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doesn’t happen every day.”
    “You have a job. A nice construction outfit. A company that turns a profit.”
    “We could do better.”
    “You do fine. With my salary—”
    “This is not about you, it’s about me,” Jack says firmly. “Maybe I want to contribute more.”
    He unwraps the corn bread from Fleeta and puts it in a basket. I sit down at the table as he ladles the stew into bowls and brings it to the table.
    There’s at least one ongoing argument in every marriage, and ours has always been about money. My husband believes in the system: put your years in, and at the end of the rainbow is a good pension and union protection. When I point out how the coal companies have reneged on their promises and the union has depleted the pension fund, he gets angry with me, as if I’m pointing out a personal defect in him. He’s proud of his tenure in the mines, and he should be. But he isn’t savvy enough to see how these companies have taken advantage of him. It’s a blind spot in Jack MacChesney.
    “I’m not sold on mountaintop removal. But this guy seems to think there’s a way to do it that won’t ruin the terrain. Someone local needs to get involved, if only to protect what we’ve got here.”
    “Oh, I see. Join ’em and infiltrate.”
    Jack puts down his spoon. “Do you have to do this?”
    “What?”
    “Do you have to fight me?”
    “You worked for Westmoreland for thirty years. They cut your benefits to nothing. Your union is in bad shape. All the promises those people made to you, they’ve broken them one by one. You can’t trust these guys. They’re not on your side.”
    “And you are?”
    “Always.”
    “Doesn’t sound like it.” Jack puts down his napkin and pushes his chair away from the table. He stands. “I’ve lost my appetite.”
    I hear the screen door snap shut as he goes outside. I eat a bite of stew and remember something my mother used to say: “When you argue while you eat, the food turns to poison in your body.” So I put down my napkin and follow Jack out the back door. I can’t find him, so I turn on the back porch light and wait. Then I see him walking through the woods beyond the field out back. He’s really angry, but so am I. No matter what I do or say, he’s too trusting. From time to time, he’s put his faith in people I don’t approve of. We almost split up when he befriended Karen Bell, who wanted to sell him more than lumber from her Coeburn store.
    There was a time when I would have run across the field and made a joke to diffuse his anger. I’d apologize, and he’d be terse for a while, and then he’d come around and we’d be back on track. For some reason, I don’t move. I just watch him as he goes, pushing branches out of his way with a stick. I turn around and go back in the house. I’m not giving an inch on this one; he should have thrown that fresh-scrubbed Hokie out of our house.
    I guess I’m getting more stubborn as the years go by. Sometimes I want to be right more than I want peace. I’ve earned that, haven’t I?
             
    The Slemp Memorial Library is my favorite building in Big Stone Gap. It’s nestled in the rolling landscape of Poplar Hill beneath the museum. It’s a lovely brick building with a grand entrance, decorated (by Iva Lou) with sheafs of wheat and Indian corn. When it was built back in the late 1970s, it became an instant gathering place for kids to do their homework, and for adults to find the latest bestsellers. I mourned the loss of the Bookmobile, but when Iva Lou was made head librarian, she traded her wheels for her own branch. Iva Lou blossomed when she was put in charge. With a modern facility, she was able to make the library a viable part of the community. She started story time for the kids and invited local clubs, from the Lions to the Junior League, to have their monthly meetings there. It’s a bit of an unofficial community center, but you can’t beat it when you want a quiet place to