Home to Big Stone Gap (17 page)

“It was her mother’s,” Papa tells me.

“It’s beautiful.” I open the locket. Two photographs are framed on either side. A boy with jet-black hair, around a year old, and on the other side a girl, around three, with ringlets and a frown. The frown makes me laugh.

“The girl is Mama, and the boy is her brother, Sergio.”

“I love it, Papa. Thank you.” I give my father a hug and kiss.

“Someday I have to write down the stories she told me.”

“I wish you would. She told me some good ones when I visited. But she couldn’t talk about your dad without crying, so I never asked about him. What was he like?”

“Very stern. But also loving. Giuseppe Barbari. He was a serious man, but he would try to give me whatever I wanted. When I was a boy, we played near the water wheel in the center of town. When the water came over the wheel, it would land in a pool and then flow out to the stream. One summer my cousin came to visit. He had a small blue wooden boat—you know, a toy—and we would spend hours playing with it in the water. When my cousin left to go back to Bergamo, he took the boat with him, and I cried and cried. We didn’t have much money; everything Papa made went into tending his horses. One day I went with Papa down to Bergamo for supplies, and I went into shop after shop until I found a store that had toys. I brought my papa to the shop, and he looked at the boat. He said it wasn’t good enough; he thought it was cheaply made, so he wouldn’t buy it for me. I was disappointed. A few weeks later, my father left for work early in the morning. When I came down to breakfast, there was a boat. It wasn’t exactly like my cousin’s or the one in the shop in Bergamo, but it was a fine replica. On the back of the boat, it said
Mario Barbari
in small black letters. I couldn’t believe my luck. My mother told me that Papa made it for me. In those days he worked fourteen hours a day, but he stayed up at night to make me the boat.”

“He wanted you to be happy.”

“More than anything. My mother was the same.”

“I always wanted to ask you something, Papa. Nonna was very principled. She spent more time in church than the priest. When you told her about me, what did she say?”

Papa shakes his fist, just like Nonna used to. “I was fifty-seven years old, and I was afraid to tell her! I didn’t know what she would say. But I knew she had always prayed that I would marry and have children, and when I didn’t, she accepted it. She knew I had friends, so she didn’t worry that I was lonely; she just wished our family would continue. It’s only natural. So I went home after reading your letter. I sat her down and told her the whole story. You know she was a pious woman; she lived her life by a code. I thought she would discourage any contact with you. In her day, an unmarried woman with a child was not virtuous. The woman and the child were marked. It seems silly now, but then a situation like that could ruin a family name. Nonna surprised me; she listened like a judge. She took a few moments to respond, and I thought for sure she would be furious. Instead of reacting with anger, she said, ‘We will all go with you to America to meet your daughter.’ She didn’t hesitate. When Jack called us and offered us the tickets to come to meet you, she knew it was the right thing to do. It brought her so much joy—to have you in her life, and then your children.”

“It makes me so happy to hear it.”

“She was so pleased Etta married an Italian. Mama felt confident that our family would go on, and at the end, that was the most important thing to her.”

“So Nonna got her dream.” The irony that Etta’s teenage wedding was my worst nightmare is not lost on me.

“My mother was completely fulfilled. Which is why I’m sad but not too sad. She lived her life the way she wished.”

I always feel I never have enough time to talk with my father. Maybe that’s because I didn’t know of him until I was thirty-five—or maybe because the things I want to know, that only he can tell me, are an endless list. “Papa, would you have married my mother if you knew about me?”

Papa looks off in the middle distance and thinks about the question. “I was very young. A boy, really. Around the age of Randy. When I look at a boy that young, I wonder.”

“You mean you might
not
have married Mama?” I almost don’t want to ask the question. I always think of my parents as star-crossed lovers, with lots of passion and very little choice involved in their love story.

“Her father would have made me! I loved Fiametta, I did. When she left, I wondered if I had done something that made her leave. It turns out that I had, but I didn’t know what it was at the time. Of course, it ended up to be you. Does that answer your question?”

“When I think about you and Mama, I think of your story like it’s a fairy tale. I imagine myself as a girl in an enchanted Italian village, living in a charming stone house by a clear river, with two parents inside that house who love me. I am one of many children you had together. There are always lots of brothers and sisters in my story. Lots of noise and love and laughter pouring out of every window. I guess we always dream about what we don’t have.”

Papa shrugs. “What else is there to dream about?”

“My, you two are so serious,” Giacomina says from the doorway.

“Oh, we’re just talking about the past.”

Giacomina sits down with us. “Happy stories?”

“Always,” I promise her.

Giacomina gives me a small photo album. “I almost forgot to give you this. Your daughter made it for you.”

The title, in Etta’s handwriting, says
The Newlyweds.

I open the photo album. The first page is a collage of all of our faces from Etta and Stefano’s wedding. Each subsequent page is a photograph of Etta and Stefano: their first apartment; Etta’s first gnocchi (made with her own hands!); Stefano going off to work; the University of Bergamo campus, where Etta is in school; Papa, Giacomina, and Stefano sitting at the small table in their sweet kitchen; and finally, a beautiful photograph of Etta climbing the mountainside in Schilpario in the snow. She wears a blue tulle skirt and a ski jacket, and her footprints are deep impressions in the white snow.

How I wish those footprints would lead her home to Cracker’s Neck Holler.

Wise

I
tiptoe through the house, not wanting to wake our company. When I get to the kitchen, I fill the big coffeemaker with cold water. I scoop fresh-ground coffee beans out of the sack into the filter. I take a pinch of cinnamon and sprinkle it on the coffee grounds. I light the fire in the hearth. Then I set the table with cloth napkins and small plates. Jack picked up a large sack of Cab’s doughnuts yesterday morning, so we’re set for breakfast.

“
Buon giorno,
” my father says as he comes into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Papa.” I give him a big hug. “Let me get you a cup of coffee.”

Papa sits down at the table. After our talk last night, I feel closer to him. Our relationship grows every time we’re together, and when we part and come together again, we pick up where we left off. I wish I lived next door, where I could do things for him every day. For now this visit will have to do.

I put a small pot of milk on the stove to steam it. I take a small ceramic soup bowl and put coffee in the bottom, and as the milk foams, I add it to the bowl. I bring it to him. I pull the sugar bowl off of the shelf. I place the doughnuts on a platter.

Papa takes a bite. “Cab’s doughnuts,” I tell him. “The most famous doughnut in Wise County.”

“I remember them.” Papa takes a sip of coffee. “Dinner was so good yesterday. Fleeta is a funny woman.”

“We have a lot of laughs.”

“You have good friends. Do you mind if we go and visit Iva Lou?”

“No.”

“Etta called her to wish her a merry Christmas and told her that we were in town.”

“Oh.”

“If you don’t want us to go…”

“No, no, Papa. She loves you and Giacomina. Remember our trip with her to Italy?”

“The people of Schilpario still ask for Iva Lou, Iva Lou.”

“She’s unforgettable.”

“Jack told me you and Iva Lou were not too friendly anymore.”

“I heard something, and I didn’t handle it very well.”

“What happened?”

“It turns out that Iva Lou had a baby before she moved to Big Stone Gap, and gave it up for adoption. But she never told me about it. So I went and asked her if it was true. It turns out she told some people and not me.”

“So your pride was hurt.”

“No, she can have secrets. That’s okay. It’s just with all we’ve been through, I really counted on her, on her honesty. I’ve always told her everything. I guess I was hurt when the trust wasn’t mutual.”

“Like Fiametta. Your mother had opportunities to tell you about me and never did. She had to pass away to let you know the truth.”

I lose patience. “It’s not the same thing.”

“It was too hard for your mother to tell you the truth. You see, it didn’t have anything to do with you; it had to do with the choices she made in her life. Your mother wasn’t happy to leave Schilpario, but she didn’t want you to think that it was your fault. So instead of telling you the truth, she kept it from you.”

“When I look back, I know she tried to tell me, but it was too painful for her.”

“Maybe it was too painful for Iva Lou.”

Jack comes into the kitchen. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Papa is talking about Iva Lou.”

Jack whistles low. “Sore subject around here.”

“I’ve tried to reach out to her.” I sound like a pouting child. “She doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“Maybe you need to try harder.” Jack pours himself a cup of coffee.

I give Jack the creamer. “Don’t gang up on me.”

Papa turns to Jack. “Have you thought about talking to her?”

“You know what happens to a man who gets between two women? It ain’t pretty.”

“It’s not your affair, anyway,” I say to Jack. “I would never come between you and a friend.”

“Jack is Iva Lou’s friend also, no?” Papa reasons.

“Yes, he is. But this problem is between Iva Lou and me.”

“Good morning.” Pete comes into the kitchen, dressed for his trip home. He takes a mug and fills it with coffee.

“Ave, will you drive Pete to the airport?” Jack asks. “I was going to take him, but I have a meeting with Tyler and a couple of engineers down in Lee County.”

Pete shrugs. “If it’s any trouble, I could call a cab.”

“I’m happy to take you,” I tell him. “By the way, there’s no car service in Big Stone this time of year. Conley Barker is off between Christmas and New Year’s.”

“Isn’t this the busiest season for travelers?” Pete wonders.

“Conley plays Joseph in the traveling Nativity that the Church of Christ puts on every year. He’s unavailable until the Epiphany,” I explain.

“January sixth,” Jack confirms.

“So it’s you and me, Pete.” I pat him on the back.

Pete smiles at me. I don’t know why, but I blush. Theodore joins us in the kitchen. It’s starting to look like lunch rush at Fleeta’s café.

Theodore claps his hands together. “Morning, all. Okay, okay, which vehicle can I use today?”

“My truck,” Jack volunteers.

“Big meeting this morning. I’m going up to the college to see what kind of trouble I can cause on their board of directors.”

“They need dormitories,” Jack says. “I read all about it in the
Coalfield Progress.
”

“Construction is not my area of expertise. Ideas, poetry, music, and other arty pursuits are my specialty, in case anyone is wondering.”

Jack smiles. “I stayed up all night thinking about it.”

“Oh, you.” Theodore gulps down his coffee and goes.

We hear a car horn out front. “My ride.” Jack gives me a quick kiss and follows Theodore out the door.

“I hate to do this, Ave, but I need to get a move on too.” Pete puts his cup in the sink.

I feel sad at the mention of Pete leaving. I haven’t had much time to talk to him one on one; we had a houseful of company. I don’t want him to go just yet. But I cover it up nicely, I think: “No problem. I’ll get my purse.” I go upstairs and take my purse off the bureau. I turn to go, think better of it, and head back to the mirror. I take a moment to comb my hair and check my lipstick. I don’t linger too long—that would make me feel guilty, as though I want to look good for Pete. I stand sideways and look at my figure. Not bad. My mother was right. Good posture makes all the difference. The shell-pink cashmere sweater Giacomina gave me for Christmas tucks into the jeans perfectly, and the warm color gives my skin a lift. I give my face a final once-over. The right shade of lipstick really melts away the years and gives a girl oomph. Iva Lou told me I was a blue/red years ago, and I’ve always chosen my shade accordingly. Nothing wrong with going for pretty, I reason. I’m not doing this to impress anyone; I just want to look good for me (this is what I tell myself, anyway). I don’t think I’m fooling Jack, though. The obvious sign that we have company of the old-flame variety is that I am dressed and wearing lipstick before breakfast two days in a row. I skip down the steps and go into the kitchen. “Ready?”

Pete says good-bye to Papa and Giacomina. “I’ll see you in Bergamo,” Pete says, and slings his duffel over his back. He follows me outside to the Jeep.

I toss him the keys. “Why don’t you drive?”

“Sure.” He smiles.

I don’t know why, but the way he looks at me, with that gaze of his, well, it unglues me. It’s as if he’s studying me, not wanting to forget a single detail of my face. “Follow the signs to Wise. And then the ones to the airport.” My voice breaks. I clear my throat quickly.

I climb into the passenger seat. Pete slides the driver’s seat as far back as it will go, to accommodate his long legs. He adjusts the rearview mirror. His strong jaw and straight nose have not softened with time; in fact, his features seem more deliberate. The lines around his eyes are etched from laughter, not disappointment, which for a man is the difference between pleasantly weather-beaten and dilapidated.

Pete has a sense of humor about himself that comes through in everything he does. He’s tall and distinguished without being stodgy. He’s a head turner, but he doesn’t rely on his looks (he doesn’t seem to, anyhow, though I don’t think he
minds
it when women notice him). What makes him truly attractive is that he’s interested in everything around him. He listens, and that’s irresistible.

I look at his sideburns, which are beautifully groomed. I trim the insides of Jack’s sideburns into a perfect straight line next to his ears. I notice that Pete’s are trimmed into a perfect straight line also. I wonder who does it for him.

When I was a girl, I didn’t think older men were attractive, but I do now. Pete’s hair, which looks more smoky than black in bright daylight, makes for a striking palette against his clear golden skin. You would want to know this man if you saw him walking down the street. He’s compelling and yet attainable. His faded jeans and crisp white shirt give him a youthful edge. I always look at hands and teeth, and he passes both tests with high marks. There are men who fall apart without a woman’s care, but Pete is not one of them. He’s well groomed without the fussiness. The white shirt makes the bright blue of his eyes stand out like sapphires in the sun. He’s beautifully handsome in a classic way, unlike my husband, who is of the rugged variety. I decide that I like both, and at my age, I figure I’m allowed.

As Pete throws the Jeep in reverse and backs down the mountain, I imagine what my life would have been like if I had left Jack and gone with Pete years ago. It’s been over ten years, and Pete is still the most tempting Plan B in a life that has stuck to its Plan A with a vengeance. (If anything, I’m good at following a plan!) There wasn’t another crush, not another Pete for miles in the landscape of my life. He’s it.

There’s still that small, secret corner in my heart where I imagine myself the person I would have been without Jack and all that happened as a result of marrying him. I don’t grieve in that place, and I don’t regret. I’m just living. In my mind’s eye, I’m beautiful and full of possibility and hope, and, yes, young. I am adored for all the things my husband and daughter don’t really notice. I’m a woman of the world without ties to anyone. I’m free to love whom I please without the banal rigors of everyday life: no chores, no doctor’s appointments, and most importantly, no worries. I’m free to seize the world in my fashion. Pete Rutledge also represents that corner to me, which is why I can say I love him. He is the man who made a place there when the bigger part of my heart was already taken.

I’m still attracted to Pete, and unless my radar equipment is totally rusty, I think he is still attracted to me. It bothers me that I like it.

“Thank you for bringing Papa and Giacomina home for Christmas,” I say as we drive.

“My pleasure. It was pretty great, wasn’t it?”

“The best.”

“When I was in Italy, Etta told me you were having a rough year. Jack’s health.”

“Yeah. It’s been really hard. I’m worried all the time.” I can’t believe I said this out loud. I go around like everything is fine. No one knows I wake up on the hour every night and check to see if Jack’s okay. I constantly do the math: if Jack does this, it buys him this many months, which will translate into this many years. I worry about whether there’s a blockage somewhere that the PET scan didn’t catch or can’t catch, or whether there’s one forming right now, undetected, that could cause a problem down the line. I’ve become a numbers girl. I calculate the length of illnesses by going online and reading about black lung and all its stages. I hound the doctor’s office for test results until they call me back. I even try to imagine my life if the worst should happen, so I can plan ahead and be prepared—but I get so sick to my stomach that I call off the game.

“Jack’s a strong guy,” says Pete. “I know. I chopped wood with him.”

“I hope his good genes carry him through all of this.”

“You know, men don’t do too well with aging.”

“How would you know? You don’t age.”

“You’re not looking closely. That divorce took a piece out of me. The whole thing was a big mistake.”

“What went wrong?”

“Everything—and not until after the ceremony. It was the strangest thing. I thought it was the right thing to do; I thought Gina was a terrific woman, I liked her son, it all seemed fine. And then we got married, and overnight we changed. I felt trapped, and she felt abandoned.”

“Why do you think that happened?”

“We wanted to do right by each other. We’d been together a long time. It seemed like a natural progression. Beware of natural progressions! We should have sat down and figured out that we were better without a contract. You know, some of the best deals in the world are done on a handshake. That’s not a bad idea for some men and women. Marriage can kill a romance.”

“Marriage is hard.”

“I found that out.”

“I don’t know what makes it last. Sometimes you stay in because you know that everything changes, including feeling bored or rejected—and if you hang in through those phases, they turn, like the phases of the moon. Contentment creeps back in, and lots of times, it gives way to happiness. You just never know.”

“Yeah, well, there was very little moonlight in my marriage.”