Dig Too Deep (10 page)

Eighteen

I call in to school in the morning, pretending to be Granny, and tell them I'm sick. I have a lot to get done. In addition to calling hospice, I have a list of people Dr. Lang thought I could contact about getting the mine shut down.

A voice in my head keeps whispering to me that taking down Peabody won't fix anything. Granny's already sick, after all, and so are a bunch of other people. But I can't sit around watching her waste away without doing
something.

I make Granny a bowl of oatmeal, which she doesn't eat. Then I sit down with the phone and start dialing. The meeting with hospice is easy to set up. Mrs. Blanchard says she'll stop by this afternoon for her first visit.

Next I call the EPA office in Tolesbridge to ask how to lodge a complaint against Peabody Mining. It takes a while to determine whether I'm reporting an environmental emergency or a violation. I get transferred to three different people until they decide the mine is not causing a
sudden
threat, and classify my complaint as a violation. Since I don't have Internet access at the house, they transfer me to a fourth person who gives me the number of the Southeast Regional EPA office where I can call and request the complaint form.

“How long does this all take?” I ask.

“The form isn't long, but it can take a while for it to be reviewed.” I get the impression she has this same conversation thirty times a day.

“How long would it be before the mine can be closed down?”

Silence. Then, “What?”

“How long?” I repeat. “Just a ballpark guess is fine.”

There's silence from the other end. “Look …” Her voice is softer now. “I understand you're concerned. And obviously the EPA will want to check into this. But I have to tell you, the likelihood of a mine's permit being revoked is very slim.”

“Like how slim?”

“It's only happened once.”

“Once? You mean, ever?”

“Yes.”

I'm speechless.

“You would probably have better luck attacking this at the local level.”

“Meaning?”

“Your city or county government might have more leverage in this situation. I'm sure they'd want to know about any health issues facing your community.”

“Would they have the power to close the mine?”

“I wouldn't know. It's difficult to determine who has final say in cases like this. Sometimes, it's the state, but local ordinances and federal laws govern certain infractions. And every jurisdiction is different.”

It sounds like nobody knows who's regulating what. “How do I find out which department is in charge?”

“It sort of depends on who's in charge.”

I stare out the window. “Wait … what?”

She sighs. “Start with the county. You'll have to figure it out as you go along.”

“Um … Okay.” Dr. Lang did give me the name of the chairman of the county commissioners. “I'll try that. Thanks.”

“Good luck,” she says. Judging by her sigh, I can tell she's thinking,
You'll need it
.

I call the regional EPA office and request the complaint form. It's supposed to arrive in week or so. In two weeks, Granny could be gone. I try to ignore my brain as it whispers,
Where will I be?

That's about all the good news I can handle for the moment, so I go check on Granny. I'm sure it's my imagination, but she seems smaller and weaker today. It's hard to believe she could make it to the dining room for lunch, much less down to the creek like she did yesterday.

I must have made a sound, because her eyes pop open. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, just dandy.”

I don't know how to deal with her sarcasm now. The possibility that she could go at anytime puts a different spin on things.

“I'm sorry, sugarplum,” she says. “Come sit with me.”

I perch on the edge of the bed. “Do you need anything?”

“Naw.”

I push her red curls off her forehead. There's a stripe of white roots running down her part. Red and white. It reminds me of those round candy mints. “Does it hurt?”

She pushes herself up and settles into the pillows. “Not too terrible bad.”

“But some?”

“Some, yeah.”

“Do you want anything for the pain? The doctor gave you a prescription.”

“Naw,” she says. “I prefer not to take them chemicals.”

“Right. They might give you cancer or something.”

She smiles and shakes her finger at me. “I hear what you're saying, smart-ass. I'll take 'em if I'm hurting.”

“I'm glad to hear that.” I kiss her forehead, trying to get my mind around the idea that she could be gone next week while at the same time trying not to think about it. My brain's playing tug-of-war with itself. “I'm going to make some calls. You okay in here?”

“Yes, ma'am. Think I might read a little.” She reaches for her Bible. As I close the door, she's opening the book to random pages and reading whatever her finger lands on. I hope whatever she finds brings her some comfort.

The county commissioner chair doesn't answer his phone, so I leave a message. “I'd like to talk to you about some health issues facing our community.” I hope that's vague enough to pique his interest without setting off his “mine” alarm.

I spend an hour tidying up. Then I stare at my phone. The next thing I have to do is the hardest on the list.

I have to tell MFM about Granny's cancer.

Aside from the fact that I don't want anything to do with that woman, there's the whole issue of telling someone her mom is dying. Whatever our differences, I know MFM loves Granny. Granny stood by her when she got pregnant with me and helped her through it all. And the sad truth is, barring some miracle, Granny will be gone before MFM gets out of prison.

But nobody else is going to do it and while part of me might like to punish MFM by not telling her until it's too late, that's just too wrong.

Leaving Granny napping, I climb the ridge trail so I can get a signal and pull up one of her unopened emails. I promise myself I won't read it. That after a month and a half of me ignoring her, it'll be full of her telling me I'm a horrible person and explaining everything that's wrong with my behavior. I'm just going to open it and hit “reply” and then “delete all,” so I don't have to read a single word.

But as I hit “select all,” I see my name. And a few other words—miss you … sorry … love you …

And then I'm reading the whole letter. She misses me. Hopes I'm well. Her lawyers found a solid witness for her alibi and have scored some important meeting with the federal DA. I couldn't care less about the trial stuff, but I am surprised she isn't angry or hurt that I've been ignoring her. And it's kind of ironic, her ignoring the fact that I'm ignoring her existence.

But it doesn't change anything. It's too late for a second (or a third or a millionth) chance. She no longer exists, and if it wasn't for Granny, I wouldn't be contacting her at all. So, I delete her words and start composing my own. I try to be as brief and factual as possible.

“Granny's been sick since I got here. They ran some tests and the results came back that she has stage four lung cancer. They've given her only weeks, maybe a couple months, to live. I thought you should know.”

I contemplate how to sign it and decide that emails don't really need signatures. I click “send” and off it goes.

Amazingly, a text from Iris comes in while I'm standing there. It feels like I haven't talked to her in weeks.

I have big news! Call me!


Biting my cheek, I stare at the letters.
Big news
. Something great, obviously. Maybe that internship she mentioned before. I should be happy. I should be dialing her number now, anxious to hear whatever wonderful thing happened. But I can't. My fingers won't move. They're bloodless, squeezing the phone.

I tell myself I'm just drained from writing to MFM. Still kicked in the gut from the news about Granny's cancer. But deep down I know—I don't
want
to hear Iris's news. My life sucks, hers is full of awesome, and I'm totally jealous. I suck as a friend.

Glancing across the valley at the mine, I mumble a “goddam Peabody” for Granny and start back down the trail. Silkie and Beethoven come crashing out of the woods and escort me back to the house. I stop on the porch to scratch a dozing Goldie between the ears and go in to check on Granny.

She's asleep. I get her a new bottle of water and consider going to the library, but since I'm technically supposed to be in school, it seems like a dicey plan. Besides, I'm not sure more research is going to help me tackle the mine. Definitive proof that the water is dangerous and the mine is the cause—that's what I need. And that's not in the library. In fact, I'm not even sure it exists. I stare at the numbers on the water report, looking for something I might have missed. Something like “all numbers were completely fabricated by the testing company.” But there's nothing.

I've been wondering if Robert Peabody knows what his company is doing to the people here. Does he think the orange water, the cancer cluster, the deformed fish came out of the blue? Or does he know it's his fault and is covering it up and bullying people into silence. As usual, I have questions no one will answer. They're all afraid of losing their jobs or getting on the wrong side of Peabody.

I toss the water report on the desk and stare at it upside down. That's when I notice it. On page two, the sheet that came from the lab—under “Sample collected by,” it says Dewey Dobber.

Whoa. Dobber's dad?

Thoughts run fast through my head.
Huh, that's funny
. Then,
Wait … Mr. Dobber worked for the mine
. And,
Why would a mine employee have anything to do with the water test?

For the first time, I've got a question somebody can answer. Somebody who's not afraid of Peabody. Somebody with nothing to lose. And thanks to his house-arrest ankle bracelet, I know exactly where to find him.

Nineteen

I've been to Dobber's house a few times with Cole, dropping him off or picking him up. Still, I pass the road the first time and have to turn around. Their driveway is even worse than ours, and I take it really slow to make sure I don't lose the muffler. A minute later, I pull into the parking area, cut the engine, and stare at the trailer.

Mr. Dobber's in there somewhere. I think I see a curtain move, but I'm not sure. Now that I'm here, this seems like a seriously stupid idea. I doubt he remembers me, and on the off chance that he's not drunk or wasted, asking him anything about the mine is likely to piss him off. I have the key back in the ignition and I'm just about to leave when the front door opens.

There he is. A skinny, shirtless guy with scabby skin and stringy hair. He's holding a cigarette and leaning against the door frame, staring at me. I could still leave.

“Who the hell are you?”

I leave the keys in the ignition and open the door. “Mr. Dobber, my name's Liberty Briscoe? I met you a few weeks ago. I'm friends with your son.”

He laughs and it sounds like his throat must be made of hamburger. “Lady Liberty. Look just like your mama.” He flings the screen door open. “You comin' in?”

Every single cell in my brain is screaming,
Are you out of your mind? Of course we're not going in!
But somehow I walk to the steps and up on to the deck and finally, through the door into the darkness of Dobber's home.

It's actually not as bad as I expected. The kitchen is pretty clean, just a couple plates and a pot in the sink. Mr. Dobber opens the refrigerator and pulls out a beer.

“You want one?”

“No, thank you.”

“Suit yerself.”

I follow him into the living room and take the chair close to the door. It smells bad in here. Like old food and BO. But I can see places where somebody, I have to assume Dobber, has tried to make this place a home: a faded
National Geographic
world map print tacked up with push pins, a blanket on the couch, a candle in a wine bottle on the bookshelf.

“You here for drugs?”

“No.” I fidget with my keys. “I wanted to ask you some questions about …”

It's a bombshell, that word. No matter what words you nest around it, in Ebbottsville
the mine
is always explosive.

“Aw shit.” He pops open the beer. “This about Dobber?”

“No, it's—”

“If yer pregnant, there ain't—”

“What? No!” I must look seriously offended because he starts laughing.

“Naw, reckon you don't look the type. Too uptight.”

“I wanted to ask you some questions about the mine.”

His head snaps back and I get ready to run.

“What the hell?” His words are less slurred now. “Peabody send you?”

“No. I'm here because of my granny.”

His eyes narrow. “Kat?”

“Yes. Kat.”

He shakes his head and downs half the new beer. “Kat never had nothing to do with the mine. Your granddad didn't neither.”

“Granny's got cancer,” I say. “The doctor said she's got a couple months at the most.”

“That's a damn shame. I like Kat,” he says. “What that gots to do with me?”

I pretty much suck at cat and mouse and I can tell that, underneath the beer buzz and years of drug abuse, Mr. Dobber is still a smart man. And he's being very careful. So I go for the unusual tactic of honesty.

“I believe she got the cancer from drinking our well water. And I believe the well is bad because the chemicals from the mine have washed into the groundwater. I know you took the samples for the test the county did. What I'm wondering is … why was the mine involved in the water test at all?”

I watch Mr. Dobber's face as I reel that off. It goes from confusion to trapped animal in a matter of seconds. “That's a question for Robert Peabody. Not me. I was just doing what I's told.”

“Did you collect samples from everybody's wells?”

“Ever'body who signed up.” He twists the cuff on his ankle.

“Signed up? What do you mean signed up?”

With his gaze leveled at me, he suddenly seems completely lucid. “When the county started getting complaints about people's wells—some was running dry, some was getting orange—a couple folks in town said it was 'cause of the mine. Peabody paid to have ever'body's wells tested. Folks who wanted to signed up at the mine office. Not ever'body signed up.”

“So, the company that might have caused the water issue was in charge of determining if they were to blame?” I feel a little sick. “Didn't anybody think that might be a conflict of interest?”

“Couple folks did.” He taps his beer can on the arm of the chair and stares at the floor.

“Did they do anything about it? File a complaint? Anything?”

“They died before the tests was run, so … no.”

“From cancer?”

“Naw.” Mr. Dobber takes a long swig of beer and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “Car wreck.”

“Oh.”

“Look here. This is all ancient history.” The springs in his chair squeak as he leans forward. “You know what's good for you, you'll stop digging into this mess. 'Fore you get a car wreck of your own.”

“Wait, are you saying Peabody caused the wreck?”

“S'pose he did?” Mr. Dobber asks. “That change your mind about all this?”

“I'm not afraid of Peabody,” I say.

He half smiles before taking another swig of beer. “Damn, if you ain't just like your mama. She weren't afraid of nothing either.”

That's one topic I don't want to hear about. So I stand up and walk toward the door, puzzling over what he's told me. Right away, something about the timing of everything triggers an alarm. “Mr. Dobber, did the water test have anything to do with you getting fired?”

The vein in the side of Mr. Dobber's neck starts to throb.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “But if it did—”

“I believe we're done here.”

But I have one more question and I need an answer. “Did you falsify the water samples? Take them all from a source you knew was—”

The can he's holding hits the wall behind me. “Get out!” Beer sprays everywhere.

I'm out the door by the time he's on his feet. Jumping the stairs, I open the car door as he comes out onto the deck.

“Look, I'm sorry I upset you,” I say, my voice shaking. “But this water is killing people. Somebody needs to take a stand against Peabody.”

“Take a stand?” He stomps down the steps as I slide into the car and lock the doors. “Look around. That bastard took ever'thing I had. What I got to take a stand for?”

“You still have Dobber,” I yell through the window. “Don't you think he's worth it?”

He slams his hands against my window. “You wanna get yourself killed, you do it. The world could stand one less uppity white girl. But leave my boy outta this!”

I start the car and put it in reverse. The last I see of him, he's flipping me off, and I careen down the driveway, praying the muffler stays with me.