas hiring on a mill crew. Those jobs required strength and skill and humility even though those attributes were not part of the job description.
Donora’s heart beat inside the chest of sturdy immigrant bodies, forged from stock so nimble and willing that not even loss of limb or consciousness would keep a person floating in his own melancholy long. When things were really rough, before the war and unions, when the men worked the mills in twelve hour shifts then were stiffed for pay, Donora’s steel workers refused to strike.
And it was this coarse, stubborn existence that seeded the life that Henry and Buzzy Pavlesic lived. The habits of their existence and the expectations of the town trapped them. They were lured into ruts, forced down the same path they’d already traveled and known to be wrong, as though they lacked the ability to simply lift one foot out of the muddy furrow and then the other.
When the two men reached their home, Henry sighed. He needed one hour to think of something other than their trouble.
Buzzy yanked at Henry’s arm. “Christ almighty, Hen.”
Henry had been hoping to avoid this conversation. Henry turned to see Buzzy shuffle his feet nervously.
Buzzy flexed his bicep trying to be jovial.
“I ought to use your head for a ram-rod and shove you through that door,” Buzzy said. “What’s with the fast-as-a rabbit routine this morning? You’re not trying to dodge your little brother, now are you?”
Henry lit a cigarette and shoved his pack toward Buzzy. Buzzy drew a cigarette, put it to his cracked lips and Henry lit it.
“‘Course not.” Henry dragged on his cigarette, standing
Rose threw the guest towel to the ground. “That is none of your business. And that’s the end of my sweet-act. You’ve pushed me over the line.”
Sara Clara jerked her shoulders in defiance.
They stared at each other.
“Can’t you just help me Rose? Please. Like I’m one of your patients, please. I feel so alone.”
“This is me helping you,” Rose said.
“You’re mean.”
Rose stood motionless. The corner of her mouth pulled tight, as if she were trying to hold back words. She headed for the door and then turned back.
“You have a job to do in this house. The rest of us depend on you to do your end of things. If you did that then you’d have less time to bellyache.”
Sara Clara sat back up. “We are moving back to civilization!” she said. “Right after Christmas. We’re headed back to North Carolina!” Sara Clara whipped the pillow, and it hit Rose in the chest and dropped to the ground in front of her.
Sara Clara thought she saw Rose smile under her scowl. Sara Clara drew her knees to her chest.
“You’re not going anywhere until you pay us back, Sara Clara. So toughen the hell up and do the chores you’re supposed to. I can’t do one more task at home and still do the work I’m paid to do. So shut the hell up and do your part.” Rose looked as though she had something more to say, but was silent. She closed the door and Sara Clara fell back on the mattress, hands over her face.
She had never felt so frustrated and helpless. She wondered if there was a way to make her life better, but no ideas came. She had made a vow to Buzzy. She was forever lodged inside a stifling life, in a town that sucked out all that was good, and she wondered if she’d live to see another sunrise. She decided that in Donora, home of the endless cloudy day, it was plausible the sun might not rise. And, she wondered, would she care if it didn’t?
Chapter 3
O n the edge of town a sign reads: Donora: Next to Yours, the Best Town in the USA . Donorans mean it, proud of the life they’ve built here, but they wouldn’t begrudge someone else their dignity either. That said, they don’t have time for lazy, arrogant fellas hiring on a mill crew. Those jobs required strength and skill and humility even though those attributes were not part of the job description.
Donora’s heart beat inside the chest of sturdy immigrant bodies, forged from stock so nimble and willing that not even loss of limb or consciousness would keep a person floating in his own melancholy long. When things were really rough, before the war and unions, when the men worked the mills in twelve hour shifts then were stiffed for pay, Donora’s steel workers refused to strike.
And it was this coarse, stubborn existence that seeded the life that Henry and Buzzy Pavlesic lived. The habits of their existence and the expectations of the town trapped them. They were lured into ruts, forced down the same path they’d already traveled and known to be wrong, as though they lacked the ability to simply lift one foot out of the muddy furrow and then the other.
When the two men reached their home, Henry sighed. He needed one hour to think of something other than their trouble.
Buzzy yanked at Henry’s arm. “Christ almighty, Hen.”
Henry had been hoping to avoid this conversation. Henry turned to see Buzzy shuffle his feet nervously.
Buzzy flexed his bicep trying to be jovial.
“I ought to use your head for a ram-rod and shove you through that door,” Buzzy said. “What’s with the fast-as-a rabbit routine this morning? You’re not trying to dodge your little brother, now are you?”
Henry lit a cigarette and shoved his pack toward Buzzy. Buzzy drew a cigarette, put it to his cracked lips and Henry lit it.
“‘Course not.” Henry dragged on his cigarette, standing
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