Black Gold, Fool's Gold

FICTION Black Gold, Fool's Gold Patricia H. Patteson and Gerald D. Swick CARRIE STARED OUT THE KITCHEN WINDOW into the darkness beyond her white clapboard home. Raindrops splashed against smeared glass, quivering in the electric light. Was this how souls looked to God when they fled dying bodies, she wondered. Dark thoughts came easy on mornings like this when thick, black clouds pressed down like a pot lid, and mountains squeezed the three hundred or so houses tighter into Pleasanton's narrow valley. The clock on the kitchen wall reminded her not to daydream. Quickly, she checked the contents of the battered, aluminum lunch pail. Ham and cheese sandwich, fresh biscuits, fruit, slice of peach pie, were all neatly arranged. She clamped the pail shut and began filling the thermos with coffee. If Joe had to make his living as a coal miner, she would send him into the mine with something decent to eat. A knock on the front door echoed through the house, and Carrie ran to open it. Her father stood on the porch, water dripping off his rain slick. He grinned at her, his eyes crinkling. "Joe ready?" he asked. "Almost," Carrie replied. "D'you have time for a cup a coffee?" "Is that biscuits I smell?" "Made them fresh for Joe's lunch pail." "Hand me one out here. I don't want to come inside and drip water all over the floor." Carrie hurried to the kitchen, took two hot biscuits off the cooling rack, put them on a small plate and lavished them with butter. She poured steaming coffee into a mug. Butter melted down the biscuits' sides as she hurried back to the porch. Passing the staircase she called upstairs. "Hurry, Joe, Dad's here." Her father reached inside the screen door for the plate and mug, red-and-blue checkered shirt cuffs poking out beneath his rain slick. Stretching his mouth over a biscuit, he said. "Joe'd be late for his own funeral, The man's never on time—not even for his own wedding." "Some things are worth waiting for," Carrie said. Her father paused in mid-bite, stared at her, then finished the biscuit in silence. She stepped outside, pulled a dishtowel off her shoulder and wiped 62 away butter smeared round his mouth. Rainwater pooled around him soaked through the sponge soles of her slippers. "You'll catch your death out here, girlie," he said. "It's not so cold." "It could easily snow." Heavy footsteps thudded on the staircase behind Carrie. "About time," her father grumbled. "You're a born complainer, Tom," Joe Slaton said. "Some day you'll be on time and—" "Enough already," Carrie interrupted. Joe, his pail in one hand and thermos in the other, pulled her close and kissed her. She lingered in his arms, comforted by the strength she found there. "Gawd," Tom said. "Won't you two ever stop acting like two lovestruck kids? You've been married nine years. It's time you got over all that stuff." Carrie took his plate and mug, kissed his cheek and said. "I love you, Dad" Joe joined her father on the porch; they walked out into the rain as the sky slid from black to gray. They had only gotten a few feet when a mud-spattered Ford truck came rattling into the shale-covered driveway and halted beside them. Carrie's brother, Kip, rolled down the window and stuck his head out. "Care for a ride, Dad? Joe?" "It's just up the road," Tom replied. "Not hardly worthwhile." "It's raining," Kip insisted. "We won't melt. What're you doing here so early anyway?" "Harry Simms has a couple of hogs for sale. Thought I'd say hi to Sis before heading over there." "Good." Tom waved, and he and Joe started up the road. "Sure you don't want a ride, Dad?" "Nope." Kip got out of the truck and hurried up the porch steps. Carrie met him, arms outstretched for his welcoming hug. "C'mon inside," she said. "I made fresh biscuits." "Great." Neither of them moved. Instead they watched the two rain-soaked figures...