Hmm … Then her eyes light up, and she points “There!” She actually signs it (although not on purpose—the real sign for “there” is just pointing at something). Indeed, Leigha is coming around the corner from the back of the gift shop. A sort of pale green and shifty embarrassment masks her face, and also … What is it? Her lipstick—when did she start wearing so much makeup?—is smeared.
“Where were you, young lady?” Prefontaine snaps. “We are all
(something something something)
, and you’ve been, been …”
Apparently, she can’t guess what Leigha had been doing. But I can. I am pretty sure it doesn’t involve Pat Chambers. That look on her face is the look I had when I ate too much ice cream or, once, a whole bag of Baker’s chocolate. The same look I had that day the cafeteria served fried ravioli.
Lovely Leigha’s guts are in a full-on twist.
I want to shield my Leigha from the bad math whore. But I can’t. So I just stand by, watching.
Leigha whispers to Miss Prefontaine. Prefontaine looks a little smirky, then gestures that Leigha should get in the back of the line.
The balloon of salacious excitement is popped. We turn to get on the bus—but where is Pat Chambers?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The next weird thing that happens: Miner Carl comes flying out of the Happy Memory Coal Mine emergency exit, screaming maniacally, a hyperball of panic. I can’t tell what he is yelling, but it must be something like “Call the police” or “Dial 911” because dozens of people begin tapping their cell phones.
Devon, one of the many trying to get his cell phone to work, grabs me by the shoulders and explains with a look of serious concentration on his face.
“ P-A-T I-SA-T T-H-E B-O-T-T-O-M O-F T-H-E M-I-N-E ,” he signs with shaking hands. “ M-I-N-E-R C-A-R-L T-H-I-N-K-S H-E M-I-G-H-T B-E D-E-A-D .“ For a lip-reader like me, a real emergency is quite literally like losing my mind. I catch fragmented bits of conversations, everyone on the cell phone at once, everyone panicking and running as if a sudden tornado of acid rain has opened overour heads. It is a madhouse. The Happy Memory employees—only used to pretending to work at a mine—turn to their leader, a panic-stricken bald man who just keeps running in circles yelling, “Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod.”
Miss Prefontaine has collapsed like a punctured implant, becoming a weeping puddle of makeup and tears, still clutching her oversize playing card. Mr. Arterberry is a dead ringer for a fish out of water, his big mouth gasping, his wide eyes staring in every direction.
A whirlwind of emergency vehicles whips into the parking lot—police cars, ambulances, and even fire trucks from several townships. Shouting into their shoulders, the EMTs run like a descending army into the mouth of the mine. I stand baffled and bathed in the colored strobe of the revolving lights. People next to me are hugging one another, crying. I feel dizzy.
Next: platoons of reporters, TV vans, even a helicopter, descend in a blink of an eye, like rats sniffing out a meal. They jab cameras and microphones in all directions, training their zoom lenses on tearstained faces. What should I do if they ask me for an interview? If they stick their cameras in
my
face? I decide that I will give them the finger. Solves the language issue and also makes my point. I hate it when newspeople ask someone how it feels when something tragic happens. How do they think it feels?
When the first wave of EMTs emerges from the mouth of the mine, I can tell that the news is grim. Though their faces wear masks of seen-it-all tough guys, the shock is clear in every one of their twitching eyes. Finally, like the exclamation pointat the end of the sentence, the last group of workers emerges carrying a body bag. Pat Chambers is dead!
Fancy SUVs and Jaguars and pickup trucks cruise into the Happy Memory parking lot. Is it on the news already? No, of course: all those cell phone calls to Ma
“Where were you, young lady?” Prefontaine snaps. “We are all
(something something something)
, and you’ve been, been …”
Apparently, she can’t guess what Leigha had been doing. But I can. I am pretty sure it doesn’t involve Pat Chambers. That look on her face is the look I had when I ate too much ice cream or, once, a whole bag of Baker’s chocolate. The same look I had that day the cafeteria served fried ravioli.
Lovely Leigha’s guts are in a full-on twist.
I want to shield my Leigha from the bad math whore. But I can’t. So I just stand by, watching.
Leigha whispers to Miss Prefontaine. Prefontaine looks a little smirky, then gestures that Leigha should get in the back of the line.
The balloon of salacious excitement is popped. We turn to get on the bus—but where is Pat Chambers?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The next weird thing that happens: Miner Carl comes flying out of the Happy Memory Coal Mine emergency exit, screaming maniacally, a hyperball of panic. I can’t tell what he is yelling, but it must be something like “Call the police” or “Dial 911” because dozens of people begin tapping their cell phones.
Devon, one of the many trying to get his cell phone to work, grabs me by the shoulders and explains with a look of serious concentration on his face.
“ P-A-T I-SA-T T-H-E B-O-T-T-O-M O-F T-H-E M-I-N-E ,” he signs with shaking hands. “ M-I-N-E-R C-A-R-L T-H-I-N-K-S H-E M-I-G-H-T B-E D-E-A-D .“ For a lip-reader like me, a real emergency is quite literally like losing my mind. I catch fragmented bits of conversations, everyone on the cell phone at once, everyone panicking and running as if a sudden tornado of acid rain has opened overour heads. It is a madhouse. The Happy Memory employees—only used to pretending to work at a mine—turn to their leader, a panic-stricken bald man who just keeps running in circles yelling, “Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod.”
Miss Prefontaine has collapsed like a punctured implant, becoming a weeping puddle of makeup and tears, still clutching her oversize playing card. Mr. Arterberry is a dead ringer for a fish out of water, his big mouth gasping, his wide eyes staring in every direction.
A whirlwind of emergency vehicles whips into the parking lot—police cars, ambulances, and even fire trucks from several townships. Shouting into their shoulders, the EMTs run like a descending army into the mouth of the mine. I stand baffled and bathed in the colored strobe of the revolving lights. People next to me are hugging one another, crying. I feel dizzy.
Next: platoons of reporters, TV vans, even a helicopter, descend in a blink of an eye, like rats sniffing out a meal. They jab cameras and microphones in all directions, training their zoom lenses on tearstained faces. What should I do if they ask me for an interview? If they stick their cameras in
my
face? I decide that I will give them the finger. Solves the language issue and also makes my point. I hate it when newspeople ask someone how it feels when something tragic happens. How do they think it feels?
When the first wave of EMTs emerges from the mouth of the mine, I can tell that the news is grim. Though their faces wear masks of seen-it-all tough guys, the shock is clear in every one of their twitching eyes. Finally, like the exclamation pointat the end of the sentence, the last group of workers emerges carrying a body bag. Pat Chambers is dead!
Fancy SUVs and Jaguars and pickup trucks cruise into the Happy Memory parking lot. Is it on the news already? No, of course: all those cell phone calls to Ma
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