Big Stone Gap (12 page)

“Boys, we need your help out of Salt Lake City. We need to climb up Ave Maria’s family tree.” Iva Lou opens a spiral notebook and uncaps her pen. “There’s a man over in It-lee, and we need to find him pronto. That means ‘fast’ in Italian.”

I laugh because this is one of the first words I taught Iva Lou.

“How can we help you?” Dickie—or is it Arlan?—asks.

“This is pretty much all the information we have on Mario Barbari presently.” Iva Lou gives them the book with the picture of Mario as the mayor of Schilpario in it. “Don’t lose it. UVA’ll have my hide.” Dickie looks at Mario’s picture.

“I think we can help. Most folks don’t have pictures.”

Iva Lou listens as the Baker brothers explain how the Mormons came to be experts in genealogy. God bless her patience. She is such a dear friend, but I’m worried. We are so caught up in how to find Mario, I haven’t had time to think about what will happen if we do. What if he rejects me? How will I handle it? I’m peeling off my old life like wet clothes. It isn’t easy, but I have to do it. What will my new life be? Letting go of the Pharmacy, something I thought I would never do, wasn’t sad. It was exhilarating. I am becoming lighter. Will finding Mario da Schilpario be the one thing that brings me happiness? Will I truly be free of my Mulligan past when Alice Lambert finally gets her comeuppance?

Iva Lou rips the pages out of her spiral notebook. “Y’all scoot. And here’s my number when you get the information.”

Dickie and Arlan thank Iva Lou for dinner. They take their black valises and go.

“Iva Lou, what would I do without you?”

“Well, honey-o, somebody’s got to put a fire under your butt. I see how you operate. You get all caught up in other people’s dramas instead of your own. You need to be your own Rescue Squad, honey-o. Stop neglecting yourself.”

“I don’t do that.”

“Sure you do. You ain’t getting any, Ave, and that’s a
big
problem.”

“How do you know I’m not getting any?”

“I just know.”

Iva Lou sucks the last bit of Tab through the straw. She swishes the ice around in the glass and starts chewing on it. “It ain’t healthy to go without.” I must look horrified because she holds up her index finger to punctuate the importance of what she is saying. “You know, I’ve known me a lot of men. And the one thing I’ve learned is that they’re all different. With each new experience that I rack up, I learn something new that I take with me as I move ahead in life. Sex is the most important thing there is on this earth.”

“What?” I whisper. And then Iva Lou repeats what she just said, this time with more volume. She raps the table when she’s finished.

“Why?”

“Because it’s the only mystery.”

I don’t know if Iva Lou is profound or an idiot. Or if she has searched high and low for meaning in all her romances. Sex is a mystery? To whom? Not to her. I don’t understand why she is saying this to me.

“Life is a mystery to be lived, not a problem to be solved,” she says. “A friend of mine gave me a coffee mug with that on it a while back, and I’ve made it my personal philosophy. Plus, you have to find your father before you can love any man.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.” I brush Iva Lou off with a wave.

“You should. It’s true. Why do you think I’m helping you try to find him? I know what your problem is and how to fix it. You were told something all your life that was a lie. I happen to think you knew all along it was a lie. But that is something for you to figure out on your own after all of this is over. When people live lies, they stop connecting. When they stop connecting, trust dies. Honey-o, you can’t be with a man because you can’t trust one. You can’t get naked, and I’m using that not literally but as a figure of speech. You follow me? To my way of thinking, if you can find your father, it will be a revelation to you. You will be able to place yourself in this world. You will finally know where you belong. You ain’t one of us, Ave Maria. And not because your mama was a feriner. You separated yourself from folks around here. And I don’t mean that to be cruel. You’ve lived here your whole life, but nobody really knows you. The first time I got a glimpse of what makes you tick was that night we read the books over at your house. You were looking at those books like old Kent Vanhook looks at my ass. There was a hunger there, a desire at long last.”

Some high school boys are playing a long song called “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” for the third time. Iva Lou shouts at them to pick something else, like Mac Davis’s “One Hell of a Woman” (her personal favorite) or Conway Twitty’s latest.

Then the bells on the entrance door jingle. They’re exact replicas of the ones I have on my door at the Pharmacy. Every merchant in town has a set from Zackie’s Bargain Store, and the same sweet ring happens when you go into any store in the Gap. Through the jingle, Sweet Sue comes in with Jack Mac. He sees us and walks toward us. Sweet Sue waves at us and goes to the take-out counter.

“Sue’s kids with their daddy this weekend?” Iva Lou asks.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jack Mac replies.

“How’s your mother?” I ask. Why do I always ask him about his mother?

“She’s fine.”

“Tell her I was asking for her.” What am I? An old lady from the Methodist church sewing circle? Iva Lou shoots me a look.

“I will, ma’am.” Jack Mac looks down at the table and sees Iva Lou’s open notebook.

“Y’all working on something?” he asks.

Iva Lou looks at me to answer.

“It’s kind of a long story.” Jack Mac looks over to the take-out window. Sweet Sue chats with Delphine Moses, the owner of the Carry-Out, as she ladles tomato sauce onto the pizza dough.

“I got a few minutes.” Jack Mac sits down with Iva Lou, facing me.

“I’m trying to find my father.” Why am I telling him this? Couldn’t I just make up something light and silly, like Iva Lou’s working on a reading list for me? Why do I have to yak about my business?

“Have you heard the story going round about our Ave Maria?” Iva Lou asks as though I’m not there.

“I’ve heard some,” Jack Mac replies.

“We’re trying to find an Eye-talian gentleman, who is our Ave’s real father.”

“Yep, I’m a bastard,” I joke.

“No, you’re not. That’s a label adults put to babies. To my way of thinking, there isn’t a soul born that wasn’t supposed to be here.” Jack Mac says this as though it’s the simplest concept in the world.

Iva Lou and I look at each other.

“How’s the search going?” Jack Mac asks, picking up Iva Lou’s notebook and scanning it.

“Iva Lou got the Mormons involved. I guess they know how to find people.”

“They sure do. Generally, they just ring your bell.” Iva Lou and I laugh. Jack Mac doesn’t laugh at his own joke, and I respect that.

Sweet Sue stops by our table with her carry-out sack. “Jack, let’s go.”

Jack gets up to leave, but for a moment I don’t think he wants to go. I think he wants to sit and talk with Iva Lou and me.

“Y’all take care, now,” Jack says, and follows Sweet Sue out the door.

Iva Lou rises up off the seat about three inches to catch the rear view of Jack Mac as he goes. “Nice sculpted hindquarters. Very nice. There ain’t nothing like a working man.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I love carpenters, plumbers, construction workers, and coal miners. The Jack Mac type.”

“He’s a type?”

“Uh-huh. Had to narrow it down. When you’ve known as many men as me, you start making lists. The working man is a solid man. They can fix things that are broke. They’re practical. I like that. How about you?”

“I never thought about it.” I really don’t want to talk about this.

“I’ll bet you haven’t,” Iva Lou says, and looks at me, shaking her head. “Let me tell you what. Those men that sit behind a desk all day, the office types, stay away from them. They are the weirdos of the world. They don’t get out and get air and get physical every day, so their blood pools in their brains, and they get very strange sexual ideas, believe you me. Kinky. I mean it.”

I try to get Iva Lou off of this subject and back to the Mormons’ notes. She is talking her favorite subject, though, and is therefore persistent.

“I tried to have sex with him once,” Iva Lou announces.

“With whom?”

“Jack Mac.”

“Really?”

“I got nowhere. Nowhere.”

“Why? You’re so pretty and fun. What happened?” Why am I asking her this when I don’t want to know? I do this. When folks make me uncomfortable, instead of removing myself from the situation, I try to make them comfortable.

“Well, one night, before he started going with Sweet Sue, he was up to the Fold and we had a couple of beers and a couple of dances and I was frisky, and he was frisky, so I suggested a rendezvous up to Huff Rock. I find it inspirational up there. The mountaintop, the sky, the big old rocks to lie on. You’re getting the picture.” I nod. “Well, we kissed a couple of times. Good kisser. Uh-huh. Good kisser. And then it was getting time to move things along toward some sort of something, and he stopped.”

“He stopped?”

“I asked him why he stopped, of course. I’m not bragging, but that sort of thing never happened to me before. I said, ‘Jack MacChesney, why on God’s green earth are you stopping now? Aren’t you having fun?’ ”

“What did he say?”

“Well, he looked at me with those eyes of his, and he said most sincerely, ‘Iva Lou, you are a doll. But I ain’t in love with you. And I’m one of those men that has to be in love to carry on like this.’ ”

“No!” I shriek.

“Yes. That’s exactly what he said. And it was funny. My feelings weren’t hurt; I wasn’t embarrassed or any of that. But I’ll tell you something: I couldn’t believe that there was a man like that walking around in this world. I persisted a little with him, and he, very gentlemanly, kept declining my advances, so I yanked my bra straps back up and called it a night. I don’t know, I guess I admired him for his principles. I didn’t want to mess with it. I respected him.”

Iva Lou shrugs and picks up the last crumbs of cake with the back of her spoon. “Does that beat all? I mean, did you ever?”

“No, that’s quite a story.” What does she want me to say?

We sit quietly for a few moments. I look at Iva Lou. As she studies her notes, she looks like a little girl. I can see exactly who she was when she was little. A curious girl with a big appetite. What happened to the girl I used to be? Where did she go?

When I was seven, Mrs. White took our second-grade class to Clinch Haven Farms. It’s high up the mountains; I remember being scared in the bus. It was pretty once we got there, though. There were vivid green meadows that rolled back like folds of white icing, covered in flowers, dotted with cows, just like the picture on the milk bottle. The first thing Mrs. White showed us was a creek that twisted down the rocks and flowed into a pool. Mrs. White gathered us on the bank of the creek and explained the way water worked—how it rained and came down the mountain, making rivulets that pool and fall and then turn into rivers. We were allowed to drink of the creek. Mrs. White taught us how to kneel and, without disturbing the sediment at the bottom of the creek, cup our hands to drink the clear water off the surface. As I knelt, I examined the stones through the water. They were glassy brown and black stones, like the antique buttons my mama kept in a cupcake tin in her sewing closet. Then we followed the creek down to Buskers Farm and she told us how explorers always followed water. Even now, if I get lost when I’m making deliveries up in the hollers, I just remember to follow the water, and I always find my way back to town. That simple rule, for whatever reason, has stayed with me all these years and held me in good stead.

Buskers Farm was gigantic. There was an open field, a barn, and a main house. There was an outhouse; we all made jokes about it, even though some of my classmates still used outhouses.

I was with Nina Kaye Coughlin, my best friend. She had straight, shiny red hair and a turned-up nose splattered with freckles. When she smiled, her front teeth turned inward to make a V shape; it didn’t look bad, though. Crowded teeth are a sign of someone with lots to say. At one point I whispered to Nina Kaye that we ought to go look in the barn. So we separated from the group and went around the back of the barn to find the door. There, in a clearing, was a hog, strung up on three long poles, suspended by the head. Its gut was split from throat to groin. Two farmhands were cleaning the open gash—I guess they were removing the organs. Their hands were full of squishy blue and red entrails. They were being careful with the parts, placing them on a small, clean tarp, pulled tightly over a barrel. The hog’s eyes were wide open, staring up to the sky, as if in prayer. There was a ruby-red pool beneath the hog; his blood was so voluminous that it filled a small pit. We froze. Nina Kaye was holding my hand so tight, her fingernails made grooves on the side of my palm. Finally, the farmhands looked at us. For a moment they seemed annoyed, but when they saw how scared we were, they softened.

“Girls, we done drained the hog,” one of the men explained.

Nina Kaye looked as though she might faint. We both lived in town; the only farm animals we saw were on these field trips or at FFA camp in later years. We backed away from the scene and tore around the side of the barn. Nina Kaye cried and I comforted her. “Ain’t you skeered?” she said to me. “We can’t both be scared,” I told her.

“There you go again,” Iva Lou says. “Off in space.”

“Sorry, Iva.”

“What were you thinking?”

“How I used to be so brave.”

Bullitt Park, our high school football field and town park, is full of fog. It fills up with gray mist like a soup bowl some nights, especially in early fall when Mother Nature is making her temperatures drop. It’s a little dreary, and tonight it’s all business. After two months of intense practice, the Powell Valley High School marching band is going to run the final rehearsal of the Elizabeth Taylor Halftime Show Salute full out, no stops. Theodore is on the fifty-yard line giving some last-minute tips to the flag girls. In their gold lamé short shorts, you would never guess they were high school sophomores; they look like they could be in Cleopatra’s harem.