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A WEEK BEFORE MARGARET ROSE was born, the company Martin had been with for 10 years lost the electrical installation contract they’d counted on. Then they laid off nine men and stopped paying for overtime. Martin was one of the few who still had a job, but it meant he was expected to do more work with no extra pay. For six straight weeks he had to work a full day on Saturday and a half-day on Sunday, which put him in a mood blacker than a coal miner’s face.
During that time, he wrote just one letter to tell Eliza he was working his ass off and didn’t know when he’d have a chance to come home. Instead of asking about her or the new baby, he wrote three paragraphs about how he had half a mind to report the company to the Brotherhood of Electrical Workers Union. He then signed it “Love, Martin” and enclosed money enough for her to buy groceries.
When he finally made it back to Coal Creek, Margaret Rose was over a month old and already starting to smile. Instead of hurrying back to take a peek at his new daughter, he stomped around the kitchen complaining about the unfairness of his situation and how hard he had to work.
Having grown accustomed to the angry outbursts that could come or go in the blink of an eye, Eliza figured he needed a bit of time to simmer down and let go of the anger. While he went on about a lazy-ass boss telling him what to do, she busied herself about the kitchen. Every now and again she gave a nod; it was enough to prove she was listening but not enough to stoke the fire of his anger.
That tirade went on for over an hour before he appeared calm enough where Eliza thought she could talk to him.
“Margaret Rose was born on Dewey’s birthday,” she said pleasantly. “She’s a feisty little thing. Pretty as a picture and has your eyes.”
“If this means you’re gonna be asking me for more money, you can forget it,” Martin snapped. “Without that overtime, I’ve got nothing more to give.”
He walked back to the bedroom, took a quick look inside the cradle, and told Eliza he was going out to the smokehouse.
As he stomped out the door, an ominous shiver crawled up her spine. She could usually sense the depth of his moods, but this time she’d misjudged him. The anger was still there, hidden just below his skin, and waiting to explode.
When Martin returned to the house, the sky was dark, the wind had picked up, and an echo of thunder rolled across the mountain. A storm was coming; Eliza was sure of it. She was uncertain whether it would come from the sky or her husband, but fearing the worst she’d fed the children early and tucked them into bed.
He came through the door red-eyed and wobbly as a new colt, staggered into the kitchen, set a jug of moonshine on the table, and plopped down in a chair. Under most circumstances, Eliza found it easier to give in to him than argue; she’d let him have his way and wait for his mood to change. But she’d seen the ugliness that came with his drinking, and that was the one thing she couldn’t tolerate.
“I told you not to bring that in here,” she said. “If you’ve got to drink, do it out by the smokehouse.”
Martin narrowed his eyes and glared at her. “You’ve got no right to tell me what I can or can’t do in my own house. I’ll drink wherever I damn well please.”
“This isn’t your house,” she said angrily. “It’s my mama’s.”
He slammed his fist against the table so hard the jug bounced off and splattered on the floor then pulled himself up from the chair and stood.
“Like hell it is. I’m the one paying the bills. I’m the one feeding you and these kids. Far as I’m concerned, that means it’s my house.”
Eliza saw the bits of spittle that flew from his mouth and peppered the table, which only made her more determined.
“Just because you’re paying the bills doesn’t change the fact that it’s still—”
“Yeah, it does. It changes everything. Your mama’s dead and in the ground, and you don’t have a nickel to your name. Without me, you and these kids got nothing.”
“Do you think that’s something to be proud of?” Eliza yelled back, her temper flaring as it never had before. “Providing for your family doesn’t make you some kind of hero. You’re only doing what most men do.”
Martin crossed the room in three long strides, grabbed hold of her hair, and yanked her head back. With his face hovering over hers, he screamed a string of threats and obscenities far worse than anything she’d ever heard before. He was still going strong when Dewey ran into the room.
“Mama, come quick. Margaret Rose is breathing funny!”
Not giving up his hold on Eliza, Martin glared at the boy and yelled, “Get out of here!”
Dewey stood motionless for a few seconds, then started toward his daddy with fists flailing.
“Let Mama go!”
In a movement so quick it would forever be a blur in Eliza’s mind, Martin released his hold on her, picked up Dewey, and hurled him across the room.
She heard the splintering of bone when he hit the wall. Now freed, she ran to the child and held him to her chest. His arm hung at an odd angle but instead of crying out, he pleaded, “Mama, you’ve gotta come see about Margaret Rose.”
The door slammed. Without looking up, Eliza knew Martin was gone. He was on his way back to the smokehouse.
Wrapping her arm around Dewey’s shoulders, she guided him back toward the bedroom. Before crossing the threshold, she heard Margaret Rose struggling. The baby’s breath was heavy and labored. It had the raspy sound of something caught in her airway. When Eliza saw the tiny chest rising and falling quickly, she scooped the baby from the cradle and carried her to the kitchen.
Dewey cradled his arm like an afterthought as he followed along. With a worried expression that was way beyond his years, he asked, “Mama, is Margaret Rose gonna be alright?”
“I think so, Dewey, and if she is, it will be because you saved her life.”
Eliza never went to bed that night. Once she had a kettle of water steaming atop the stove, she held the baby in her arms and stood rubbing circles across the tiny back. As the sun crested the horizon, the baby’s breathing slowed and she dropped off to sleep.
——————
MARTIN SLEPT IN THE SMOKEHOUSE that night, and when he woke from his drunken stupor the reality of what he’d done came at him like a battering ram. He and Eliza had their differences, and they’d butted heads any number of times before but never like that. A few times he’d lost his temper and been overly aggressive with her but not with any of the kids. He could only vaguely remember the altercation with Dewey. He remembered the boy coming at him and the terrible sound of Eliza’s scream. Other than that, nothing.
He lowered his face into his hands and started to sob. He didn’t need to remember the details to know it was bad. Very bad. The kind of thing for which Eliza would never forgive him.
As much as he enjoyed having the freedom to stay in Charleston and live life on his own terms, he didn’t want to lose Eliza. He’d fallen in love with her the first time he’d seen her. Despite their differences, he still loved her. She was to him what the children were to her.
There were times when he thought if she had to choose between him and the children, he would be the loser. He wished it were different. He wished that, like him, she was content to have their life together be just the two of them, but that wasn’t Eliza’s nature. From the day she’d first discovered herself pregnant with Oliver, she’d taken on the glow of motherhood and even after six kids it had not dulled.