“Take your seats,” Papa says from the stove. Giacomina puts on oven mitts and lifts the pasta to the sink to drain it. Papa lifts the skillet of creamy sauce off the heat and sets it on a cooled burner. We take our places as Papa pours the pasta into the sauce in the skillet, then tosses the buttery mixture and brings it to the table.
“It doesn’t get any better than this.” Jack serves the pasta onto our plates. Papa stands by with the fresh Parmesan and the grater while Giacomina cranks the black pepper onto the pasta.
“Jack, I have something wonderful to ask you,” I say.
“I’m listening,” he answers.
“Wanna go to Scotland?”
A look of recognition crosses my husband’s face. Maybe he’s thinking of that list he made, or maybe hearing his dream realized aloud gives him a sense of wonder that he hasn’t known before. Whatever it is, in seconds, his face fills with such joy that he looks like a ten-year-old boy. Then practical Jack surfaces, and his eyes narrow and the crease between his eyebrows deepens, just like it does when he’s thinking something through or working on a difficult piece of molding in his wood shop. “How are we gonna do that?”
“I have a plan.” I reach across the table and hold his hand. “Courtesy of Mr. Tipton here.”
“I’m at the bottom of every good idea, and I don’t want anybody here to forget it,” Theodore says.
We laugh as Theodore pours the wine. Scotland in the springtime just might work.
“I’m doing chicken and dumplings for the lunch special!” Fleeta hollers from the café.
It’s my favorite dish. Fleeta must be up to something. “Are you sucking up for a reason?”
“Maybe.” Fleeta peels a paper place mat off a stack and puts it on the counter. She continues down the line, setting out a place mat for every stool. Then, working in reverse, she plunks down the silverware. “And don’t call your daddy and them. I already did. They’ll be here shortly. Ain’t nothin’ better than dumplings when it’s cold out. They stick to your insides like glue. This here is a dish that sustains.”
“What do you want?” I tease.
“I was thinking of expanding the café hours and doing dinners on weekends.”
“Here?”
“Yeah. What the hell, there’s no place to eat out that’s close. Ever since Stringer’s went under…”
Stringer’s was a delicious all-you-can-eat restaurant on the other side of town. Unfortunately, folks took the term to mean all-you-can-eat-all-week, and the place went under because more food walked out than customers walked in.
“I think it’s too much work for you,” I say.
“Well, I thought about that. I was thinking I might hire some help.”
“We don’t have a lot of extra money to do that, Fleets.”
“I know. But I’d do the cooking, and I’d just hire some kids to help with the serving and cleanup and prep. You know, like we did back when Pearl come to work for us.”
Fleeta adjusts the place mats on the counter. It’s so funny that she’s bringing up Pearl, because years ago she tried to dissuade me from hiring her. It appears that Fleeta Mullins Olinger has grown a heart filled with wisdom in the past twenty years. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You want to be a mentor?”
“I didn’t say that. This ain’t an act of charity, but I figger kids around here need jobs while they’s in school, and we might as well get back to that.”
“Then I think it’s a good idea,” I tell her. Fleeta’s chest puffs out as though she’s suddenly a major player on the stock exchange. There is no greater thrill for a boss than to see an employee implement a dream in the workplace. Fleeta is happy.
I throw myself into my work, taking pleasure in the knowledge that Papa, Giacomina, and Theodore extended their visit for a few extra days. It feels decadent to have them here for so long, and I’m savoring every moment.
I’m plowing through my e-mails quickly when an instant message pops up from Etta. Ma, sending e-mail with attachment. xoxoxo E.
I wait for a few seconds, and sure enough, an e-mail appears from her. Tell me what you think of this. xoxoxo E. I open the attachment. It’s a sketch of a kitchen. At the bottom of the page, it says E. Grassi. I have to think twice before I remember that’s my Etta’s new name, Mrs. Grassi. I look over the drawing: she took her small kitchen and redesigned it, turning it into something functional and lovely.
Most of Etta’s childhood hobbies have become an area of expertise in her adulthood. She’s passionate about architecture, making her own drawings and renderings. How perfect for her to major in it! When she was a girl, she drew a map of the world on an enormous sheet of paper, marking where she had been and where she wanted to go. She studied the stars over Cracker’s Neck Holler through the seasons, and made a map of the constellations. Etta has always had a worldview. I’m not sure where it came from, as she was born in a holler and grew up in the very place her father and I were raised. I had those dreams too, and that same longing, but I let books and the worlds within them fulfill that wanderlust. My daughter looks for experience in the world itself, instead of keeping her passions bottled up inside. One of my goals was to raise her to listen to her own voice, and boy, she’s done it—sometimes not to my liking. I wouldn’t change a thing about her, though; she’s a box of surprises, usually delightful ones.
“Let’s go, Ave Maria,” Theodore says from the door of the pharmacy. “Fleeta, save me some of that banana pudding of yours. I don’t think I’ve gained enough weight since I got here.”
“Can do, Ted.”
MUTUAL PHARMACY BANANA PUDDING
Makes six servings
½ cup all-purpose flour
1 pinch salt
3 eggs (or ½ cup egg substitute)
2½ cups milk (may use skim)
1 14-ounce can sweetened condensed milk
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
3 medium bananas, thinly sliced
36 vanilla wafers
Whipped topping (for garnish)
In a medium saucepan, combine flour and salt; gradually whisk in eggs and both kinds of milk. Cook over medium heat, whisking constantly, for 8 to 10 minutes or until pudding becomes thick and bubbly. Remove from heat and whisk in vanilla. Cool. Arrange one third of banana slices in the bottom of a two-quart dish; top with one third of the pudding mixture and 12 wafers. Repeat layers twice, arranging last 12 wafers around edge of dish. Dollop with whipped topping. Cover and chill.
I grab my purse and coat and follow him out the door. We climb into the Jeep. Theodore backs out of the parking lot. “I thought we’d take a run over to Kingsport for some shopping.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“I miss our spelunking.” Theodore steps on the gas, and we barrel out of Big Stone. “Now I go to Bergdorf’s and sift through vintage china instead of rock formations in the sand caves.”
“I haven’t been in Cudjo’s Cave since you left town.”
“I feel bad that I left you without a spelunking partner.”
“Don’t. We had a lot of fun, and now we have a lot of happy memories.”
“It was great, wasn’t it? Iva Lou and you and me.” Theodore looks at me, then judges from my expression and puts his gaze back on the road.
“Yep.”
“So what happened with you two?”
“I don’t know, exactly. We had words at her office one day, about her daughter. I didn’t think I said anything wrong—the truth is, I didn’t know what to say. And now I guess I’ll never know.”
“Don’t close the door on her. She’s the closest thing you have to family here, besides Jack.”
“I know. But she doesn’t want to be friends anymore. She’s made that clear.”
“I can’t believe you’re giving up on this so easily.”
“Maybe I’m just too old to fight.”
“I’m older than you, and I’m still fighting.”
“You’re different, Theodore. You’ll always be a
fighter.”
“That’s a cop-out. What’s the real reason you won’t talk to her?”
“Maybe I don’t want to trouble her with my feelings or something. I don’t know.”
“You’re not happy without her in your life.”
“Do you think so?”
“I looked at you on Christmas Day, when we were having dinner. You looked like something important was missing. Like you’d lost your best friend.”
“One of them. I still have you.”
“What if things changed with Iva Lou?”
“Well, they always do, don’t they?”
“I mean changed as in maybe you could work through whatever it is that’s bothering you two.”
“That would be up to her.”
Instead of taking the turn for the Fort Henry Mall in Kingsport, Theodore follows the signs to Johnson City. “Where do you want to shop in Johnson City?”
“Fleeta said there were lots of new stores.”
Theodore pulls in to the parking lot at the Stir Fry Café, a quiet Asian restaurant outside Johnson City.
“Are you hungry?” I ask him.
“Yep.”
We get out of the Jeep and go into the restaurant. Theodore looks around the empty room, with set tables and booths, low lighting and paneled walls. Water flows over an indoor fountain past a green marble Buddha, who smiles at us. “Follow me, Ave.” Theodore leads me to a booth in the back of the restaurant.
“Iva Lou, here she is,” says Theodore quietly.
Iva Lou sits in a booth, perfectly coiffed in a shoulder-length bob, and her typical weekend wear, a black polyester running suit with a white turtleneck and matching sneakers. She looks up at me. “I thought,” she says, “well, we thought that we might ought have lunch. Just the two of us.”
I turn to Theodore, a million thoughts running through my head. I focus on the logistical one, since that’s the least challenging. “What will you do?” I ask him.
“I’m going to Fort Henry Mall to see a movie. I won’t be back. Iva Lou will drive you home.” Theodore bows his head and goes.
If I could kill Theodore with my bare hands, I would—how dare he do this? But my manners are too impeccable to make a scene. I stand like an ice block and watch him go out the door.
“Well, set down.” Iva Lou motions for me to sit across from her. “How was your Christmas?”
“Good. Fleeta and Otto and Worley came. And Pete Rutledge brought my family over.”
“Pete. How’s old Pete?”
“Older. But every bit as scrumptious.”
“I figgered. Some men age like rat poison. A box of that stuff can be a hundred years old and it still works.”
I laugh. “You’re right about that.”
We sit in silence. I am so happy when the waitress comes with menus, to give me something to do. I study the menu like it’s the Magna Carta and I’m an Oxford historian.
“The shrimp stir fry is good,” Iva Lou says nervously.
“Is that what you’re having?” I ask her.
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, then, that’s what I’ll have.” I put the menu down. I may stink at confrontation, but perhaps the fact that Iva Lou agreed to this means she wants to talk. You never know with her. She might be doing this just because Theodore asked her to. Iva Lou could never say no to him.
“How was your Christmas?” I ask.
“Amazing. I met my grandkids—Lovely brought them over. Brandy is fourteen, she’s a looker. Emma is eleven, she’s a clown. Penny is seven, and she’s a spoiled brat.” Iva Lou fishes in her purse and hands me the pictures. The photo album says Number One Grandma, which I find odd, because she just met these kids. “Emma picked out the album.”
“Oh.”
Iva Lou laughs. “I think it ought to say Brand-New Grandma or Newly Found Mamaw. Though the idea of actually being a grandma makes me physically ill. Lyle says I’ll get over it, and I’m starting to.”
“They’re beautiful kids,” I tell her.
“It’s funny. They resemble me a little, don’t they?”
“Penny is a dead ringer for you.”
“That’s what I think!”
“Well, why not? It’s in the genes,” I tell her. “I’m happy for you. This is really wonderful.”
“It’s a goddamn shock is what it is. I love her already—my daughter. Lovely. What a name for a daughter of mine, right?”
“It’s perfect.”
“I think so. I mean, I’ve spent my whole life working at bein’ lovely. Of course, I’ve also worked at other things that might not have been appropriate names for a Baptist girl growing up in Kentucky.”
I laugh. I’m amazed that even with the big freeze that happened between the two of us, we can sit here and chat like nothing terrible happened. This is one of the things I always valued about Iva Lou. She had a way of making the worst things seem fleeting. “Don’t get yourself all bollixed up,” she’d say. “Tumult is bad for the complexion” was another of her favorites. She could draw me out like no one else. Iva Lou would get me talking, and soon I’d be unburdened by whatever the trauma of the day was.
At that moment I make a decision. I’m going to tell her what she means to me. What have I got to lose?
“I’ve missed you for a lot of reasons, Iva Lou, but mostly because you always put my life in perspective. I could always count on you to be honest with me. Which is why, I guess, I was so hurt by your reaction to me at the library.”
“Well…” She sits up straight and breathes in so deeply, I think she might sing an aria, except she just exhales. “I was hellfire mad at you. And I didn’t know what to say. I felt like you were angry at me for giving up my baby when she was born.”
“What?” I’m stunned.
“Yes, you were angry at me. In all the years, and all the things I’ve done—you know my conquests and my reputation and my approach to full living via the delicious gift of men in my life, including my engagement and marriage—I never once felt anything but understanding coming from you. But when you came to see me about my daughter that day, you judged me. Now, God knows, I’m not a particularly good Christian, so I sure as hell don’t care if you think I’ve done something to keep my ass out of heaven. But what broke my heart—and trust me, it broke—was that you looked at me like ‘How could you? How could you give up your own baby?’ And I couldn’t take that, Ave Maria.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking that. I really wasn’t.”
“Well, that’s why I’m here. I wanted to give you a chance to explain, and maybe, hopefully, you’d give me a chance to explain why I did what I did so many years ago.”
“I’d like to hear that.” I lean back in the booth. I feel under attack, but I don’t want to respond in anger. Instead, I listen.
“I was twenty-five years old…”
I’ve never once heard Iva Lou allude to having an age at all, at any point in her life—I think she likes to create the illusion that times does not apply to her. So this in itself is a revelation. She continues.
“I was raised in a strict home; you know that. And I had the one brother—his name was Cortland—who joined the army and went to Korea and never came home.”
“His picture’s in your living room.”
“That’s him. Well, when he died over there, I was devastated. And it was right around then that I met a man named Tommy Miklos. He was Greek.”
“From Greece?”
“No, his parents were—he was born here. Anyhow, I fell madly in love with him, and I got pregnant. I went to him and told him what had happened, and he said he had to talk to his parents. So he went to them, and they told him that he couldn’t marry me. They had somebody in mind for him, and it didn’t matter whether or not I was having a baby, they were goin’ through with their original plan for him.” She pauses to collect herself, as if the memory still hurts.
“He came to me, and he cried and told me that he couldn’t marry me. I offered to talk
to his parents. We even planned to run away together, but he couldn’t bear the thought of going against them.”
She takes another of her deep, deep breaths. “So I went to the doctor and asked for his help, and he told me about this place where Catholic girls went when they were in my situation. I didn’t know a single Catholic until I went there, but I always liked ’em on account of the fact that they took me in, no questions asked. It was far enough away so nobody’d know. I told my mama I was going to school to become a librarian, and I left. What was ironic was that when I got to the Sacred Heart Home, they got me some classes in library science that would help me later on. So it wasn’t a total lie I told my mother.”
“You must have been terrified.”
Iva Lou starts to cry. “I couldn’t hardly leave my mama. But she didn’t have much, and I couldn’t ask her to take a baby on, and there wasn’t a way for me to do it alone. I tried for nine months to figure out a way to do it—see, at the Sacred Heart Home, you didn’t have to decide until the end if you were gonna keep the baby or give it up for adoption. But I couldn’t. Not and give her a decent life. I didn’t know a single girl who kept her baby.”
I think of my children and can’t imagine having to make that sacrifice. “It’s horrible.”
“After I had Lovely and signed her away, I went home to Mama, and for a few months I worked in the county library there. But I needed a fresh start, so I started looking through the Library Journal for jobs, which is how I came to these parts. I took over the Bookmobile route from James Varner, ’cause he went off to study poetry and run another library.”
“I remember him well.”
“One day, almost a year and a half after I started the route, I was in the Bookmobile up in Norton. And this blue Cutlass Supreme pulls up. And out of the car comes Tommy Miklos. He was as handsome as a summer day. He came on the Bookmobile and asked if he could see me. Now, this was double-edged for me. I still loved him, but I also hated him for what his choices had forced me to do.