Big Stone Gap (24 page)

“People? Is that what I am to you? A general person?”

“No, no, of course not.”

“Start there. What am I to you?”

I want to tell him that he’s my best friend. That if the entire world collapsed and I could only save one person, it would be him. That the thought of him leaving and taking a job somewhere else in the universe where I can’t talk to him every day kills me! Why is it different when I’m the one who’s going? Do I expect Theodore to sit here and wait for me while I go out and have adventures, like he’s some talisman I can come back and touch to remind me that nothing has really changed? Instead, I see the wispy sisters shivering in the moonlight on Jack Mac’s porch. The image makes me angry. Why am I never chosen? “Look. You don’t owe me a thing. I can take care of myself.”

“You don’t need anybody.”

“That’s right. I’m very strong on my own. I don’t need anybody.”

“Are you sure you’re not Fred Mulligan’s daughter?” This comment catches me off guard, and I find it cruel. I confided in Theodore about every horrible thing Fred Mulligan ever did to me and my mama, and now he’s throwing it up in my face. But I would never give him the satisfaction of knowing that he has hurt me. If you saw my face in this moment, you would think I hadn’t a care in the world. This is my best area; this is where I perform at my peak. I can shut down, detach, and not feel. So, that is exactly what I do.

“You’d be the first person in the world who didn’t need someone, Ave Maria. Do you think you’re that person? The one girl in the world who doesn’t need anybody, ever? Are you some special category of person?”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“See, there you go. See how you operate? I’m doing something to you because I’m asking you how you feel. What you feel. It is my business. I love you.”

“Sure, sure you love me.” I roll my eyes like I’m five.

“You know, having sex with someone isn’t the only way to show you care.”

“Well, it would have been nice!” Why am I shouting at this man? Isn’t he on my side? Isn’t he telling me that I am as deserving of love as the next person? That it’s okay to need love? That I’m allowed to be scared? But it’s too late. I know Theodore is really angry because he cannot look at me.

As he paces, he says calmly, “You have big problems, okay? Big ones that you need to think about.”

“
I
have big problems? What about you? You think I can’t connect to people?” Now I’m shouting and I’m sure I’m scaring him. Good. My voice gets even louder. “Stop analyzing me! Stop it! I wanted to marry you for nine years and you didn’t want me. Finally, finally, you propose to me, and what was I supposed to do? Drop everything and marry you in the middle of a black depression? And then what? Be happy? Maybe I loved you in the middle of my depression, and loved you enough not to saddle you with a nut case! You should have married me nine years ago when I was young and I didn’t know so much! I would have had someone to love me when I went through all the worst things of my life. I’ve gone through all the worst things, and I did it alone. A person can’t just pretend that they didn’t go through it all alone. I did. I don’t want any credit for it, but understand that when it comes to love,
I don’t understand!
I wouldn’t know what to do with a man! Hook him? Serve him? Then pray he never leaves? How do you do it without dying? How?”

Theodore goes to the kitchen. He turns in the doorway. “How about a cup of coffee?”

I sit on Theodore’s futon while he fixes a pot of coffee. I look down at the buttons on my shirt. There is no rise and fall, no palpitations. Nothing but the steady breathing that comes with the unburdening of feelings locked up, locked down, and buried for nine years. It feels good. I curl up on Theodore’s couch.

“You’re my best friend, Ave Maria,” Theodore says casually from the kitchen. “I’ll never leave you.”

I want to speak, to respond, to let him know that I feel the same, but I can’t. So, I cry instead. I can cry here. I’m safe.

The postmaster from town calls; he has a certified letter for me. I let him open it. They’re my tickets from Gala Nuccio. I am very excited about my trip, and very nervous. I have called Gala nearly every day to practice speaking Italian and to discuss the trip. She is very excited to have me with the group, since I speak Italian. Also, we’ve become good phone friends. She has told me a lot about her life. Her boyfriend, Frank, has finally asked her to marry him, but she doesn’t see herself as Maria von Trapp, a second mother who plays puppets with her stepchildren. Gala also believes Frank still has other women. She can’t prove it, but he keeps strange hours and is forever calling her from phone booths (she assures me this is a sign of a cheating man, and I think she’s right). I never had a girlfriend who was Italian like me, and it is so much fun. We have similar attitudes about things. Theodore and I drove all the way over to the Tri-City Mall, to see
Saturday Night Fever
. (It’s been out two years but there is still a demand in Kingsport.) I never knew people were like that. Gala assures me the movie is accurate; she grew up in the same kind of neighborhood. She finds it charming that I have a Southern accent. “You just don’t expect that sound to come out of an Italian girl.” I told her all about the last year of my life, and she listened carefully. She thinks Theodore is not the man for me. She likes the idea of Jack MacChesney. I told her it’s too late for all of that; Jack Mac and Sarah are hot and heavy. Gala wasn’t surprised that Jack Mac turned around and got another girlfriend so fast. “Men always have to be with somebody. It’s just how the sons of bitches are made.” Her words ring in my ears long after we’re off the phone. I think she’s right about that too.

I wash my face, throw on some lipstick, and grab my keys to run into town. I have already had my mail rerouted to the post office, so daily chores at my house have dwindled to preparing my meals and packing.

I need a spatula to pry all of my mail out of the post office box. I quickly shuffle through. There is a postcard from Zia Meoli telling me in a line how the whole family cannot wait to meet me. I’ve received a card or a letter from Zia Meoli at least once a week since I wrote to her the first time. I told her I hadn’t heard from Mario da Schilpario since his first and only letter, even though I have written to him three times with the dates of my trip. I’ve given up on him. I would like to meet him, but if it doesn’t happen, if he doesn’t want to see me, I am not going to barge into his home and confront him. I wonder if he told his mother about me. My grandmother. How I wish I could meet her. It’s silly, I know, but the one thing I always wished I had was a grandmother to talk to. Well, the sooner we learn that we don’t get everything we want in this life, the better. I am grateful to meet my twin aunts and uncle and cousins. They will be more than enough; I guess I shouldn’t be greedy.

The windows in Mulligan’s Mutual have never been prettier. Nellie has painted the backdrop doors a bright lime green and placed paper butterflies on the product displays, making the windows look like a happy terrarium. The mortar-and-pestle neon sign that had burned out on the building has been replaced with a giant
; and it’s a real attention-getter. Otto and Worley did a beautiful job on the bricks. So the place finally is up to snuff, and that makes me very happy.

Fleeta is handling the store part of the Pharmacy during the day until Pearl gets off school, and that nice man from Norton agreed to take Mondays and Tuesdays for prescription filling until a permanent pharmacist can be found. We interviewed a man from Coeburn, and he may be able to start by early summer. Nellie and Iva Lou are keeping an eye on Pearl already, though Pearl has complained that Nellie is a little bossy. I told Pearl to tell Nellie that; I’m sure she doesn’t realize that she’s being bossy.

Fleeta is behind the counter. I hear her explaining the difference between the chicken-wing overcross and the sleeper hold to a boy, obviously another professional-wrestling fan. Fleeta begged me to start carrying World Wrestling Federation magazines, so we did. It does bring in that young male element; they also buy a lot of candy. Fleeta is downright religious about wrestling. She has started smoking again; she said it was too hard to quit because everybody smokes in the arenas where the wrestling matches are held. Plus, her nerves get frayed during the shows when the man she is rooting for falls behind. She needs her cigarettes to calm down.

“What are you doing here?” she asks me.

“Just dropped by. To say hi.”

“Shouldn’t you be home, girl?” Fleeta looks around nervously.

“I was home but I already had my mail rerouted, so I came to fetch it.”

“Oh.”

“Is something wrong?” I ask.

“No, nothing.” Fleeta puffs on her Marlboro like she’s blowing up a balloon in spurts.

“You seem upset about something.”

“I told you everything was fine.”

Now, I know Fleeta as well as I know anyone. Something is not right. It could be something small, like she made a bet on Haystacks Calhoun or the Pile Driver and somebody’s into her for twenty bucks; or it could be something big like Portly’s ill. The one thing about Fleeta: She reacts exactly the same to any challenge; there are no degrees with her.

“Don’t look at me like that. Don’t you think you ought to be getting yourself home?”

“Fleeta. What is going on?”

“Jesus. Would you lay off?”

Fleeta has never spoken to me like this.

“You know what, Fleeta? I don’t appreciate your tone.”

“I’m sorry about that, Ave Maria. I really am. But I need you to just trust me on this one. You need to get yourself home.”

“Is something wrong with Otto?”

“God, no. That shunt in his heart is working like a garden hose.”

Fleeta clamps her little lips shut and goes about her dusting. I wait for a moment, but she isn’t volunteering any further information. Something is up.

When I get home, Otto and Worley are repairing the fence in my front yard. They laugh, share tools, and consult each other about the best way to replace an old hinge. I ask them if everything is okay, and when I tell them about Fleeta, they just shrug. I ask Otto about his shunt. He opens his shirt and shows me the red staccato scar down his breastbone. (I didn’t need to see that.) The doctor is pleased with the results, and Otto is feeling like his old self again. The doctor considers Otto’s recovery a miracle. I think that the truth healed his heart. Once Otto unloaded the terrible burden he had been carrying all these years, the weight on his chest lifted, and he could breathe again. He doesn’t huff and puff when he climbs ladders or lifts things anymore, and he gave up chewing tobacco. It’s the start of a whole new era for Otto. I think he’ll find a girlfriend next. He has his eye on a woman down in Lee County.

I finally found out how old the boys are. Otto is sixty-nine and Worley is fifty-five. Everybody in town is shocked by this; we thought they were much younger and closer in age. Worley has a hard time calling Otto Daddy, so he still calls him just plain Otto. The transition from close brothers to father and son has not been that much of a challenge for them. Otto always took the lead anyway; so the revelation hasn’t really affected their day-to-day life. Worley seems very happy and takes every opportunity to ask folks up the mountain if they remember little Destry, the beautiful Melungeon girl. Some do, and that has brought him great comfort.

I tell them I’m going upstairs to finish packing. The house looks so cheery; Otto and Worley painted all the rooms in sheer eggshell beige, and they are pristine. All of my clothes are laid out on the bed. Italy in April is on the cool side, so I’m packing basics in navy and off-white: simple suspender pants my mother made for me, a few pressed blouses, a skirt for church, and my red velvet swing coat. Pearl saved me all sorts of travel-size toiletries and put them in a pretty makeup bag on which she embroidered my initials as a going-away present.

I go into the bathroom. It is completely bare, except for my clean, white towels. I run a bath. I have the day free. I’m going to have a nice soak, put on my makeup, test-run my casual navy travel suit, and surprise Theodore and take him to the movies in Kingsport.

As I sink into the hot water, I look up at the skylight, which for years has been my favorite thing in this house. I could always see a patch of sky through it. I never minded if there were clouds or if it was raining; all kinds of weather had a particular beauty in that square of lead glass. I could see birds go by and watch the clouds change from billowy white to gray and then, in winter, see a sky full of snow. It was my own private clock. I’m about to turn thirty-six years old. Thirty-six! I cannot believe it. I feel nineteen some days and eighty-five on others.

I am blissfully content. I’m sure there are things I could get riled up about, like Mario Barbari dropping me as a pen pal. But I see the big picture now in a way I couldn’t before. I have lowered my expectations, and that’s a good thing. I can’t look outside of myself for happiness, or let things like letters coming or not coming ruin my life. I am ready for a change. I just know that this trip to Italy will change my life. And I’m not going to fight it.