Authors: Adriana Trigiani
“Let’s go inside, honey,” he whispers.
“I love you, you know,” I tell him.
“I know.” He kisses me again.
In the warmth of our bed, Jack holds me closely as he hasn’t done in a long time. We’re united again under these old quilts, and I like the feeling.
“Honey?”
“Yeah?”
“Spec asked me if I could come back on the Rescue Squad a few days a month. What do you think?”
“I told him I thought it was fine.”
I sit up in bed. “He asked
you
?”
“Spec’s old-school. He does the right thing and checks with the husband before he goes to the wife.”
Before I can object, Jack begins to laugh. I take my pillow and beat him with it. Jack grabs the pillow, and then me.
“You got a problem? Take it up with Spec.” My husband smiles and kisses me.
A square of homemade fudge topped with snowy mini-marshmallows and crunchy pecans is wrapped neatly in wax paper and waiting for me on my counter. I need the sugar this morning. (I forgot how much energy the love department requires; it’s like starting Jazzercise after a long hiatus.)
“Hey, thanks for the surprise,” I tell Fleeta as she squirts a big blob
of hand cream onto her forearm from the Estée Lauder display. (Never mind that the tube is not a sample.)
“I’m just a big ole sweetheart, ain’t I?” Fleeta looks at me over her glasses and rubs her wrists together. “Nobody’ll miss it.” She puts the tube of hand cream back on the shelf. “What are you smilin’ about?” she asks suspiciously.
“Nothin’,” I tell her and shrug.
Pearl walks in carrying two big bags from the hardware store.
“What’s that?” Fleeta asks Pearl.
“Contact Paper for the shelves in the fountain.” Pearl goes to the back of the store.
“I ain’t helping ye with nothin’ back ’ere,” Fleeta calls after her.
“Not a problem, Fleets,” Pearl hollers back.
I grab a pair of scissors and join Pearl in the Soda Fountain.
“Pearl, I need a favor.”
“Sure.”
“I hate to ask, and I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to.”
“Ave, come on. What do you need?”
“I need to work more hours.”
Pearl looks at me oddly at first; it is still hard for her to be my employer. “No problem.”
“Are you sure? You’ve got the expense of this new venture back here, and I don’t want to strap you.”
“Are you kidding? I need you.”
“Great.” I turn to go back to my post.
“Ave Maria?”
“Yeah?”
“There’s something I want to tell you. And it’s still real new, so I can’t say too much. I’m … I’m seeing someone.”
“A man?”
Pearl nods.
“Romantically?”
Pearl nods again, and this time she smiles.
“Good for you! Who is he?”
“I don’t want to say yet. In case it doesn’t work out.”
“Okay.”
“I like him a lot.”
“That’s great!”
“You know I’m sort of a late bloomer. So I’m a little nervous. You know.” Pearl looks at me. I spent fifteen years in this town without a boyfriend. I know all about late blooming. I was alone so long, there are still times when I forget I’m part of a couple.
“Take your time. And don’t agonize.”
Pearl laughs. “I’m having too much fun to agonize.”
“Good girl.”
“Ave Maria! Pat Bean needs her ’scription! She ain’t got all damn day!” Fleeta shouts from the register. (So much for the soothing shopping atmosphere at the Mutual Pharmacy.)
“I’m on my way,” I yell back to Fleeta.
“Hey, Ave. Thanks,” Pearl says, and her face flushes to a soft pink.
Pearl Grimes in love? Things around here are changing fast. I wonder if I can keep up.
The Halloween Carnival at Big Stone Gap Elementary is sold out. Nellie Goodloe thought it would be fun to host an all-county carnival to raise money for the John Fox, Jr., Foundation, which funds the Outdoor Drama. “Nellie has a flair,” I keep hearing over and over as I walk through the spectacular decorations. White ghosts with black button eyes line the rail of the balcony overhead; the basketball backboards are big black cauldrons; a family of black paper bats flies over the bleachers. Nellie banked the entire ceiling in a spiderweb made of thick rope. In the center, she attached a giant papier-mâché spider that dangles down like a creepy chandelier. How does she do it?
The admissions table is loaded with straw and jack-o’-lanterns of all sizes; the ladies of the June Tolliver Guild are dressed as witches. The Foxes, who hand out programs at the Outdoor Drama, are also
dressed as witches, but instead of billowing black robes, they wear short skirts (to show off their fishnet stockings, I’m sure).
Nellie hauled the oil painting of Big Stone Gap’s most famous resident, John Fox, Jr., the author of
The Trail of the Lonesome Pine
, over here from the museum. Fleeta thinks Nellie has a crush on him, even though he’s been dead since 1940-something. “Whenever she throws a shindig, she drags his mug out,” Fleeta complains. Mr. Fox’s oil portrait is eerily perfect for Halloween: he sits in profile in a dark wood study; on his long, pointed nose sits a pair of granny glasses. Come to think of it, he looks like a male
Whistler’s Mother
. Nellie has draped fake white cobwebs on him. He fits right in.
Local merchants and the PTA provide the booths. Nellie is raffling off six free car washes (with wax) at Gilliam’s Car Wash and a month of free dry cleaning at the Magic Mart. The money raised will go toward new streetlights in town (Nellie wants the old-fashioned-lantern look). There’s a cakewalk and a costume pageant. Etta is not particular about her costume. Every year she goes as a skeleton, wearing a black jumpsuit with silver bones and a skull mask. She loves games of chance; she has spent the better part of the evening shooting at ducks on a spinning wheel.
Etta runs up to me with a glossy caramel apple covered in orange sprinkles. “Mama, will you put this in your purse for later? We need to cut it.”
“This is the biggest apple I’ve ever seen,” I tell my daughter. She hands me two pretty china saucers she won in the penny toss. When I ask her where the matching teacups are, she says, “I missed.”
Etta’s pals—Tammy Pleasant, a tiny, wiry blonde in constant motion, and Tara Kilgore, a tall, serious brunette with heavy-lidded brown eyes—grab her.
“You got to come
now
, Etta.” Tammy tugs on her.
“They got a man that bleeds actual red blood in the Spookhouse,” Tara says flatly. “I wasn’t skeered.”
“I was!” Tammy says, her eyes widening. The girls run to get in line
at the Spookhouse. I know all about the Spookhouse because I spent the better part of this morning peeling grapes for the bowl of eyeballs the kids feel on their way in. Nellie convinced Otto and Worley to play monsters: Otto lies in a casket with blue goo on his face while Worley chases the kids through the locker area with a plastic ax strapped to his head.
“Yoo-hoo, Ave!” Iva Lou hollers. She is selling used library books in a booth decorated like a study in a historical home, and is dressed in a sexy turquoise hoop skirt and a frilly peasant blouse that exposes her creamy bare shoulders. Her cleavage forms a clean line like an exclamation point. “Is this a good idea or what?”
“The blouse or the booth?”
“The booth, silly. I’m unloading all our old stuff, making way for the new. What do you think?” Iva Lou spins like a plate on a stick.
“What a deal!” I hold up four Lee Smith paperbacks tied with string, priced at two dollars even.
“Hold off. In another hour, I’m doing a flood sale: everything must go.”
Iva Lou leaves the booth to James Varner, who looks much taller in real life than he does behind the wheel of the Bookmobile. Iva Lou still turns every head in the room. (There are some women who never lose their allure.) Lyle Makin stands off with a group of his buddies. He nods and smiles at us.
“How’s your husband?” I ask Iva Lou as I wave to him.
“Well, he ain’t been soused this month. Of course, no full moon yet.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“He gets drunk almost exactly with the tides of the moon. It’s the strangest thing. He can go dry for weeks, and then boom, he goes on a four-day bender. There’s no getting around it, either. I can hide the stuff; I can try to divert his attention; I can fuss, but nothing works. When he wants to drink, he’ll find a way to drink, and that’s that. So I learned to live with it. He’s good for weeks on a stretch; and you
know, that’s more than most women git.” Iva Lou unwraps a chocolate marshmallow witch and takes a bite. “How are you doing?”
“We’re okay. Better than okay. Jack is fine.”
“It’s a big damn deal when a man is out of work.”
“I know.”
“They
are
their jobs. You have to be careful. He’s vulnerable right now.”
“To what?”
“To getting sick. Taking to the beer. Running around. You know.”
“
My
husband?” Iva Lou has got to be kidding.
“He’s a man, ain’t he? He’s forty and change. Jack Mac’s hittin’ that mortality wall.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“Women are different. Men ain’t got markers to show them that they’re getting older. Not like us. Mother Nature takes us women by the hand and leads us into it slowly. You got your monthly to tell you that you went from girl to young woman; childbirth to let you know you’re in the middle; and then the Change to tell you that soon it’ll all be over. What have men got, really? Losing their hair? Losing a job? A pot gut? What?”
“I don’t know.”
“You got to git a man to talk. It ain’t easy to git a man to talk about his feelings. They’d rather not have them at all. It’s our job to draw ’em out.”
“Ivy Loo-ee?” Lyle hollers from the Coin Toss.
“Lyle’s hungry.”
“You can tell what he wants from the sound of his voice?”
“I’d know that call of the wild anywheres. I don’t even need him to use words. I can tell by a grunt.” Iva Lou gives me a quick hug and goes to the Coin Toss.
Jack is shooting ducks outside the Spookhouse. As I make my way across the crowded gym, I think about how a good woman can suss out her husband’s needs. Or how a good man can do that for his wife.
Sometimes Jack reads my mind. But do I read his? Does he know how I feel about him? Is he still attracted to me the way I’m attracted to him? My husband has a great body. Really. He has broad shoulders and strong arms. His legs are thick and muscular from years of lifting, chopping wood, mining. And though I hate guns, there is something sexy about him as he stands with a rifle cocked. He sort of reminds me of John Wayne in
Stagecoach
. (Jim Roy Honeycutt just ran the print at the Trail. Black-and-white movies are always better on the big screen.)
The crowd shifts a little, obscuring my husband. Before I can get to him, Leah Grimes stops me. I hardly recognize her. She’s lost weight (must be prewedding jitters), her hair is dyed a magnificent red, and the cut is pure Dottie West, a neat chin-length bob with feathering.
“Leah, you look so pretty.”
“Love done it to me.”
“Congratulations on your engagement. Worley is a fine man.”
“I know.” Leah blushes. I look over her shoulder and see my husband putting the toy rifle down on the shelf of the duck booth. A woman I have never seen before touches him on the shoulder; he turns around and grins at her.
“Are you having a church wedding?” I ask Leah while repositioning myself to get a better look at the woman talking to my husband.
“Nope. We’re gonna elope. Perty soon, too. Soon as Worley gets the pipes done at the Mutual’s.”
“How are things at the house?” I ask Leah. Jack is laughing with the woman.
“Good. Good. I want you to know if you ever need me to do anything fer ye, I’d like that. Baby-sit for Etta. Sew fer ye. Whatever you need.”
“Thank you, Leah. But you’re gonna have your hands full with a new husband directly.”
Leah smiles and nods. Her friends join her, and they go off to the crafts booth. Instead of following them to check out the apple butter,
or going to Jack and introducing myself to the strange woman, I go up the stairs to the balcony. I circle around the upper level so I can watch them without either of them seeing me. I feel guilty doing this (slightly). I sit down behind a family dressed as sunflowers, munching on popcorn balls. They ignore me and watch the people below. As I slide down in the seat, I can see Jack Mac and the woman perfectly.
From overhead, she looks like the Athletic Type. She is small and fit. Even though it is late October, she still has the bronzey glow of a summer tan. I thank God for the Art of Chinese Face-Reading and the bright fluorescent gym lighting, which helps me to get a good look at her. She is definitely attractive. She has deep-set brown eyes (a secretive nature, great) which flash in a way that shows a sense of humor and a certain intelligence. She has a long, angular face and a large head (means she’s not hurting for money). Her short blond hair is sprayed into a casual bob, with spiky bangs. (She looks about forty, but maybe that’s just the sun damage.) She is neatly dressed; even her trim, faded jeans are pressed. The collar on her pale pink blouse is turned up, as are the sleeves. The top three buttons are open, revealing a freckled chest and a high, small bust. (I quickly unfasten the second button on my denim shirt and sit up straight.)
She says something; my husband throws his head back and laughs. She holds a set of used books to her chest (good, I’ll ask Iva Lou about her) and gazes all around, giving him an opportunity to take a good look at her. Isn’t she a little old to be playing the coquette? It doesn’t matter. My husband is enjoying this! She sways back and forth, restlessly shifting her weight from foot to foot as she chatters. She is doing most of the talking (of course she is, I’m not married to a conversationalist), then she leans in and whispers in my husband’s ear. As her lips near his earlobe, I feel a stab of jealousy in my gut. Part of me wants to jump up on the balcony wall, latch on to one of the bedsheet ghosts, swing down onto the floor, and knock her over like a bowling pin. But I am his wife, so I would prefer to knock him over first and take care of her later. However, I do nothing. I sit here frozen.