Milk Glass Moon

  “You are a kid. You’re my kid. And I don’t want a daughter who drinks when she’s underage.”

  “You’re forever judging people.” Etta turns and looks out the window.

  “If you mean you, yes, I am judging you. That’s my job. I don’t like to be your warden. But you scared me. You did something that makes me think you don’t understand the consequences of your behavior.”

  “You’re old-fashioned. You don’t get it.”

  She’s got me there. I am old-fashioned (emphasis on the “old”). Most of the kids her age have mothers in their early thirties. I have two decades on them, so I am coming at things from a different perspective. And I know I’m alienating my daughter. She’s not really bad. She’s no Pavis Mullins, who spent more time in the county jail than he did in his mother’s house. Why do I treat her this way? Why do I treat her like Fred Mulligan treated me? The thought of this makes me cry.

  “Ma, please.”

  “Oh, Etta.”

  “What?”

  “You have to try and understand: part of my nature is that I try too hard. I’m afraid for you. And I express myself in ways that hurt you, and I don’t mean to do that. You’re plenty mature. Usually you do just great with everything. But it seems like whenever we have a good run for a while, something like this happens and ruins it.”

  “Was your mother like this?”

  “My father.”

  “Grandpa?”

  “Fred.”

  I haven’t told her much about Fred Mulligan. I felt I resolved almost all of that, but I can see by my actions that I haven’t, really. On some level, the man I first knew as my father was a consistent parent. He controlled me, and I behaved. I hadn’t realized that I have subconsciously taken that path with my own daughter because I know it works.

  “You have a great future ahead of you. I don’t want you to compromise that with some dumb choice, like drinking, that you’d look back on and regret. That’s all.”

  “I’ve told you I’m sorry. I meant it, Mom.”

  “I believe you.”

  “You’re mad at me all the time.”

  “I don’t like being mad at you.”

  Etta goes back to her book. I should feel that our situation is better. She has promised not to drink again, but I can’t promise I will ever be the mother she might wish I were. Jack looks over at me. Iva Lou had plenty to declare, but they’ve run out of things to do. I motion that he can come back to his seat. He looks at me as if to ask, How did it go? I give him a peppy thumbs-up. But I feel far from a thumbs-up. I wonder how I’m going to get through the next three years. And then there’s four years of college, worrying about Etta from afar. This motherhood thing just doesn’t get any easier.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The timing of the United Methodist Church’s “First Call for Fall” Covered Dish Supper is coming on a good night. Our vacation photos are back from Kingsport and everybody in town wants to see them, so I figure I’ll just haul a bagful over to the church basement and form an assembly line.

  Fleeta has whipped up five pounds of Swedish meatballs in a jumbo baking pan, which will be our contribution (that and a case of Coca-Cola, which is standard to-bring fare at a potluck when you come in a party of three or more).

  “Hi, Mom.” Etta and Tara come into the Pharmacy. Etta shows me a pack of gum from the display case and tears into it, handing Tara a piece. “Hi, Mrs. MacChesney.”

  “You girls look great. What’s going on?”

  “I got a perm.” Tara twirls to show me her curly hair. “Ethel Bartee said you’re only supposed to git one perm every six to eight months, but mine fell out, so she bent her rule and give me another one.”

  “Thank God. We can’t have our lead flag girl with a flat head of hair.”

  “That’s what I told her,” Tara says soberly.

  “Is Dad going to the church supper?” Etta asks.

  “He’s meeting us there.”

  “Can Trevor come with us?” Tara asks softly.

  “Cute Trevor or Medium-Cute Trevor?”

  “Ma,” Etta says in a tone that means I’ve said something wrong. As a mother, I make it a general rule to remember only the things that embarrass my daughter and then, of course, to say that exact embarrassing thing in front of her friends.

  “Oh, he’s the cute one,” Tara informs me.

  “Then he can come. Aunt Fleeta made plenty of food, so we haven’t hit our head-count limit yet.”

  The Methodist Sewing Circle has decorated the church basement with fall leaves made of construction paper and glitter. The main table has been set with a white tablecloth trimmed in twisted orange crepe paper.

  “From Fleeta,” I tell Betty Cline as I hand her the enormous tray.

  “Good. We’re short on meat,” Betty says as she takes it. Then she lowers her voice. “If you’re a deviled-egg fan, you better make haste to the Apper-tiff Table. I already caught Lottie Witt stuffing a few in her purse. They’s almost gone.”

  “I’ll get on it,” I tell her.

  It’s so much fun to see everyone after the long summer. Nellie Goodloe has her first tan, compliments of a trip with her grandkids to Myrtle Beach. Kate Benton, the band director, has a beau in tow, a transplant out of Norton named Glenn who sells mining equipment. Iva Lou is entertaining the Dogwood Garden Club with stories of the natural wonders she observed in Italy (not many plants, mostly men).

  “Father Rodriguez! Did the Methodists invite you?” I ask.

  “Catholics have to eat too. How was your trip?”

  “Great. I brought lots of rosaries back for you to bless, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’m happy to do it,” Father Rodriguez tells me.

  I smell a cigarette, so I turn to look. In the corner, Spec is having a smoke by one of the basement windows, ashing out into the drainage area. “Spec!”

  “I wondered how long it would take you to say hello.”

  “The place is packed.”

  “I know.” Spec smiles. “Sorry I had to send Otto and Worley to pick you up at the airport, but we had our all-county Rescue Squad picnic at the Natural Bridge, and I couldn’t get out of it.”

  “No problem.”

  “What did you bring me from It-lee?”

  “Gina Lollobrigida wouldn’t fit in the suitcase.”

  “Damn.” Spec laughs so hard, it turns into a cough. I pat him on the back.

  “So I brought you a tie and handkerchief set. Silk.”

  Spec whistles long and low. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  I feel a tugging at my pant leg; it’s little India Bakagese. She looks up at me with her huge brown eyes. I lean over and scoop her up.

  “God, she’s gorgeous, she’s gotten so big,” I tell Pearl.

  “I know. She’s already two and a half. Welcome home.”

  Fleeta, still wearing her Mutual Pharmacy smock, interrupts us. “Y’all took off without the serving utensils,” she says, waving three large slotted serving spoons.

  “Sorry.”

  “Use your heads, people. Vacation time is over. We all need to git back in the groove. Looky there. They let the Tuckett sisters out of Heritage Hall Nursing Home for the night. I’ll be damned.”

  The Tuckett twins, wearing matching housedresses in a loud iris print, occupy side-by-side wheelchairs at the head of one of the picnic tables. Nellie Goodloe sits on the bench conversing with them.

  “See how they tell ’em apart? The slippers. Edna’s in the white scuffs, and Ledna’s in the blue.” Fleeta waves us off with the spoons and goes to the serving table.

  “Ave, can I stop by later?” Pearl asks.

  “Sure. You guys did a great job while I was gone. You really kept up with the prescriptions.”

  “Had to. We have to compete with twenty-four-hour chains. Can’t let any grass grow under our feet.” Pearl looks off into the distance.

  “Are you okay?” I ask her.

  “Why?”

  “You se
em upset about something. What is it?”

  “Well, I do have news.”

  “I hope it’s good news.”

  “It is. But it’s also big. It would mean big changes.”

  “How so?”

  “I was gonna wait till later to talk about this. But you know me, I can’t keep anything from you.”

  I smile. It’s true, Pearl has confided in me ever since she was a girl. In many ways, our relationship reminds me of the one I had with my mother.

  “Taye got offered a job at the Boston Medical Center.”

  “Boston, Massachusetts?”

  She nods. “He wants to take it. But it means that we would move with him. India and me, that is.”

  “Of course. You have to be with your husband.” My mind races. This town without Pearl? This pharmacy? How would we do it? She is the passion behind the growth, she is the visionary. How would I manage without her? “But I’m worried about the business,” Pearl says plainly. “I told you about selling the Lee County branch, well, it’s a lot harder to do than I thought. There aren’t any buyers for our kind of operation, and if I have to move soon, I can’t really do a statewide search for partners.”

  “So you want to sell the business? All three pharmacies?”

  “The problem is, I can’t sell them even if I wanted to. I’ve been to the banks, and they said that Big Stone Gap is essentially a bedroom community now. Most of the young people commute to Kingsport to work. We haven’t had any new industry move in, except for the wildcat coal operations, and you know how folks feel about them.”

  “I do.”

  “I wouldn’t do anything without asking you.”

  “Pearl, you’re the president. You’re in charge. I’m just your partner on the Big Stone Mutual.”

  “I know. But there isn’t anyone else I trust to oversee the three operations. I can sign this pharmacy over to you, but that’s a full-time headache. The three branches are really interdependent. I’ve set it up so that costs are spread over all three. They work together, in a way.”

  “How can I help?”

  “Lew Eisenberg seems to think I should put the company in trust and have you as the guardian. That way, the places could function until we find a buyer. I can’t be in two places at once. When we move, I have to devote myself to something new in Boston.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’ve been agonizing about this.” Pearl’s eyes fill with tears. “I’ve been struggling to figure out what to do.”

  “Honey, when I gave you this place sixteen years ago, I did it without strings. There still are no strings. We’ll find a way to keep the places open until we find a buyer, and if we don’t find one, we’ll figure out how to proceed.”

  “Hello, gorgeous.” My husband interrupts us, giving me a kiss. “You two look serious. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” we say in unison.

  I give Jack a look that tells him I will explain later. Reverend Manning calls us to stand as he blesses the food. I take Pearl’s hand and hold it firmly. I don’t want her to worry. We’ve been in this position before, and we made it through, and we’ll make it work again.

  Jack helps me fold down the quilt on our bed. I open the windows a bit to let the fresh air in, all the while filling Jack in on Pearl’s plans.

  “Pearl in Boston?” he wonders aloud.

  “It’s a great opportunity for them.”

  “Big change.”

  “She can handle it.”

  “Do you ever want to move?” Jack looks out the window.

  “Are you serious?” I go to him and put my arms around him.

  “Don’t you ever want to try someplace new?”

  “And do what, open a restaurant?” Why do I always say the first thing off the top of my head? Jack winces and sits in the easy chair.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him sincerely.

  “I’m getting tired of construction.”

  “I know.” Before our vacation, I noticed that Jack had grown weary of the late-night phone calls, the haggling over bids, and the long hours. Rick, Mousey, and Jack have kept their operation small (the only way to make money), but it has taken a toll on them, since they do the primary labor. I tell him gently, “Honey, I want you to be happy. But we have Etta going to college, and with the Pharmacy in flux financially, I think we should stay the course for a while, if you can stand it. We need your income.”

  He nods and knows this is true. “But don’t you ever just want to shake things up?”

  I look at Jack and want to say sure, I love to shake things up. But truthfully, I don’t. I like to have a plan that goes off without a hitch. I like knowing that Etta’s schedule is consistent, that we do the little things that add up to a strong family life, things like eating dinner together every night. I know I’m set in my ways, but I don’t know how else to do it. “Do you want to shake things up?”

  “I do.”

  “How would you do that?”

  “Move.”

  “Where?” Why am I asking? Why would I care? I used to dream of picking up and moving. Why does the idea of it scare me now?

  “I don’t know. Charlottesville. Kingsport.”

  I make a face.

  “Tuscany.” Jack smiles.

  “Tuscany!”

  “Giuseppe said he could use a man like me in his operation.”

  “Giuseppe? The Olive Oil King? Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said I’d think about it.” Jack looks at me. “Life is going by so fast. I want to take some chances. I hope you do too.”

  We lie down in bed. I’m so surprised, I can’t think of anything to say. Maybe I discourage Jack from dreaming big because I’m always worried about practical things, but I’ve never pegged him to be an adventurer. He always seemed happy here, living in the house where he was born, in the mountains he grew up around, with me, a girl he loved all his life and finally married. What more is there? Evidently, a lot.

  The phone rings.

  “It’s probably for Etta,” I say as I reach for it.

  “It’s always for Etta,” Jack replies.

  “Hello?”

  The caller speaks so softly, I can barely hear her. She asks for me.

  “This is Ave Maria.”

  “This is Leola Broadwater.” Leola is Spec’s wife. I wondered why she didn’t come to the Covered Dish Supper.

  “Leola, are you all right?”

  “No. It’s Spec. He’s had another heart attack. Worse than the one he had in Florida.”

  “Florida?” I can’t believe Spec lied to me. I sit down as my heart begins to pound. “Where is he?”

  “He’s in the ICU up at Saint Agnes. He’s asked for you. I think you ought might hurry,” she says, and then she starts to sob.

  “He was fine at the supper tonight!” I tell her, trying to be upbeat. “He looked great.”

  “Oh, Ave,” Leola cries.

  “I’m on my way.”

  Jack wants to drive me, but I tell him I don’t want him to wake Etta or to leave her alone. The truth is, I need to be alone. It’s strange, but I have to sort out things like this for myself. Jack understands this about me and doesn’t give me an argument. I promise him that I will call once I’m at the hospital.

  As I walk to my Jeep, I look down and realize I have two different loafers on. I wipe the dew off the windshield with my sleeve, feeling an odd sense of familiarity that keeps me from crying. This night reminds me of the times I joined Spec on emergency calls at all hours with the Rescue Squad. I never thought I’d be making an emergency run on his behalf.

  The night receptionist at the hospital knows me. By day, she works as a clerk at the Norton Mutual’s. She waves me in, and I take the short hallway to the ICU. Leola stands beside Spec’s bed, and surrounding him are his five children. His son Clay cannot stop crying. I grab Dr. Stemple as she exits the ICU and introduce myself.

  “He was asking for
you,” she says, looking back at Spec through the small viewing window.

  “How is he?”

  “You know he has a bad heart. He had a bypass a few years ago, but it’s not the arteries that are failing him now, it’s the actual heart muscle.”

  “Is he going to make it?” She does not answer me, and I already know the answer. “Was he at home?”

  “No, he was at work. He had some mechanic working on the fire truck or something and was staying to oversee the job, and then he collapsed. The mechanic drove him here.”

  “Is he conscious?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  A nurse summons Dr. Stemple, and she hurries off. For a moment, I stand and look at Spec and his family. I refuse to let this man go. It’s too soon.

  I push back through the doors and go to Leola. I put my hands gently on her shoulders. She does not turn to look at me. She just places her hand on mine and continues to watch Spec, who is on oxygen and, as the doctor said, wide awake.

  “Was it the Swedish meatballs, Spec?”

  He smiles as I take his hand.

  “Doc said you were gonna be fine.”

  Spec rolls his eyes. I should know better than to bluff a trained emergency technician.

  “Let’s give Pap some privacy,” Clay tells the rest of the family.

  Spec lifts the oxygen mask off of his face. “Git Ma some coffee,” he tells the kids. Leola kisses him on the cheek, then moves to the doors, sheltered by her children.

  “I’ll be right back, you old mud turtle,” Leola promises from the door.

  “Mud turtle. Now, there’s a sexy picture for you,” I say.

  Spec tries not to laugh. Then he pushes the oxygen mask from his nose and mouth onto his forehead. “This is just for show. They want it to look like they can save me.”

  “They can.”

  “No, this is the end of the road fer me.”

  “You may not go. That’s an order.” It’s not much of an order as my eyes fill with tears.

  “Don’t cry on me.”

  “Sorry.” I wipe the tears away with my sleeve.

  “We had us some fun, didn’t we?” Spec lays his head back on the pillow and smiles.

  “God, yes. Liz Taylor choking on a chicken bone. Naomi and her buck. That Sturgill boy when he shoved a dime and three nickels up his nose.”