Mining for Justice Page 8

  A scraping sound sent her heart racing. Images of filthy miners attacking the hillside with picks and shovels filled her mind. She forced herself to take a cautious step, and peered around a shrubby thicket. A shovel flashed in the sun and a bladeful of dirt sailed through the air.

  She took another step, and the imagined miners of long ago disappeared. Loren, glib site director, and Gerald, belligerent interpreter, stood shoulders-deep in a hole just downslope of a limestone outcrop. Loren wore gray trousers and a calico shirt and suspenders. He thrust the shovel into the ground again and heaved the earth aside.

  Then he spotted her and rested the shovel. “Chloe, good morning!” he called, wiping his forehead with one sleeve.

  “Good morning,” she echoed, walking closer to the hole they were excavating. “Good morning, Gerald. I’m just out for a walk.”

  Gerald nodded curtly.

  “This hillside has lots of stories to tell,” Loren said. “Over the years hundreds of zinc and lead mineshafts were dug here.”

  Chloe considered the implications of that. “Are there any open mineshafts I should be aware of?”

  “Don’t worry. All the mines in the area should have been barricaded or filled years ago.” He grabbed his shovel.

  Should have been, Chloe thought. Lovely. She waved her hand in a vague gesture. “Um … what are you doing?”

  Gerald rolled his eyes and got back to work. Clearly he thought it should be obvious.

  “We’re creating a badger hole,” Loren explained. “There are plenty of original badger holes on this hillside, but—”

  “There are?” Chloe looked around, alert for yawning holes all over again. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  Loren climbed a wooden ladder out of his badger hole and joined her. “Badger holes weren’t mines. Some of the early miners who needed temporary shelter simply burrowed into the ground.” He pointed. “Look there.”

  At first Chloe didn’t see anything unexpected. Then her eye caught the unusual depression Loren was indicating. “I see it! And—there’s another one. … And another.” The holes were shallow, and filled with new growth, but they were obvious once she knew what to look for.

  “The miners would cover the holes with logs, or maybe brush and sod,” Loren explained. “Most of the first men here were from Illinois or southern states, and they generally didn’t winter over. They were called suckers because they came and went, and they lived in sucker holes. Miners from New York and New England who overwintered were called badgers because of the shelters they dug. Hence Wisconsin is called the Badger State.”

  Chloe tried to imagine holding her head high in the Sucker State. The sway-backed but fierce badger so beloved by UW sports fans was, she had to admit, a much better mascot than a fish.

  “Anyway, since there’s little left to see, we’re re-creating a badger hole,” Loren said. “It was Gerald’s idea. We’re going to shore it up and create a roof. Visitors will see how tenuous a shelter they were.”

  If Gerald hadn’t been shoveling away with such gusto, Chloe would have told him how impressed she was with that plan. Actually, seeing Loren out here, sweat-stained and solitary, was also impressive. Most administrators had neither the inclination nor the time to stray far from their desks and telephones. At Old World Wisconsin, Director Ralph Petty didn’t venture onto the site in period clothing unless there was a photographer or television camera on hand.

  “Visitors will love this,” she said. “It’s awesome to see the depressions left from the actual miners, but your reproduction badger hole will make it possible for people to truly imagine what it was like for the men.”

  “This hill has incredible interpretive potential,” Loren said eagerly. “We need to get rid of the buckthorn and other invasive vegetation. I’m partnering with the Department of Natural Resources on that. In time we can use the hillside for environmental education too.”

  “Say,” Chloe said, “speaking of environmental stuff—have you by chance heard a bird that sounds like a crying child?”

  Gerald stopped shoveling. He and Loren exchanged a long, silent glance.

  “What?” Chloe demanded.

  “We haven’t heard anything unusual.” Loren began backing down the ladder. “Well, back to it. Enjoy your walk.”

  Chloe wanted to do just that. But she’d only gone a few feet when she realized that this excursion—like her visit to the cemetery—had been spoiled. She wanted solitude, not Gerald’s bad energy. I’ll try again another time, she thought, and looped back to Shake Rag Street.

  Roel­ke’s day began with a trip to Jefferson, seat of an adjacent county, to talk with local officers about a spree of vehicle break-ins that had included several cars in Eagle. After a collegial meeting, all Roel­ke had to do was head southeast toward Eagle and call back into service.

  He didn’t do it.

  Instead he drove two blocks west and parked on South Gardener Street, directly across from an office building. Painted on the big window on the first floor: Dan Raymo, Insurance. Roel­ke couldn’t see Raymo through the window, but his car was parked outside. A black Pontiac Firebird. Raymo liked to think he was cooler than he was.

  Roel­ke sat for a long time, staring across traffic at the office. He didn’t know what he thought eyeing the building would accomplish. Since he was in uniform, driving the Eagle squad, he had no business wasting time in Jefferson. He was aware of a faint sense of sliding, just a bit, like a toe inching over the edge of a precipice that should not be approached.

  But he couldn’t help it. He felt compelled to send a steely stare across the street to Libby’s ex. You’re watching Libby? he thought. Well, I’m watching you.

  Clouds were building as Chloe crossed the road. Dr. Yvonne Miller stood on the sidewalk in front of Polperro House, staring at the old building. Her journal was in hand.

  “Dagnabbit,” Chloe mumbled. She wasn’t in the mood for Miller’s unique brand of toxic discourse.

  Still. Chloe felt a certain sense of challenge as she regarded the other woman. Why did she carry so much animosity? It wasn’t healthy. Squaring her shoulders, Chloe approached Miller. “Good morning!” she called brightly.

  “Oh!” Miller whirled. “Good morning.” She slapped the journal closed.

  Chloe was distracted by the journal, which was a beautiful shade of deep green. Not that Chloe would ever choose a leather notebook. But Dr. Yvonne Miller should carry something dyed a shrill, discordant color. Hot pink, maybe. Or neon orange.

  “Do you want something?” Miller asked.

  Chloe realized the pause had become awkward, and produced her most chipper smile. “How is your research coming?”

  “My research is fine.”

  “So, what exactly is your topic?”

  “The lead region.”

  Well, Chloe thought, that covers a whole lot of ground, literally and figuratively. “Do the structures here at Pendarvis play a role? You seem particularly interested in the historic site.”

  “If I do,” Miller snapped, “it’s only because interpretation here is so inadequate.”

  “That’s a bit harsh,” Chloe said mildly. “You said last night, and I quote, ‘research and interpretation at Pendarvis are derisory.’ I strongly disagree. What is your problem with the site?”

  “The interpreters tell the wrong stories. An entire building is devoted to talking about Bob Neal and Edgar Hellum. Those men weren’t even historians!”

  “No, but they saved the buildings that comprise the historic site, and as I understand it, created the local preservation ethic that has given Mineral Point such a distinct identity. What they did is inspiring, and we owe them a huge debt of gratitude. Their story is just as important as what happened here in the 1830s and ’40s.”

  Miller’s cheeks were growing flushed. “How can you say that? What about the Black Hawk War? W
hat about men like Henry Atkinson and Henry Dodge?”

  Chloe was struggling to keep up. Henry Dodge had been the first territorial governor of Wisconsin. In 1832, he’d fought Sauk and Fox Indians in what turned out to be a final, tragic clash between US land policy in the area and the Native Americans’ way of life. But she didn’t know much more about him than that. “What about Henry Dodge?”

  “The last time I toured Pendarvis, the interpreter didn’t even mention him! It’s all Cornification.”

  “Cornification?” Chloe was falling further behind.

  “Glorifying nameless Cornish immigrants,” Miller said, with an air of Must I explain everything? “Dodge arrived in 1827 with his family and some enslaved workers. He played a critical role during the Blackhawk War, which should be explained in depth, and—”

  “Hold on.” Chloe held up one hand. “Dr. Miller, visitors to historic sites haven’t come for a lecture. Many are parents touring with children. Interpreters have to gear their presentations to their audience—”

  “The audience doesn’t know what they need to hear! Site educators have an obligation to instruct their visitors.”

  “Site educators have an obligation to intrigue their visitors,” Chloe countered. “If kids have a good time and want to come back, if adults hear something that provokes them to learn more about lead mining or Cornish immigrants or the success of Bob and Edgar’s work, then the interpreters have done their jobs.”

  “Pardon me,” someone said. Chloe stepped aside to let a man walking a white poodle pass. The interruption forced a pause in the debate, and Chloe was grateful. She’d been getting more wound up than she’d intended.

  “Look, Dr. Miller,” she said when they were alone again. “I’ve read the Pendarvis interpretive plan. It’s very thorough, very thoughtful. But at any historic site, there are always more stories that can be told. Sometimes inexperienced interpreters make the mistake of trying to share everything they know, but most visitors don’t want that. Good interpreters tailor their presentation to the visitors’ interests.”

  “That Doyle woman has made poor choices.”

  Chloe thought Claudia had made excellent choices about interpretive themes and information. “There’s no one right way to tell a story. Is it possible that you’re critical of Pendarvis interpretation simply because the planners made different decisions than you would make?”

  Miller sniffed. “You’re eliminating the role of scholarship.”

  Okay, Chloe thought, we’re about done here. “Absolutely not,” she said firmly. “Once the research is done, however, educators have to address the needs of visitors of all ages, with different learning styles, different reasons for visiting the historic site in the first place. If guests are overwhelmed with an avalanche of information, their eyes will glaze over and they’ll never come back.”

  After bestowing Miller with another fake-chipper smile—I so enjoyed our discussion—Chloe turned and walked away.

  She found Claudia in the office, talking on the telephone. “Yes ma’am, I do understand your concerns … No ma’am, at this time I don’t have any reason to believe that Pendarvis’s artifacts will be given to Old World Wisconsin … Yes ma’am, but since Old World Wisconsin doesn’t interpret lead mining, I can’t imagine that staff there would even want … Yes ma’am. I’ll check on the gad your family donated.”

  Claudia hung up the phone and swiveled to look at Chloe, who’d dropped into the guest chair. “Are you lusting after a gad to spirit away to Old World Wisconsin?”

  “What’s a gad?”

  “A long, sharp chisel miners used for breaking ore. Sort of like a primitive drill.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  Claudia rubbed her hands over her face. “The phone was ringing when I walked in here at ten before eight.” She picked up a stack of message slips. “I was so looking forward to working with you! But I’ve got all these calls to return … ” She sighed.

  “Want my help?” Chloe twisted her mouth. “Not making the phone calls, I guess. I doubt anyone wants to hear from Old World Wisconsin’s curator right now.”

  “No. Besides, it’s my responsibility. But thanks.”

  Chloe stretched out her legs, knocked over a stack of files, and quickly tidied the mess. “I enjoyed meeting Holly last night. She’s a real sweetie.”

  “I was surprised but delighted that she took such a shine to you.”

  “Is there anything I need to know? Should I try to engage her, or leave her alone?”

  “It’s kind of you to ask.” Claudia picked up a pen and clicked the button absently. “Holly has trouble communicating. Her father and I realized something was wrong when she didn’t start talking when other children her age did.” She shook her head. “When I don’t understand what she needs to tell me, she gets so frustrated … ”

  Chloe hated knowing that Holly faced such challenges.

  “But she’s been getting speech therapy since she was four years old. The first word she got out was mama.” Claudia looked fiercely proud. “She can read and write. She’s very smart, and she’s usually very sweet. But she’s pretty much a loner, and she still struggles to communicate verbally. Her father couldn’t handle it, and took off.”

  Jerk, Chloe thought.

  Claudia stared blindly at the pen in her hand. “Holly loved her dad. His betrayal turned everything inside out.” She paused. “My new husband doesn’t always know what to do with her either.”

  “That must be so tough.”

  “Yeah,” Claudia agreed. “You saw her with her dominoes last night? She loves arranging them into stacks or patterns, over and over. My husband keeps trying to teach her to actually play a game of dominoes. What difference does it make, as long as she’s content? But he can’t let it go, can’t stop saying that he hadn’t realized … ” She swallowed hard and gazed out the window. “I’m starting to wonder if I’m going to lose another husband. I’m terrified about what that would do to Holly.”

  Chloe leaned forward and squeezed her friend’s hand. “I hope it won’t come to that. You don’t deserve that, and neither does your daughter.”

  “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for Holly. It’s wonderful to share my love of history with her. I’ve made her several 1840s dresses, which she adores. She’s always on her best behavior here.” Claudia clicked the pen again, then looked startled, as if she hadn’t known she was still holding it. “She loves roaming the site, even Dark Hill.”

  “Speaking of Dark Hill,” Chloe said, “I was over there this morning and heard a bird or something that sounded like a crying child.”

  “Really?” Claudia looked impressed. “You’ve tapped into a local legend. Every once in a while someone comes down from the hill saying they’ve heard a child crying.”

  Chloe mulled that over. “I asked Loren about it, and all I got was a strange look.”

  “Loren is not a fanciful person.”

  “How about you?”

  “I’ve never heard weeping,” Claudia said, “but I’m open to the possibility.”

  Chloe felt a prickling sensation skitter over her skin as she remembered the sound. Me too, she thought.

  Okay, enough of that. “I don’t know if I should tell you this or not, but I just had an … intense conversation with Yvonne. I asked how her research was coming along and somehow we ended up debating the site’s interpretive focus. She thinks you’re telling the wrong stories.”

  Claudia shook her head. “That woman is making me crazy. I’ve done my best to be polite, but her criticism is starting to feel per-sonal.”

  “Do you two have some bad history or something?”

  “Hardly.” Claudia spread her hands, clearly at a loss. “I married into the community two years ago, so it’s not like we’ve been feuding for years. I barely know her.”

  “I tried ever so politely to h
elp Dr. Miller see that her vision of successful interpretation at Pendarvis is not the only model.”

  “Any success?” Claudia looked skeptical.

  “No,” Chloe admitted. “The word hubris comes to mind. But it was worth a try.”

  For a moment they sat in silence, pondering the incomprehensible Yvonne Miller. “Did you notice her sly little smile when she left the meeting last night?” Claudia asked. “I think she wants Pendarvis to close.” Her eyes narrowed at the thought. Then she took a deep breath and swiveled back toward her desk. “Well, I better start returning some phone calls. Can you entertain yourself?”

  “I think I’ll head over to Pendarvis House and get to know that building.”

  “It’s Holly’s favorite.” Claudia smiled. Then the phone began to ring. She lightly pounded her forehead with her fist before reaching for the receiver.

  Chloe slipped out of the office and made her way down the hill toward Pendarvis House, middle and smallest of the three cottages restored along Shake Rag Street. From the upper property, stone stairs descended to the back door. She stepped inside a narrow kitchen, and on into the main room. No one was inside the old stone structure. The house held no strong sensations to trouble her, just a faint muddle in the background that was easy to ignore. It was peaceful.

  Chloe sat on the floor and simply took in the space. It was furnished to suggest the multiuse function Adam had described as the custom in Cornwall. A bed and trundle filled one corner, a table and chairs another. Two more chairs near the hearth along with a large embroidery hoop, suggesting cozy evenings of tea and handwork. A small hatch in the ceiling over the bed suggested only the most minimal of storage space above. They didn’t need much, Chloe thought.

  The most striking artifact in the room was a woman’s portrait hanging over the fireplace. She looked to be perhaps fifty, although her hair was still dark. She wore a black dress and cap with a lovely lace collar and a necklace, suggesting a woman of comfortable means. She was not smiling, but the artist had captured something striking. This was not a flat likeness, but the portrait of a woman who had seen a lot of life and, Chloe fancied, done all right for herself.