The church is decorated with pots of poinsettias. There’s a large tree covered in homemade ornaments inspired by stories in the Bible. There are Noah’s Ark, made of Popsicle sticks and the animals made of bits of fabric; the tablets with the commandments on them, made of felt; a calico Star of David; and apples (the kids went heavy on the Old Testament this year).
Theodore, Jack, and I sing along to the pre-mass Christmas carols. I look out the picture window behind the altar and see a light snow beginning to fall outside. We couldn’t have planned a better backdrop for our Mass.
We get our share of non-Catholics on Christmas who enjoy the small choir accompanied by fiddles. Fran and Henry Keuling-Stout read the Epistles, and I always like that, because they fill them with meaning. Jack, who never had any interest in converting to Catholicism (and still doesn’t), enjoys the celebration. Like me, Theodore remembers Latin masses, and he was an altar boy, so it’s old home week for him.
At the end of the service, we say good night to Father Drake.
“Hey, I’m starving. I could use a plate of waffles right about now,” Theodore announces.
“Now?”
“Yeah. I burned off Jack’s pasta, begging forgiveness for my sins. I need to refuel.”
“How about the Huddle House?”
“Let’s go.”
Jack drives Theodore and me up to the Huddle House, on the outskirts of town. Their neon sign is never turned off, even in daylight. It says: ALWAYS OPEN ALWAYS FRESH. We take a seat in the orange booth and order our wee-hour breakfasts off of the orange menu. There are a few folks in the place, mostly night workers from the prison. Ralph Stanley plays on the radio. The lonely twang of his guitar makes me miss Etta even more.
“Theodore, I wish you’d stay through the New Year,” I say.
“I have to go back after the board meeting at UVA-Wise.”
“Oh, come on. Stay. Bask in the glory of your theatrical success. The folks around here want to make a fuss over you. You sold out The Sound of Music.”
“We’ll see.” Theodore smiles.
The trip back to Cracker’s Neck is quick. As we pass Powell Valley High School, it’s hard to believe that twenty years ago, Theodore was the band director. Harder still to believe that Elizabeth Taylor choked on a chicken bone, thus giving Theodore a shot at the big time. He didn’t squander it.
I put my head on my husband’s shoulder as he drives. Sometimes I feel I’ve been married all my life. I was the town spinster for so long, but the years before Jack and the children have melted away like honey in hot tea. So much life happened after we married, so many things that I couldn’t predict, and now there’s more behind me than ahead of me. I’d trade all this wisdom for more time. I would.
We don’t talk as Jack takes the turn up the hill to the stone house. I left the tree on—is there any sight more comforting than a Christmas tree in a dark house? It’s a glittering heart in a home filled with memories.
I make sure Theodore has extra quilts for the cold night ahead. I climb the stairs to our bedroom to join Jack, who has already burrowed under the covers. I change out of my dress and into my pajamas. It’s so cold, I skip to the bed and jump in.
“Did you have to leave the bathroom window open?” Jack grumbles.
“You know I like the night air.”
“You were looking out at the field again, weren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“There’s nothing there, Ave.”
“If you say so.”
“It’s not good to let your mind play tricks on you.”
“I know.” I feel myself begin to cry. I stop the tears and wipe my eyes on the scalloped edge of my pillowcase. “I like the lights on your bridge.”
“Pretty, right?”
“Very.”
“Merry Christmas, Jack.”
“Merry Christmas.” My husband rolls over and kisses me good night.
I roll over onto my side. The feather bed is soft, and I burrow in next to Jack for warmth. As he puts his arms around me, the excitement of the day sends me into a deep sleep. I dream.
I’m flying over Cracker’s Neck Holler on a dark night. The sky is full of pale blue stars, and the moon is carnation pink. On the ground, four children lay out a picnic on a crazy floral tablecloth. The wind keeps kicking up the edges. The children fight the wind and do all sorts of things so the tablecloth won’t blow away. They stand on it. They sit on it. They gather rocks and try to place them on the hems to anchor it. Nothing works. Overhead, I’m frustrated, wanting to help them, but below, they laugh and play as though it’s a game. I try to fly down to help them, but something holds me back. I become tired, trying to fly down to them. Sometimes it seems I almost get my feet to touch the ground and then am pulled away again. I shout to the children, but they do not see me.
Suddenly, a small cyclone made of leafy branches surrounds me, and I am pushed higher and higher in the clouds. I can still see the children, who are now looking up at me with their arms outstretched. They can’t reach me. One of the little girls cries, “Mom! Mom!” I try to descend but can’t. It’s frustrating. I push and push. “Mom, Mom!”
I feel Jack’s arms around me. I slowly open my eyes as he whispers, “Ave Maria, wake up. It’s Christmas morning. I have a surprise for you.”
I roll over into the soft down comforter and pull it over me. “I know what you got me for Christmas.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s a new hitch for my Jeep. I saw it in the wood shop with a bow on it.”
“I wish you wouldn’t snoop.”
“I can’t help it. Italian girls spy on their husbands. Generations of my Italian sisters have found it effective as a tool to keep husbands in line. It’s in our bones.” I nestle into the pillow. It was a late night; I need my sleep.
“Honey, get up. You’ll be happy you did.” Jack stands next to me, holding my bedroom slippers. He pulls the quilt and comforter off of me. “Merry Christmas.” He smiles. “Come with me.”
Dreamland
I grudgingly put on my slippers. Jack takes my hand and leads me to the top of the stairs. “Surprise!”
“Hello, Ave!” My father stands at the bottom of the stairs with Giacomina.
I practically jump off the landing and into his arms. “Oh my God! This is much better than a Jeep hitch! Buon Natale!”
Papa, dressed for the cold, wears dark brown corduroy pants and a matching cashmere sweater. He manages to look crisp after a long journey. Giacomina looks beautiful in jeans and a pale blue boiled-wool blazer.
I look up at Jack, who grins down at me. “Jack, you knew!”
“Yep.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“It would have been a lousy surprise if you knew about it.”
Theodore comes out of his bedroom in his pajamas. “We had to tell Jack. You know, because of his ticker.”
“Yeah, well, what about mine?” I put my hand on my chest. My heart is racing with more joy than it can hold.
“Etta wanted to be here—she knew how much it would mean to you—but Stefano’s work wouldn’t permit it. So she sent us instead. I hope it’s not a disappointment.”
“Oh, Papa.” I throw my arms around him.
“How did you get here?” Before he can answer, I hear another voice I recognize.
“Good morning, Ave Maria.”
I turn to the living room. There, standing next to the Christmas tree, is Pete Rutledge.
What woman would not want to find him under her tree? For a second I forget where I am; it’s years ago, and I’m standing in a field of bluebells above Schilpario under an endless Italian sky, looking into the eyes of a man who could change my life with a few promises and one of his grins. I didn’t take the bait, but there are moments when I remember how close I came, and this is one of them. Pete seems as tall as the tree, and his eyes are as blue as the pine. There are flecks of white in his thick black hair, but not many. He smiles, and I blush.
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“Pete?” I clear my throat. “What the heck…”
“Hope you don’t mind,” he says almost shyly.
“Mind?” I smooth my hair and yank up the elastic waistband on my flannel pajamas. Pretty. What possessed me to put on these old things last night? I have a new nightgown that would have been perfect for company. “Of course not. You’re family.” I go to him and give him a big hug, keeping it fraternal and short.
“Pete flew us in. On his plane,” Giacomina tells us.
“The company plane.” Pete smiles. “They came in on Continental from Italy, and I met them at Newark Airport last night. We drove over to Teterboro, flew out, and landed in Wise an hour ago.”
Jack puts his arms around me. “I told Pete he was welcome to stay as long as he liked.”
“Great. Well, come on, everybody. You need breakfast, right?” Theodore claps his hands.
“And you knew about this too?” I say.
“Of course. Why do you think I dragged you and Jack to the Huddle House last night? It wasn’t for the cuisine, I assure you. These folks were due around one A.M., and I was doing a full-tilt vamp. Was I convincing?”
“Very.”
“Except we had a weather delay last night.” Pete extends his hand to Theodore, who shakes it heartily.
“Well, you made it. What a surprise for my best friend,” Theodore says warmly.
“The best.” I cry.
“Now, honey. Stop the tears. If you don’t, I’m sending everybody home,” Jack jokes.
“Don’t you dare.”
Jack takes Papa, Giacomina, and Pete into the kitchen. I move to follow. Theodore yanks me behind the staircase. “They didn’t tell me Pete was coming,” he whispers. “I would have ruined the surprise if they’d bothered to tell me that.”
“Look at me.” I smooth the front of my pajama top, covered with grinning half-moons, over baggy matching pants. “I look like a set of sheets from the Goodwill.”
“You look adorable.”
“For Ma Kettle. Oh, who cares? My father is here!”
“How great is this?” Theodore points to the kitchen. He lowers his voice again. “Ave?”
“What?”
“How about Pete? TBHS.”
“What’s that?”
“Too bad he’s straight.”
“TBIM.”
“What’s that?”
“Too bad I’m married.”
I hear the clang of pots and the clink of dishes downstairs as I dress for Christmas dinner. Fleeta, Otto, and Worley have a system when prepping food, so they threw Theodore and me out of the kitchen in order to do things their way. I don’t mind a bit; it gives me more time to put on mascara and fuss over my hair. Having Pete Rutledge around gives a woman incentive to dress her best, put on the jewelry, stand up straight, and refresh her lipstick before it fades away. If Jack wonders why I’m fussing in the beauty department, he certainly doesn’t let on.
The phone rings as I spritz my mother’s Chanel No. 5 behind my ears. I pick up the receiver. “Merry Christmas,” I answer.
“Merry Christmas, Ave! It’s Pearl.”
“How are you?” What a surprise. The sound of her voice fills me with joy.
“We’re moving again. Get this—we’re going to New York. Taye got a job at Mount Sinai. We’re moving to a town called Garden City on Long Island.”
“Fantastic. But I feel terrible—I never made it to Boston to see you.”
“I’m going to miss it. India loves her friends here.”
“How is she?”
“Growing like a weed. She’s going to be five in April. At least she’ll start kindergarten in her new school in New York. How are you?”
“Great. My dad and his wife came from Italy for Christmas.”
“How perfect!”
“Pete Rutledge flew them in. Theodore came down too. Wait till he hears you’re moving to New York. If you need anything there, I’m sure he’ll be happy to help you.”
“I’ll be sure to ask.” Pearl’s voice breaks.
“Are you okay?”
“I miss Big Stone Gap.”
“Pearl, are you crazy? Your life is so exciting!”
“I don’t know. I miss the mountains.”
“They’re not going anywhere.”
“I know.”
“Come and visit.”
“Taye’s schedule is crazy. It’s so hard to plan anything. Look, I don’t want to keep you. I just wanted to send our love.”
“We’ll see you soon, okay? We’ll make a point of it!” I promise her. “How about the summer? Maybe you could come down for a nice long visit then.”
“Let’s try for the summer,” Pearl agrees.
I hang up the phone and feel a pang of sadness. I miss Pearl. I wish there was some way to have everyone I love home for Christmas, but that will never be.
The house is filled with the smell of cinnamon, butter and rum, rolls baking, and Fleeta’s dressing basted with savory herbs. As I pass the dining room table on my way to the kitchen, I see that she’s replaced my Christmas-angel centerpiece with one of her gorgeous cakes on a ceramic pedestal.
LONG WINTER’S NAP CHRISTMAS CAKE
(ONE BITE AND YOU NEED TO LIE DOWN)
Serves 12
COURTESY OF CINDY ASHLEY
1 stick butter, room temperature
½ cup shortening
3 cups sugar
5 eggs
3 cups all-purpose flour, sifted
1 cup milk
1 tablespoon rum flavoring
1 teaspoon vanilla
½ cup green maraschino cherries, quartered
½ cup red maraschino cherries, quartered
1 cup shredded coconut
1 cup black walnuts, chopped
Beat together butter, shortening, and sugar until fluffy; beat, beat, beat!!!!! Add eggs one at a time. Add sifted flour and milk alternately. Add rum flavoring, vanilla, cherries, coconut, and walnuts. Bake at 325 degrees for 1½ hours in a large tube pan. “The secret of the cake is in the beating!”
“Don’t you look fancy.” Fleeta looks up at me as she places pats of butter on the Pyrex dish of whipped sweet potatoes.
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“If it were bad, I’d keep my mouth shut.”
“I doubt that.”
“This right here is the best fried turkey I ever made,” Fleeta says proudly as she peels the tinfoil off of the thirty-pound bird. “Fried turkey means Christmas Day to me.”
“I don’t think you made enough,” I joke.
“Never fear. I also whiskey-soaked a fresh ham. Whiskey and butter and brown sugar.” Fleeta lifts another tinfoil tent off a roasting pan and inhales the sweet mist. “Get out of town!” she says with delight. “Why don’t you go on and call the men in? I put out Uncle Lou’s cheese log in the living room. Worley couldn’t stop eating it, and I didn’t want him to ruin his dinner.”
UNCLE LOUIS FISSÉ’S HOLIDAY CHEESE LOG
Serves 20, if they don’t hog it
1 can (2 ounces) black olives, drained and chopped
4 ounces pimiento peppers, drained and diced
8 green onions, finely chopped
1 pound butter
8 ounces cream cheese, softened
4 ounces blue cheese, crumbled
1 cup almonds, chopped, or any nut of your choice
maraschino cherries, for garnish
In a medium bowl, mix olives, pimiento peppers, and green onions. Mix butter, cream cheese, and blue cheese, then add olive mixture. Form mixture into a log or ball and then roll on a piece of wax paper. Add nuts to cover the entire log. Garnish with maraschino cherries and serve with buttery crackers.
Theodore comes into the kitchen. “Where are the matches?”
“On the windowsill,” I tell him.
“I’m lighting the candelabras. At my age, soft lights during dinner are mandatory.”
“You look handsome,” I te
ll him.
“You had a thing for Theodore. Still do, evidently,” Fleeta says to me as she shoves a serving spoon into the scalloped potatoes.
“Ave Maria and I have been very happy on the Isle of Platonia for years now. The best thing that ever happened to us was Jack Mac.”
“Oh, you two could’ve made it work. Ave Maria could have swung you to the dark side.”
“Don’t think so, Fleets,” Theodore says pleasantly.
Papa comes into the kitchen. “May we help?”
Fleeta narrows her eyes and surveys my father. “How old are you, Mario?”
“Seventy-four.”
“Damn Eye-talians. Twenty years come and gone since I first saw ye, and you ain’t changed a bit. You people don’t age. What is your secret?”
My father whispers in Fleeta’s ear. She smiles. “Hell, me and Otto do that vurry thing every Sunday night, right here in the mountains of Southwest Virginny, but it don’t seem to help my wrinkles none. I must be doin’ it wrong.” Fleeta winks at my father.
I hand her the salad tongs. “Christmas Day is not the appropriate time for a tutorial.”
Papa and Giacomina help Fleeta carry the platters of holiday fare from the kitchen to the server in the dining room. I look out the window and watch Jack and Pete make their contribution to Christmas. My husband and my old crush, two middle-aged lumberjacks, split logs like a couple of Abe Lincolns. The wheelbarrow is practically full. The competition is pretty mild between them as they chat and go about their chores.
Theodore comes up behind me at the sink. “Stop spying.”
“Jack still thinks he’s twenty. Look at him.” Jack lifts the ax in the air with two hands and guides it square onto a large tree trunk, which shucks in two. “When Dr. Smiddy said he could get back to normal, Jack didn’t waste a minute resuming his chores.”
“Pete and Jack. Fantasy and reality,” muses Theodore.
I look around to make sure we’re alone in the kitchen. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
“I’m very grateful to Pete. He brought Papa and Giacomina home for Christmas.”