Home to Big Stone Gap

  “What does he want in return?”

  “You’re bad!”

  Theodore smiles. “Oh, let’s have some fun. Play the vamp for me, please? If I have to look at Fleeta’s reindeer sweater throughout dinner, I need something to raise my holiday aesthetic above the mundane. I need a little danger. Some intrigue. A teeny-weeny indiscretion. A kiss under the mistletoe. Come on. You can do it.”

  “What’s wrong with my sweater?” Fleeta barks from the door. “It was a gift.”

  “You know, Fleeta, you don’t have to wear everything you’re given.”

  “What the hell else am I supposed to do with it?”

  “There’s a concept at most stores these days. It’s called exchange.”

  “I don’t have time for that nonsense.”

  “Fleeta, will you call everyone to the table, please?” I say.

  Fleeta goes to call our guests from the living room. I wash my hands, go out on the sunporch, and push the screen door open.

  “Boys? Dinner is on,” I call into the backyard.

  Jack waves from across the field. Pete picks up the handles of the wheelbarrow and pushes it toward the house. I go into the dining room and help Otto and Worley find their places. Giacomina fusses with the platters on the server while Papa pours the wine. Jack and Pete laugh as they wash up in the kitchen. A few moments later, they join us at the table.

  “It looks great, honey.” Jack kisses me.

  “You need to plant one on me, Jack, since I did the lion’s share of the cooking,” Fleeta complains, and Jack complies, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

  Theodore looks around the room. “Seeing as we’re in the Bible Belt, who’s going to pray?”

  “Sure as hell not you, you’re a fallen-away Catholic.” Fleeta puts her unlit cigarette on her bread plate (for later, I suppose).

  “Disaffected Catholic,” Theodore corrects her. “‘Fallen away’ means more time in purgatory than I’ve actually earned.”

  “Why don’t you let God be the judge?” Fleeta says.

  “Can you two hold the philosophical discussion until after dinner?” Jack says, smiling. “That’s coming from a barely there Methodist.”

  “I’m an agnostic,” Pete pipes up.

  Fleeta sniffs. “You proud of that?”

  “I won’t apologize for my religious beliefs—or the Jell-O mold, which I made with Theodore this morning.” Pete looks to Theodore.

  “Pete Rutledge may not believe in a Supreme Being, but he knows his way around a tub of Cool Whip.”

  Pete bows his head like a preacher. “Thank you, Theodore.”

  “In lieu of an actual prayer, let’s give thanks for our blessings,” I offer.

  Theodore raises his hand. “I’ll go first, since I’m full of gratitude.”

  “And my eggnog, but that’s not to the point.” Jack laughs.

  “I’d like to thank my host and hostess for their fine lodging. I am grateful that you two didn’t sell this old house and downgrade to the Don Wax apartments in the Southern when Etta moved to Italy. I’d like to thank Otto and Worley, who didn’t pass judgment when I placed the holiday cheese log on the ottoman, too close to the fire, and it melted into a pool of…well, cheese. I would also like to thank the Lord for Fleeta’s sweater, which reminds all of us that there can never be too many sequins at Christmas.”

  Fleeta nods. “‘Bedazzle or die’ is a motto to live by.”

  “I thank you all for being friends and family to us.” Otto puts his arm around Fleeta. “And I thank God for my wife.”

  Worley pipes up. “I’d like to thank you all for letting me come to dinner without a date. I guess this is as good a time to tell you all that I am no longer with Joy Crabtree.” He shakes his head sadly.

  “It weren’t your fault that she took off with that Chevro-lette salesman Mike Allen. She needed a new car, and I guess he offered her a little more than that,” Fleeta grunts.

  Worley sighs. “I can’t compete with that.”

  I aim to get the prayers back on track. “Thank you for Pete’s plane, which brought us all together.” I take Papa’s hand.

  “Thank you for the break in the snow until we landed,” Pete adds.

  “Thank you for the flask of sweet vermouth on the transatlantic flight. It was very soothing during the turbulence.” Giacomina smiles at Papa.

  “Thank you, Giacomina, for the pizzelles, which were delicious when the plane food was not. And I would like to thank Pete for the ride here—it was our first on a small plane, and it was perfect. And I’d like to thank my daughter and her husband for their hospitality.” Papa smiles too.

  “Well, amen, then.” Jack pats Pete on the back and sends him to the server. The other guests follow suit, forming a line. Fleeta juggles two plates, one for her and one for Otto, who sits at the table with a napkin in his lap and his knife and fork at the ready. (Fleeta’s a real wife now, waiting on him hand and foot.) We pile steaming buttery turkey, thinly sliced whiskey-soaked ham, a soufflé of sweet potatoes, the reliable green-bean casserole with bread crumbs, delicate tortellini in pesto, hot scalloped potatoes dripping in cheese, and, yes, Jell-O mold onto Mama’s china.

  Once we’re seated, we lift our glasses and toast the coming year.

  Otto clinks glasses with Theodore. “I hear you’re heading to Broadway to do a big show. What’s it about?”

  “It’s about a kid from Scranton who moves to a small town in the South to teach, and finds himself.”

  “Your life story.” Fleeta takes a sip of the wine and likes it. “Sounds like one Theodore Tipton who moved to Big Stone so many years ago. Nothin’ wrong with true stories, mind you.”

  “That’s just the starting point.”

  “Where does it go from there?”

  “He gets a job, and a famous movie star, Elizabeth Taylor, comes to town and chokes on a chicken bone, and then he gets his big break.”

  “You got a part for Burt Reynolds in it?” Worley’s eyes narrow.

  “Yeah, he could play you!” Otto agrees.

  “Nobody like Burt,” Pete chimes in.

  “I was in my twenties when I moved here,” Theodore says tersely. Evidently, he thinks Mr. Reynolds is slightly long in the tooth to play him now. “Besides, this is live theater—a play, a musical, not the movies.”

  Fleeta says, “What’s the difference? It’s still a show. And if you’re that set on it, Burt could play you as you is today. All the good stuff that happened to you came about when you was older. I’m gonna tell you why you need Burt Reynolds.”

  “Please, Fleeta.” Theodore is losing patience.

  “Because that’s the only way you’ll get my ass in the seat to watch your show. I remember when Burt was in them Smokey and the Bandit movies. I must’ve driven over to Kingsport to see them movies twenty times if I went once. In my mind, there was never a finer-looking man that lived. That coal-black hair of his, them dark eyes, and them jeans he used to wear. No wonder Sally Fields fell for him—”

  “It’s Field. Sally Field,” Theodore corrects her.

  “Burt had him a sense of humor too, which usually don’t go hand in hand with them kind of good looks. A man that handsome ain’t gotta do nothin’ but stand there, but Burt, well, he delivered. You had a sense he’d sleep with you—”

  “Thank God Father Drake went to the Keuling-Stouts’ for dinner,” I interrupt.

  “Let me finish,” Fleeta continues. “It was like when I was a girl and I was in love with Clark Gable. I felt like if I got on a train and went to Hollywood, that if I met him, he might give me a tumble. That’s how I feel about Burt. He seemed like he’d give every girl an equal shot to get in his drawers. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Fleeta eventually gets off the subject of Burt Reynolds and on to local politics. Conversation meanders around and over us like the lazy snowflakes coming down outside the window. The candlelight throws a glow on us that makes the tableau of those I love seem eternal. When I get blue abou
t who is missing, I just think of Etta and Stefano laughing at their own Christmas table with friends who love them. I wish Iva Lou and Lyle were with us, but I want her to be happy and comfortable, and that isn’t possible with me at this time. I can’t help but remember those I’ve lost through the years: my dear mother; our son, Joe; Jack’s mother, Mrs. Mac; and the great Spec Broadwater. I resist the sadness and regret that comes with grief. The here and now is good enough. In fact, it’s plenty good enough.

  There’s a loud knock at the front door. I stand up to answer it. Fleeta looks at me, thinking what I’m thinking. It’s Iva Lou, and we’ll have a Christmas reunion. I run to the front door and open it.

  A young man stands in the dusting of snow on the porch. Big wet flakes cling to his navy blue peacoat and nestle in his black hair. My heart begins to pound; this is the same person I saw in the woods in September. He has my son Joe’s thick eyebrows and deep dimples.

  He smiles at me. “Um, excuse me, ma’am. I didn’t mean to skeer you.”

  I’m about to speak when Jack comes up behind me and puts his hands on my waist. “Can we do something for you, son?” Most men around these parts refer to young men as “son,” but hearing Jack say it to this particular boy makes my eyes sting with tears.

  “I’m Randy Galloway. I’m a student at Berea.”

  “In Kentucky?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve been studying the plants over here on Stone Mountain.”

  “On Christmas?” I hear my voice break.

  Randy smiles. “It’s just another day to me, ma’am. We’re in a bit of a hurry with this study we’re doing, so we’re working through the holidays until we finish. I’m working on a joint horticulture project with a couple of professors from Mountain Empire. I’m on the team to compile a report on indigenous herbs in the Blue Ridge Mountains. If you don’t mind, I need to borrow your phone. My cell phone went dead, and I need my professors to come and pick me up before it gets dark.”

  “Do they know you’re working on Christmas?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We’ve got a January deadline to file our report. We’re working so fast because we’re going to Congressman Wampler to stop a bill for mountaintop removal that’s about to go through.”

  I fling open the door and smile. “Well, come on in, Randy.” I look at Jack, who rolls his eyes. “I want to hear all about it.” I show Randy to the phone in the kitchen. I hear Jack explaining our guest’s arrival as Randy tells his professor to come and get him.

  I interrupt. “Randy, you might as well eat some dinner before you go. Have them come and get you in an hour.”

  “No, really, that’s okay.”

  “You shouldn’t miss Christmas just because you’re saving our mountain.”

  He smiles again. “Okay, ma’am.” Randy fills the professor in, then hangs up. I show Randy into the dining room and introduce him around the table.

  “My son, Pavis, almost went to Berea College,” says Fleeta. “Of course, the list of schools Pavis almost went to is as long as my leg. P.S., he finally got his degree on the Internet.”

  I make a place for Randy at the table, and he sits. I go into the kitchen for a fresh plate. Jack follows me into the kitchen, leans against the sink, and looks at me.

  “He looks so much like Joe.”

  “He’s the same young man I saw in the woods.” I give Jack a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’m relieved—I’m not crazy.”

  Giacomina and I stand before my linen closet and survey the stack of quilts and blankets. Randy, Fleeta, Otto, and Worley went home with plenty of leftovers in tow. Giacomina holds out her arms, and I give her sheets for their bed. We are full up for the night. Every room is taken. Jack and Theodore are making sure all the fireplaces have plenty of wood and buckets of coal for the long, cold evening ahead.

  “Here is my mother-in-law’s warmest quilt,” I tell Giacomina. I place a gorgeous Drunkard’s Path pattern of greens and yellows on top of the sheets. “Papa seems awfully quiet.”

  “He is having a difficult time. Your grandmother’s death made him very sad. Sometimes I find him in tears.”

  “They were very close for so many years before Dad found you.”

  “At first it wasn’t good at all.”

  “Why?”

  “I was an outsider. She thought Mario would never marry, so they had their system. She was kind to me, though. Nonna tried to include me in everything, though it was her house, and I respected that. But make no mistake, she was the boss.” Giacomina takes the quilt and sheets into Etta’s old room.

  I go down the stairs. Laughter is coming from the kitchen. I poke my head in the door. Jack, Theodore, and Pete sit around the old farm table, playing Monopoly. I slip out again, unnoticed, and go into the living room to check on the fire. Papa is sitting in Jack’s wingback chair.

  “Don’t you want to play Monopoly, Papa?” I take the wrought-iron poker from the coal bucket and stab at the fire. The orange sparks turn to black embers as they hit the grate. I throw a few lumps of coal onto the wood, making soft blue flames dance over the coal’s orange center.

  “They’re having too much fun without the old man.”

  “Papa, you’re not old.” I sit down on the ottoman and face him. “When did you start feeling this way?”

  “The past few months.”

  “You’re not old, you’re grieving.”

  “What does that have to do with it?”

  “Grief makes you feel ancient. I know. You join the worst club in the world. You stand in line with anyone who ever lost someone they loved, and you mourn with them. There’s no diversion from it, no quick way through it, no free pass to acceptance. You just have to live through it. At first that seems impossible. When Mama died, I was only thirty-five, and I thought my life was over. Somehow, though, I didn’t fight it; I let myself be sad for a very long time, and after a while, my world opened up. Look at all the things that happened because she left to make room for me to have my own life. It was so hard for me to make that connection—to think that she had to leave in order for me to grow up. I had to make a way, and then you arrived with Nonna and my aunts and cousins. I finally had a whole family to call my own. I began my life with Jack, and we added to the family I had found. It was as if Mama gave me a gift when she died. At the time I would have given everything I had to bring her back, and believe me, there are days when I would give everything I own to see her again, but that’s impossible. Now I look back and see that there was magic in the timing of Mama’s passing. She didn’t stop being my mother when she died. She just went to the other side. She’s still there, pulling for me. I can feel it. If you let her, I’ll bet Nonna will do the same for you.”

  “So far, no gifts. I am reminded only that I am next in line.”

  “Well, you can’t go by your age either. Children die, and some adults live to a hundred.”

  Papa reaches over and squeezes my hand. He’s thinking about my son but would never say it.

  “Anyhow, Papa. There’s no list. No order to it.”

  “That’s true. But when you get to be my age, you think about it.”

  “Nonna lived a long life with family she loved and had a reason to get up in the morning—to serve you and iron your shirts.”

  Papa laughs. “I do miss the way she pressed my collars. Giacomina…” He gives a thumbs-down. “Not so good.”

  “I miss Nonna too. I’m so glad we visited before she died.” I’ll never again second-guess Etta’s decision to marry. I realize it gave me one final visit with Nonna.

  “Mama must have known she was dying,” Papa begins. “She prepared the house and her room. Every stitch of her clothing was washed and pressed. She had a new nightgown and slippers. She ate her breakfast, said she wasn’t feeling well, went back to bed, and went to sleep.” Papa reaches into his pocket and gives me a small black velvet pouch. “She wanted you to have this.”

  I gently pull the strings on the pouch. Inside it, I see a hammered gold chain with oval
links shimmering against the velvet. I lift the chain out of the bag. A small oval locket dangles from the chain. There is a single small pearl on the face of the locket.

  “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.”