Street—were on welfare, and it wasn't so bad. I knew Mom was opposed
to welfare, but those kids got food stamps and clothing allowances. The
state bought them coal and paid for their school lunches.
Mom wouldn't hear of it. Welfare, she said, would cause irreparable
psychological damage to us kids. "You can be hungry every now and
then, but once you eat, you're okay," she said. "And you can get cold for
a while, but you always warm up. Once you go on welfare, it changes
you. Even if you get off welfare, you never escape the stigma that you
were a charity case. You're scarred for life."
"Fine," I said. "If we're not charity cases, then get a job." There was a
teacher shortage in McDowell County, just like there had been in Battle
Mountain. She could get work in a heartbeat, and when she had a salary,
we could move into a little apartment in town.
"That sounds like an awful life," Mom said.
"Worse than this?" I asked.
Mom turned quiet. She seemed to be thinking. Then she looked up. She
was smiling serenely. "I can't leave your father," she said. "It's against
the Catholic faith." Then she sighed. "And anyway, you know your mom.
I'm an excitement addict."
MOM NEVER TOLD Dad that I'd urged her to leave him. That summer
he still thought of me as his biggest supporter, and given that there was
so little competition for the job, I probably was.
One afternoon in June, Dad and I were sitting out on the porch, our legs
dangling over the side, looking down at the houses below. That summer,
it was so hot I could barely breathe. It seemed hotter than Phoenix or