Home to Big Stone Gap (4 page)

“Jack wrote this?” Iva Lou sits down and reads it. “‘Still to Do.’ Told ya. He’s making lists of things—ole Jack Mac ain’t going anywhere. Who the hell is Annie?”

“I have no idea.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing.” A worry crease appears between Iva Lou’s eyes.

“For Godsakes, Iva Lou, I don’t care about that.”

“I would. I don’t care how sick Lyle gits, he better not write some mystery woman’s name on a pad for me to find. I’d rip his wig off.” Iva Lou pokes me. I manage a smile. “Jack’s in good hands. Got the best surgeon here.”

“How do you know?” I ask.

“What?”

“How do you know he’s not going to die?”

“He didn’t have the look.” Iva Lou exhales.

“What look?”

“Surrender.”

“He seemed so sad.” I open my purse, looking for a tissue.

“That’s just Jack Mac not wanting to be any trouble. He was lying on that gurney wondering if the surgeon’d had his lunch. He doesn’t want to bother people. You know how he is.”

I nod.

“Your husband is and will forever be a giver and not a taker. I never saw him take nothin’—and I know men.”

“You’re right.”

“When I had my cancer…”

I nod that I remember.

“Well, I knew I wasn’t a goner. I just knew it. And Jack knows he ain’t a goner. You should pray for peace of mind, not anything else. He’s gonna be around a long time.”

I take Iva Lou’s hand. “What if he isn’t? What will I do?”

“Don’t go there.”

“I can’t help it. I’m scared.”

“Of course you are. He’s irreplaceable. I know they say that anybody can be replaced. Well, there’s two places that’s not true: right here, in Jack Mac, and at the county library. Ever since Mrs. Horne died, the main branch has been a mess.”

“I’ve got to call Etta!” I stand.

“You’ll do no such thing!” Iva Lou pulls me back down to the chair. “She’s all the way over in It-lee. There’s nothing she can do.”

“If it were me in there, Jack would call right away.”

“And I’d stop him the same as I’m stoppin’ you. You ain’t thinkin’ clearly. Call her when you got good news from the surgery, and not before.”

If there was ever a daughter with a deep affinity for her father, and he for her, it’s Etta and Jack. There were times when I felt they were closer than Etta and I were, but I never minded. I’d spent most of my life craving that connection to Fred Mulligan, and then once I’d met my real father, I had waves of it. Etta and Jack’s relationship has an edge over me and my dad, of course, because they’ve had a connection since the day she was born, while I had to wait thirty-five years for mine. Iva Lou is right, though. What good would it do to burden her at this point?

“I meant to tell you something. When you stopped by the house the other morning,” I say.

“What’s that?” Iva Lou looks at me.

“I thought I saw my son in the woods.”

“What do you mean?”

“I saw a young man walking in the woods, and he looked like Joe, if Joe had lived.”

“Honey-o, now you’re scaring me.”

“I
was
scared. I must’ve looked a fright, because Jack went out in the woods and looked for him.”

“Bless his heart.”

“I know. He’d do anything for me. Even when I’m crazy, he tries to make sense of it.”

“Why do you think you saw Joe after so long?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe he was trying to tell you something. Sometimes angels do that, you know. They try and guide us in small ways.”

“Maybe he was coming to get Jack.”

“Don’t let your imagination run wild.”

“Too late for that.”

A few hours later, I wake up to the insistent hum of my cell phone. I fell asleep in the chair next to Jack’s bed after hearing that the surgery went well and Jack would be under the anesthesia for a few more hours. I must’ve been so relieved, I went right to sleep. I sit up and take my cell phone out of my pocket. Jack is still asleep in the hospital bed. I have a dull headache, my back is sore, and the heat that has kicked in makes the air so dry, it’s hard to breathe.

“Hello?”

“Ma, it’s Etta. I got your message.”

“Hi, honey.”

“What’s wrong? Why are you at the hospital?”

“It’s Daddy.” I start to cry.

“What happened?” she says evenly.

“He fell at work, and it turns out he had a blockage in his artery. He had surgery this morning, and he’s doing really well.”

“Why didn’t you call right away?”

“The time difference,” I lie. “There was nothing you could do.”

“I could worry for you! I’m coming home.”

“No, no. He’s going to be fine.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“He’s sleeping.”

“Mom, you’re not lying to me, are you? Is it worse than you’re saying?”

I go into a long explanation of the surgery, repeating everything the doctor told me. I give her the good news; there was plenty of that. I recount that Jack’s heart is strong, he just had a buildup of plaque in the arteries, and now he’s on blood thinners and he will heal.

“I’m coming home.”

“Etta. I would tell you if it was bad.”

“I want to talk to Dad.”

The nurse comes in and checks Jack. I watch as she takes his blood pressure and checks the dressing on his bandages. Jack stirs a little when she touches him.

“Can we call you later? When he wakes up?” I ask.

“Okay.” Etta begins to cry. “Is he going to be all right?”

“Yes. Yes. I promise.”

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to Daddy.”

My heart breaks for her, but I don’t cry. “Listen to me, Etta. Your father loves you, and he’s proud of you. Your happiness makes him strong. He wants you to be happy.”

“How can I do that when he’s suffering?”

“Because you have to.”

“I want to come home and take care of him.”

“Don’t worry. I’m waiting on him like he’s a duke.”

“I shouldn’t be here. I should be home with you.”

I had prayed for Etta to come to this realization before she moved abroad, got married, and decided to go to college in Italy. I knew there would be a moment when she wished she was nearer to home, closer to us. This is one time when I wish I hadn’t been right.

“Don’t be silly,” I tell her. “Your life is there, with your husband who loves you. Don’t worry.”

Mountain View

T
he thunder is so loud over Cracker’s Neck Holler, it sounds like the mountains are splitting open. The occasional bolt of white lightning in the dark, followed by deafening claps, sends Shoo the Cat under the sofa. I place some chunks of black coal on the fire. The flames from the logs engulf the coal; it crackles with small pops of silver where the dust hits the fire.

“You done good with that farr, honey.” Jack puts his arms around me.

He’s been home a few weeks now, and the truth is, I’m getting pretty good at building fires myself, because I won’t let him lift a thing. “You banked it, I just added the coal.”

“Some storm.”

“Terrible.”

“We’ll wake up to butterscotch mountains in the morning.”

“You think so?”

Jack and Etta used to name the mountains by season. In late November, when the rains came in, the last of the changing leaves’ shimmering colors would go; ruby and gold and orange would give way to bare fingers of deep blue branches as far as the eye could see. Even the pine would lose some of its green luster, turning to a dusty purple as the cold set in. The earth below would turn the color of butterscotch.

“Today is the first day I feel like myself.” Jack sits in the chair and puts his feet up.

“The doctor said it would take six weeks.”

“I didn’t believe him.”

“Do you need anything?” I kneel next to Jack’s chair. “How about a cup of tea?”

“I sort of like you waiting on me hand and foot.”

“This is what it was like in the pioneer days, before women had careers.”

“I like it.”

I kiss Jack on the cheek. “Why wouldn’t you?” He pulls me onto his lap. I put my arms around his neck. “Did you e-mail Etta?”

“I sure did. I don’t like that instant-message feature at all.”

I laugh. “I know. It’s annoying.”

“Do you ever think all the romance has gone out of the world?”

“What do you mean?”

“I miss paper and ink and the thought it took to write a letter. To really figure out what you wanted to say.”

“What do you want to say?”

Jack looks at me. “Thank you for taking such good care of me.”

“I’m happy to.”

“You’ve been great.”

“I’m relieved,” I say.

“Why?”

“I thought it was the end. Iva Lou told me to never, ever say that to you. But I was really scared. I actually thought, Oh, this is how it ends.” I tear up as I say this.

“That’s funny. I wasn’t one bit scared.”

“Not at all?”

“No. I’m not afraid to die. I thought about it every single day when I went into the mines. First thing at the beginning of a shift as I prepped my gear, I thought about what could go wrong. Then once I was inside, I’d get to work, and I wouldn’t think about it again.”

“I wouldn’t have stopped thinking about it for a moment.”

“Eventually, you do. My dad did forty years in there.”

“And he died of black lung.”

“Complications of it, they said. And he smoked, so we’ll never know exactly what took him. When he died, I remember thinking, Well, at least wherever we go after this life, it’ll be ready for us with Pop getting there first. He was a fixer, he could build anything. I just figured he went ahead to make a way for the rest of us. When Ma died, I knew he was waiting for her, so I didn’t worry. Ever since Joe died, I knew that when my time came, I’d see him again. It’s not that I want to die, but I don’t think it’s so terrible, because I know he’ll be there. I’m looking forward to seeing him.”

“I didn’t know you felt this way.” As I say this, my voice breaks.

“Really? I figure you know me pretty well. It’s been almost twenty years.”

Sometimes these twenty years seem like twenty minutes. I think I know my husband, and then something happens, he reacts a certain way, and I’m utterly surprised. There are certain aspects to his character that I can count on, and his habits are as ingrained as his ideals—it’s hard to separate the behavior from the man. But when it’s life or death, all bets are off. We make that walk alone, and no amount of love or wishing will change the outcome.

This time Jack wasn’t ready to go, so he didn’t.

I am haunted by small details the doctor has shared. If Jack hadn’t been close to the hospital, if this had happened in his sleep, he might have had a massive stroke. If the clot had formed an inch from where it was, it would have meant sudden and certain death. All these ifs, there’s a pile of them, one scenario more frightening than the next. We are lucky. We know it.

“Stand still, Ma.” Janine crouches on the floor pinning the hem on Fleeta’s wedding gown. I flip the
CLOSED
sign on the entrance door of Mutual’s while Fleeta stands on a packing crate playing supermodel.

“How weird is this? A daughter sewing a mother’s wedding gown? I’m ashamed.” Fleeta puffs on her unlit cigarette. (I miss the actual smoke rings Fleeta used to blow, but when she gave up smoking, she gave up lighting them.)

“You sewed mine,” Janine says.

“That were different. This here is backwards to how it’s supposed to be. I’m too old for this nonsense.”

“You need to get over your prejudices,” I tell Fleeta pleasantly.

“Look who’s talking. You’re the one who asked why didn’t I just live with Otto instead of gettin’ murried?”

“I hope you didn’t tell Reverend Mutter I said that.”

“I done told him everything.”

“Great. They already think Catholics are a bunch of hypocrites—”

“And now he’s got proof.” Fleeta chuckles.

“Stay still, Ma. I mean it,” Janine barks. Janine is a no-nonsense mountain girl with a purpose. She’s focused, college-educated, ambitious, and driven. Now in her late thirties, looking far younger, she is an exact replica of her mother. We call her “Fleeta Part Two.” She’s petite and has a slight build but makes up for it with moxie. Her black hair is cut in a shag, and she inherited her mother’s clothes sense: she likes bright sweaters and leggings and ankle boots. Janine took over the management of the Mutual Pharmacy when Pearl left to go to Boston. We don’t see a lot of Janine—she stays at the Mutual branch down in Lee County—but she’s sharp and a managerial whiz. She has us turning a profit, and these days that’s not easy.

“Pavis ain’t comin to the wedding,” Fleeta says, and shrugs.

“He said he was gonna try,” Janine says.

“That new wife of his said the trip is too long and they can’t make it.”

“What wife is this for Pavis?” I ask.

“Third,” Fleeta says.

“Fourth,” Janine corrects her. “You never count that first one that Pavis married in high school.”

“He was sixteen, she was twenty. Betty Jane Cline. How could I forget her? I had to sign permission to let him get murried. He threatened me with a grandbaby, so I had to sign him away. Jane weren’t so bad for him, though. She whipped Pavis into shape, made him git a job, lease a trailer. Grown-up stuff. When she left him—and I knew she would—he fell to pieces, then we was stuck putting him back together again. Took us about four years till he stopped crying about her. I don’t like older womens and young men together. Something ain’t right about that. And that right there was proof.”

“I think older women and younger men make sense. Do the math. Men die about eight years sooner than women,” I say.

“Maybe that’s a gift.”

“Fleeta!”

“My God, Ma, with all Ave Maria’s been through, that’s a terrible thing to say.”

“She knows what I mean.”

“Never mind me. What about Otto? Don’t you wish him many years of health and happiness with you?” I say.

“What will be, will be, and what ain’t will have to do.”

“You got that right,” I tell her.

“Ma, you need not say everything you’re thinkin’.”

“Why not?” asks Fleeta.

“Your mother has never been subtle,” I say.

“What’s the point? Are you almost done, Janine? I’m bored stiff standin’ here. And I want to get to the ballpark. You know it don’t set right with me to miss kickoff. I’d rather not go at all if I miss it.”

“Okay, Ma. I’m done. Ave, can you help me get her out of this?”

I unbutton the back of the dress and undo the zipper. The dress is shell-pink silk, with long sleeves and a sweeping peplum of matching chiffon. It’s tasteful and understated. It’s the last gown I would have expected Fleeta to pick. “I love this dress,” I say.

“Thank Janine. She’s got an eye for formal wear. Remember those Nadine gowns you wore to the prom?” Fleeta says to Janine, and steps out of the dress. Janine folds it carefully. “I loved the white eyelet with the pale green velvet-ribbon trim. Now, that there was a classic.”

“I still have it, Ma.”

“You’d better. Ten months of layaway at Dave’s department store in Appalachia. Layaway—can you imagine? Now everything’s on the Visa.”

“What a world.” I help Janine put the gown in the dress box.

“What are you doing with your hair? A veil?” I ask Fleeta.

“Hell, no. A veil at my age, I’d look like a beekeeper. No, I’m a-doin’ baby’s breath. I just love me some baby’s breath. It’s elegant.” Fleeta fishes in her purse for her cigarettes. She puts one in her mouth. It dangles dangerously from her lower lip. “Ave, you coming to the game?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Janine?”

“Nope, I have to git home.”

“There was a time when you wouldn’t miss a football game.”

“I have work to do, Ma. This hem will take me all night.” Janine kisses Fleeta and goes.

“Come on.” Fleeta puts on her Vikings jacket. “We don’t want to be late.” She grabs her purse. “The band is doing a special salute to Harley Stallard. You remember him, don’t you?”

“How could I forget him? He was my high school principal. He was beloved.”

“Yeah, well, they’re doing the salute up right. They’s makin’ a big ‘H.S.’ on the field, and the majorettes are gonna twirl fire at the tips of the letters. You know I love me a halftime show.”

I pull on my red velvet swing coat and stop by the lipstick display, quickly applying a coat of Revlon’s Burgundy Mocha from the sample tubes. Fleeta leans in and looks at the mirror. “That’s a good color on you.”

“You think so?”

“Take the tube. What the hell.”

I put the tube in my pocket. The idea that I’m shoplifting from my own pharmacy makes me smile.

Every parking spot is filled to the edge of town, including our lot. Bullitt Park is just a few blocks from the Pharmacy, so we hoof it quickly. Fleeta is serious about her high school football, and the long-standing rivalry between the hometown Powell Valley Vikings and the Appalachia Bulldogs is the game of the year. She won’t miss a single play, and she’ll stay to the final whistle.

As we turn the corner on to Gilley Avenue, we hear the kids cheering in the stands. We quicken our pace and follow the line through the ticket booth. Fleeta and I hand the ticket-taker (Mr. Bates, the biology teacher) our five-dollar bills. The stands are full to overflowing, home and visitors. “Everybody in the damn county turned out,” Fleeta grouses. We make our way to the field, pushing through the crowd. “Otto said he’d be in the end zone with your husband,” Fleeta shouts over the din.

This is Jack’s first night out since his surgery. It’s been two months, and the doctor said it would be a good idea for him to “take a field trip.” I’m having my doubts as I scan the standing-room-only stadium. What if something happened? How would we get him out of here? And there’s a real chill in the air; this can’t be good for him.

“There they is!” Fleeta points to Jack, Otto, Worley, Mousey, Rick, and a group of guys standing in the end zone. Jack looks robust—thinner, but his color is good. I’m so happy to see him out with his friends; instantly, my worries lift like the red streamers unfurled by the Booster Club in the student section. It’s like old times, old times with new hope.

The teams aren’t on the field yet. The cheerleaders are doing a pyramid formation on the fifty-yard line. They look like an upside-down red, white, and Carolina-blue ice-cream cone. The Viking band’s rhythm section provides an up-tempo beat. The student section claps along. The highest cheerleader dives off the top and is caught by two girls at the base. The crowd cheers.

I lose Fleeta in the sea of fans, but knowing her, she went for a chili dog and a Coke. I am shoved and push back as I make my way through. I hear the sound of my husband’s laughter and follow it. Finally, I wedge through a group of onlookers to join Jack. I can see his face, so I move toward him. The crowd pushes me, and I almost topple someone. I look to apologize to the person I’ve landed on, and it’s a woman. I pull back. My heart races when I look at her bronzed face, kohl-rimmed eyes, and coral lip gloss. Nothing understated in the details. It’s Karen Bell.

“Excuse me,” I say loudly, forcing a smile.

“Oh, hi,” she says. She wears a blue baseball cap over her blond shoulder-length hair, and she’s as tanned as she would be in July. She’s dressed in a white windbreaker and jeans.

Jack looks away from me quickly. “Honey, you remember Karen.”

“I do.”