Home to Big Stone Gap (10 page)

I didn’t count on the fact that Iva Lou had one of her own.

“You shouldn’t be surprised by anything about Iva Lou,” says Fleeta as she pours herself a cup of coffee. “Iva Lou’s a character. She’s had a life. A full life.”

“I know.”

“Anyhow, them Christmas baskets. We drove way up in the hills, almost to the top of Stone Mountain. Back then it nearly always rained on Christmas Eve. It was awful dreary up there. We went so far up the ridge, I thought we’d get to the top and fall off the other side. We didn’t, though. There’s a house in a holler up there, and me and her got out of the truck and brought a basket to a family. They opened the door, and there was kids everywhere—seemed like a hundred of ’em—though it was probably ten or so. They had nothin’ up there. Nothin’. The mama was holding a baby around ten months old. She was a pretty blond baby, with those big pink cheeks that look like two bubblegum bubbles. Iva Lou took that woman’s baby and held her tight. The baby cooed, and that’s when Iva Lou started crying. So I quick made an excuse, handing the baby back to its mama, and me and Iva Lou went outside. And that’s when she told me that holding that baby reminded her of her own. Said she had a baby once and she gave the baby to a good family named Carter out of Hazard, Kentucky.”

“And you never told anyone.”

“Not even Portly. And I never brought it up to Iva Lou again neither. What good would come of that?”

“You didn’t?” I feel guilty now—I shouldn’t have told Jack. But he’s good with a secret; it will go no further.

“And I still think you ought not say a word to her.”

“I have to.”

“No, you don’t.”

“What if Lovely tells Iva Lou she talked to me?”

“Then it’s her sayin’ it. Look, it wasn’t easy for girls back then. If they got pregnant, well, a lot of times there was nowhere to turn—hell, most times. You knew girls that left school and went off to live with relatives for the duration and then would come back, and everybody knew they went off and had a baby and then had to give it away. And you’s younger than me; it was even worse when I was a girl. I didn’t even know how exactly a girl got pregnant. Not too easy to dodge something you ain’t sure of. Best way to keep yourself safe was to go on and get murried, then when you had the babies, you had some help. Of course, getting murried was a crapshoot too. My mama and daddy couldn’t help me and Portly much. They didn’t have nothin’. My own mama was sixteen when she had me, so there was still youngins at home when I left. I saw how hard it was to have a baby when you’re a young mama like that. And if you were alone, it made for some desperate decisions sometimes. Women have always kept secrets because we had to. There wasn’t no place to turn. And I’ll bet you that’s how Iva Lou felt.”

“But she’s met with her daughter and talked to her. It’s 1998, for Godsakes. It’s different now. Even here, in the land that time forgot.”

“It don’t matter. That’s a deep wound right there. It’s best to leave it alone.”

The snowflakes Jack and Fleeta promised are starting to come down in lazy spirals over Big Stone Gap. Main Street is getting a light dusting of the white powder, looking like one of Cab’s doughnuts rolled in confectioners’ sugar. I hope Iva Lou takes it easy on the road.

The bells on the front door jingle. Jack comes in with Tyler Hutchinson; they’re laughing.

“Hi, honey.” Jack marches in place on the mat to get the snow off his shoes.

“Hello, Mrs. MacChesney.” Tyler flashes me a big, wide Virginia Tech smile.

“Hello, Tyler.”

“Well, come on, you two. Everybody’s done gone. I got beef tips on toast fer ye.”

“Sounds great, Fleeta.”

Tyler sits at the reserved table, which, in our empty café, looks silly. Jack folds Fleeta’s handwritten sign neatly and places it on the counter. He joins Tyler at the table. Jack is so animated with this man; it’s as if he’s found a brother.

I stand back and watch them from my counter and wonder how many businessmen came to these parts and had these kinds of meetings with men like my husband. Tyler doesn’t know that this sort of deal almost never works out, because there’s an unwritten law: if you ain’t from here, you shouldn’t benefit from our resources. This has turned out to be a very bad philosophy, since our young people grow up and, unable to find jobs, move away. It leaves these hills vulnerable to outsiders looking to exploit our natural resources. There are still hundreds of years of coal in these mountains, and a world in desperate need of that kind of energy. The only reason our traditional mines are closed is because the coal can be gotten more cheaply elsewhere.

My husband, though, knows all of this and yet, ever hopeful, listens to Tyler Hutchinson as if the story is brand-new. It’s almost a gold-rush situation: we sit here, a little bit like suckers, hoping that the ending will change with the promise and glory proposed by yet another salesman looking to cash in.

There’s not even a single car on Main Street. Lew Eisenberg’s Lincoln Town Car is parked outside his office, but that’s the case most days into the night. He is married to his work because it’s too hard to be married to Inez.

In Big Stone Gap, when it snows, folks hit the panic button and stay home. The phone starts ringing. This is my sign that I will spend most of the day delivering pills. Maybe I’ll stop by Iva Lou’s in Danberry Heights later.

“Mom! I heard Uncle Theodore is coming for Christmas,” says Etta when I talk to her from home a couple days later.

“How do you know?”

“He instant-messages me all the time.”

“I’m glad you stay close.”

“Are you kidding? He’s a riot.”

“I’m going to miss you, honey. I’m really dreading the holidays without you here.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad. You won’t have me to do all the grunt work. Now you’ll know how talented I was when it came to hanging lights.”

“I always knew, Etta,” I say, smiling.

“Ma, the holiday isn’t such a big deal over here. It’s so funny. Christmas is nice, but Easter’s the big one.”

“Really?”

“My Italian friends think I’m a kook. They can’t believe I’m going to hang lights. It’s just not done.”

“Tell me about your friends.”

“Okay. There’s Salalena; she’s Calabrese and works admissions at the university. She’s twenty-one and drives a turquoise Vespa motor scooter. I’m serious. Turquoise. If you saw her, though, you couldn’t imagine her driving anything else. She’s a pip. Stefano is close to two of his old professors—they’ve been married, like you and Dad, forever, like twenty years. Her name is Gina and his name is Apollo, like the Greek god.”

“That’s cool.”

“Very cool. And then there’re the girls I’ve met at—don’t laugh—my sewing class.”

“You’re sewing?”

“I just feel like it’s in my DNA. I’m named for my grandmother, who was a seamstress—and Grandma Mac was also a good one—so I’m hearing the call.”

“Have you made anything yet?”

“Nope. We’re starting with patterns. The teacher is hard-core. We’re actually having to draw our own patterns. Sometimes I look at the other girls and think, This is like 1812—eventually, we do get to use electric sewing machines. But not till much much later.”

“It sounds like fun.”

“It is! How are you, Mom?”

“Well, I’m okay. I have a problem.”

“What is it?”

“I just found out something that’s got me upset. Aunt Iva Lou sort of…Well, she kept a secret from me.”

“So?”

“It’s a big one. She has a daughter.”

“Oh my God.”

“She had her years ago—before she moved to Big Stone Gap—and she gave her up for adoption.”

“When did she tell you?”

“She hasn’t yet. The daughter came to see me. She wanted me to talk to Iva Lou, to convince her to tell her who her father is.”

“Mom, you have to talk to Aunt Iva Lou.”

I feel my eyes burn. “I can’t.”

“Why? Don’t be a dork. It’s not like she’s fifteen and you need to have ‘the talk.’ What are you afraid of?”

“I don’t know.”

“So you
are
afraid.”

“Maybe I’m scared it will change everything.”

“That’s lame. That’s not it. It’s something else, Ma. You aren’t thinking clearly. What does Dad say?”

“To mind my own business.”

“Easy for him to say!”

We laugh. For twenty years, Jack has always said the most obvious, practical thing. His advice is so bland, we usually don’t even seek it. He avoids confrontation with such regularity, he’s turned it into an art form. I’d call him a fence-sitter, but at the first whiff of a conflict, he doesn’t sit, he passes through. He wants no part of it.

“Etta, are you happy over there?” I ask.

“Ma, it’s an adventure. I’m always happy. I know that sounds silly, but it’s true. I love a great guy, and I’m around my family. I miss you guys, but I had you for nineteen years, and now I have to experience something else. It feels completely natural to me.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“I really do. You’re so much more sophisticated than I was, and I guess I was holding you to my marker. That wasn’t fair.”

“It’s okay.”

“What’s the best thing about Stefano?”

“Every night, after dinner, we go for a walk. And we talk about our day, the good stuff and the bad stuff. And when I tell him things, he really listens. I’m sort of learning how to listen from him. He is so focused on me—it’s as if my welfare is more important to him than his own. Can you imagine that?”

“I’m so glad.”

“I mean, I don’t listen, Ma. He’s so thoughtful. I’m hoping it’s rubbing off on me. I think we’re forever, but even if something terrible would happen and we’re not—and I’m not saying that’s gonna happen—but if it did, I’m better for having known him.”

“That’s how I feel about your dad.”

“I know. He’s feeling much better, isn’t he?”

“Like new.”

“How was his last PET scan?”

“The artery in his neck is clear. They’re keeping an eye on his heart.”

“Did they see something?”

“Not yet. But when you have one blockage, sometimes there’s a chance of more.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry.”

“Yeah, don’t worry,” Jack barks into the phone.

“When did you pick up?” I bark back, but I’m teasing.

“When you were talking about potential blockage. You make it sound worse than it is.”

“I thought there was nothing there,” Etta says, worried.

“See there, Ave, you’re triggering a chain reaction around the world.”

“I didn’t mean to. Sorry, Etta.”

“Believe me, Etta. Your mother worries enough for all three of us. In fact, I’m thinking about putting in an eight-hundred number so people can call in and let your mother worry for folks across the country—she’s that good at it.”

“You’re hilarious, Jack. Okay, I’m getting off the phone now so you two can talk. I love you, Etta.”

“I love you, Ma.”

“Thank you. And love to Stefano.”

After I hang up, I take the last of the laundry out of the dryer and dump it on the worktable on the sunporch. I begin to fold it. On the windowsill, Shoo the Cat raises his head off his paws, looks at me, and blinks, then curls up and goes back to sleep. I hear Jack laughing from the phone in the living room. Lord knows how long he’ll be on the phone with Etta—those two can talk for hours.

The sun is long gone over Cracker’s Neck. I turn on the outdoor porch light and watch the woods, as I have done every day since September, when I thought I saw a young man hiking through. Jack doesn’t know it, but I go out and walk the woods every afternoon or early evening, looking for what or who, I don’t know—just walking. If I told Jack I go into the woods alone, he’d say I was looking for Joe, and then he’d get concerned, and pretty soon he’d call Iva Lou or Father John or somebody to talk some sense into me. So I keep my little hikes to myself.

Every bit of relief I felt when Jack’s PET scan results came back good has been replaced by a new dread. Or maybe it’s just a new version of an old dread: I feel I’m going to lose someone I love again. I don’t know who, exactly, but I remember this feeling before my mother died, and before Joe died, and boy, it was acute right before Spec died. The feeling came back a couple of weeks ago, before Nonna died. Jack can call me a worrier all he wants, but what I’m feeling is beyond worry. It’s a knowledge that the moment is slipping away, and I’m not in it. How can I tell Jack this when he’s more aware of his own mortality than ever. I can’t burden him with my fears. He felt so close to death that he went about making lists. Imagine that! I never make lists. Maybe it’s time I started. Maybe that will slow the clock.