The Quarryman's Wife

The Quarryman’s Wife A novel

By Mary E. DeMuth Mary E. DeMuth, Inc. P.O. Box 1503 Rockwall, TX 75087

Cover design by Mary DeMuth Cover photo by Mary E. DeMuth Author photo by Sophie M. DeMuth

This novel is a work of ﬁction. Any people, places or events that may resemble reality are simply coincidental. The book is entirely from the imagination of the author, though based on historical data.

ISBN-10: 0983436762 ISBN-13: 978-0-9834367-6-8

Unless otherwise noted, all Scripture quotations in this publication are taken from the King James Version (KJV). Author’s Note

his book is written for my great grandmother, Mary Walker, who lived like TJesus, told her stories fearlessly, wrote poems for everyone, and loved her children even after devastating loss. Her pluck and candor fueled my desire to write this book as a testament to her life. This is the first novel I ever penned, so it’s dear to me. When I submitted it back in 2004, editors said they didn’t want Depression-era fiction. So I put this book on a shelf, always wanting to see it in print, never forgetting the story, hoping someday others would enjoy it. Now that it’s in print, I hope The Quarryman’s Wife touches your resolve, energizes you to love others more fiercely, and helps you to persevere through your own economic stress, grief, or changing family dynamics. The Quarryman’s Wife also signifies the first time I wrote historical fiction— and most likely, it will be my last. I’m not a digger. I don’t flourish in details. But in researching this book for several years, I learned so much. Culled from my great grandmother’s visits, video interviews of relatives, and her writings, I found her struggles universal, and her story heartening. At times I wanted to rewrite the entire book because I’ve learned so much as a novelist since I first penned it. But after some internal wrestling, I realized this book is as it should be. It represents my inaugural effort, and it signifies my growth as a writer. You’ll see more imagery in these pages and the evolution of my style, particularly if you read my recent, starker books. We’re all on a journey, aren’t we? We live; we grow; we learn from our mistakes. But we’ll never improve if we never try in the first place. You hold in your hands my first foray into novel writing. May the story trans- port you to a simpler time where hard work, grit, and filial love guided folks toward quiet greatness.

Mary DeMuth

“When you work in a quarry, stones might fall and crush you! Such are the risks of life.” Ecclesiastes 10:9, NLT

To my great grandmother, Mary Walker. You’re my heroine. When I grow up, I want to be just like you.

Chapter One Centerville, Ohio. March 14, 1932.

ugusta always knew Thomas would die young. Always knew God would Athrust his angry ﬁnger through the muggy Ohio air and point right at him. “Your time’s up,” the Almighty would say. And Thomas, being obedi- ent to the depths, would nod quietly, then slip into glory without so much as saying goodbye. The word accident repeated itself with each slap of Augusta’s shoes against shale. Accident. Accident. The word screamed in her head, longing to release, but clenched teeth kept her terror to herself. She needed Thomas. Needed his gentle hand with six children and a quarry house to run. Needed his grace-like words. His humor. Her friend Olya followed behind as they passed stilled shovels, empty water pumps and halted rail cars standing sentry-like in reverential silence. The quarry’s Dinky engines saluted the two wives as they raced toward the rock quarry’s belly. Thomas, you promised me there’d be no accidents.

Chapter Two

n odd chill twisted inside Meg. She told her stomach to settle. It didn’t Aobey. Heading away from school toward Mama’s list of chores, she watched Lily lead the processional of children in pied piper fashion toward the quarry house. At eighteen, Lily’s hair flowed down the back of her dress and frock, blessedly straight. Facing womanhood at fifteen, Meg pined for that straight honey-lit hair, but she tried not to let on that she did. “It’s the sin of covetousness,” Mama scolded when Meg revealed her longing for Lily’s hair. Lily turned toward her. “Remember me today. I’m afraid I’m a bit weary to be chasing the Wheeler twins around. Are you sure you can’t come help? I’ll pay you.” “I still have some reporting to do. Miss Allen’s been nagging me about the story I’m working on. I’m sorry. Can’t I help you next week?” “You’ve procrastinated that story for months. Come just this once?” “I have the rest of the children to herd home. You know that.” With that, Lily said her goodbyes to Edward, John-John, Helen. Lily nodded. Her eyes showed disappointment, but true to form, she thanked Meg for considering it and detoured onto East Franklin Street where two squir- relly Wheeler children awaited her calming touch. Meg envied Lily, as she walked—no, glided—toward work. Meg never glided, she plodded. John-John once said she clip-clopped like Strawberry, their faithful horse. Her feet grew like rushes, rapid and serpentine-like, so that the only shoes that fit her now were eldest brother’s Frank’s—cloddy, awkward. But with Frank wheezing at home, straining to bring in breath, she knew she should simply be thankful for her own. She pulled one in just for him. She shrugged, hoping the shrug would shush the antagonistic voices in her head. Someday, she would be elegant. She looked forward to her walk from school in the lazy afternoons when springtime welcomed new bird songs. Mother Nature

3 Mary E. DeMuth had flung herself in all her icy fury on Centerville last winter. Meg tasted the cold from September’s first frost until the March blizzard. Until Frank took to the fe- ver, Frank and Edward spent snowy days tamping down paths with their big snow boots for the schoolchildren to walk through. Sometimes a drift would swallow up a quarry kid, so the big boys took to carrying the wide-eyed first graders up the steps to school. It was a relief to have winter’s frigid breath behind her. Unlike the biting winds of Ohio winter or its muggy days of summer, the spring air had a delicious crispness to it. Faint whiffs of emerging forget-me-nots trailing along a broken fence lightened Meg’s stride as she walked the western shore of the quarry lake. And still, that niggling. She renamed the lake “Lake Frank” after her eldest brother’s fake drowning. John-John, who was mischievously eight at the time, thought it would be great fun to yell, “Frank drowned!” Panicked, Mama had called Decker’s store; she had them dispatch their boat, complete with grappling hooks. Swimmers dove in deep, scanning for Frank in vain. Mama and Meg stood on the back porch, waiting. On the lake perched a small island connected by a rock-strewn isthmus, so several of the men looked for Frank there, hoping he was playing some puckish hiding trick. The search stretched to an hour while Mama rung her hands in helpless anguish. She didn’t even notice Frank when he stood next to her, puzzled. “What’s all the excitement? Why are all these people swimming in our lake?” Meg could still remember the look on Mama’s face, a combination of relief and anger. “We thought you drowned! What do you have to say for yourself?” He shrugged. “You knew I was helping Louis Hanson clean out the fence row at the back of his farm. Did you forget?” Mama had forgotten, and that day the nondescript quarry lake became Lake Frank to Meg. John-John celebrated its christening with the spanking of his life. She couldn’t help but think what would happen if Frank met his maker that day, and as she plodded home, the familiar tinge th