“What is Fleeta doing?”
Iva Lou dabs the last bit of jam from the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “She’s gonna show up.”
When Jack and I head up to the hospital later in the day, the road to Norton is slick in spots from the frost. Jack drives as though it’s the middle of summer, taking the truck around the curves like he’s Dale Earnhardt. I hold on to the handle over the window. “Slow down, would you, please? I want to live.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“You have to make the time. It’s your health.” What is it with men, anyway? Why do they hate going to the doctor? As a pharmacist, I’ve seen it all—I even knew a wife who mashed up pills and put them in a pie to get her husband to take his meds. When a husband comes to the Mutual’s to pick up a prescription, he carries the sack out of the store like he’s holding a dead rat. I don’t get it.
“I don’t need a lecture.”
“I’m not lecturing.”
“The last thing I need is to take a morning off to run up to St. Mary’s. The trip to Italy really messed me up. We were gone for three weeks, and I’m backed up through the new year now.”
“That’s enough, Jack. It’s not like I posted your name on the online Baptist prayer wheel. It’s a checkup. That’s all. Let’s not argue. It’s not good for you to get upset.”
“Why? Because I’ll have a heart attack?”
“Now you’re just sniping. Knock it off,” I tell him.
We pull in to the parking lot at St. Mary’s Hospital in Norton. I reach over and pat my husband on the leg and then climb out of the cab. “Well, come on,” I tell him. He sits staring straight ahead. “We’ll be late,” I say. He doesn’t move, so I climb back into the cab. “Please. They squeezed you in. I begged. Let’s go.” I look at my husband’s profile; it’s every bit as strong as the day I married him. The set of his jaw is still like stone, his nose as regal and straight. Most of the light brown hair is gone, but he’s not one bit less handsome without it. Sometimes I feel I know everything about him, and other times I think I’ll never crack him. I put my hand on his face. When I do, he breaks his faraway stare and looks at me. When I look into his eyes, I know. “You’re scared.”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“I guess I would,” I answer. “You know, Jack, Theodore always says, when we’re afraid and questioning everything, that deep down we know the truth. We just don’t want to face our feelings sometimes. What does your gut tell you? What do you know?”
Jack exhales and looks away. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”
It’s as if I’ve been stabbed. I try not to show any panic. “What?” I hear the squeak in my voice and cough to try and hide it.
Jack looks at me. “I haven’t felt right in a while.”
“How long?”
“A few months. I get foggy in the afternoon, and I don’t have the energy I used to. Sometimes I can’t catch my breath. Now, part of that is being fifty-four, and part of it isn’t right.”
“Let’s go in and see Dr. Stemple. She’ll get to the bottom of things. Okay?” I give him a quick kiss. We climb out of the truck, and I take his hand as we go up the steps into the hospital.
We sign in at the desk and take a seat outside the glass partition and wait. I put my arm around my husband. We don’t talk. What is there to say?
I must be the worst wife in the world. He hasn’t felt right for several months, and I didn’t even notice. Of course, there were other things on my mind. My daughter decided to drop college and get married in a foreign country, for starters. The truth is, I wouldn’t have noticed anything about Jack unless he keeled over in front of me. I was wrapped up in my own feelings and worries about our daughter’s future. I promise myself that from this moment forward, I will stay alert to his needs. He deserves that.
The nurse calls his name.
“You want me to come?” I ask him. He shrugs, so I follow him into the examining room, a sunny, small space painted pale pink. “This is the tough-guy room,” I joke.
“I’m not feeling very tough,” Jack says as he goes behind the changing screen to undress. He throws his sweater over the top. Instinctively, I pull it down, shake it out, and fold it neatly over my arm.
Dr. Stemple pushes the door open. “How are we today?” Jack emerges from behind the screen. Dr. Stemple extends her hand to him. “You look pretty good.”
“You think?”
I take a seat on the chair near the door and watch as Jack is examined and answers the doctor’s questions like Gary Cooper in High Noon: he yups and nopes and occasionally gives a silent shrug. When she asks about dizziness and indigestion and shooting pains down his arms, Jack says nope each time with conviction. I’m relieved. Maybe it’s not Jack’s heart. Maybe it’s some small problem, easily fixed.
“I’m going to send you over to Kingsport for a stress test,” she tells him. She tears a sheet off her clipboard and hands it to Jack. “You check out fine, except that blood pressure. It’s on the high side.”
“Too high?” I chirp.
“I don’t like it,” she says simply. “I want them to do a tissue sample on your lungs too.”
“Why?” Jack’s voice breaks.
“You worked in the mines for almost thirty years, Jack. It’s important to stay on top of any changes in your lungs. You have some congestion.” She makes a note on her clipboard. “Look, it could be nothing. You just took a transatlantic flight—that’s a regular germ bath. Don’t worry.” She pats his hand and smiles at me. “I’m glad you came to see me,” she says as she leaves the room.
I look at my husband. “See, it’s good news.”
“Now I gotta go get poked and prodded in Kingsport. Great.”
Roaring Branch
If you didn’t know it was September by watching the mountains fade from the bright, saturated tones of a Technicolor movie to the soft gray shades of a black-and-white one, you’d know it for sure as you drove through town. It’s football season, and the signs are everywhere. Literally. Long runners of white butcher paper (donated by Bob’s Market out in the southern section of town) have been hand-painted by the cheerleaders with aphorisms to inspire the Powell Valley Vikings to victory. My favorite: A LOSER IS JUST A WINNER WHO’S HAD A BAD DAY.
Fleeta, getting a jump on holiday sales (“Honey, we can’t fool around. We gots to compete with the Wal-Mart for tradin’, and they’s playin’ for keeps”), has decorated the Pharmacy windows for Halloween. She has dressed two skeletons as a bride and groom, inspired, I’m sure, by her subconscious disdain for traditional unions. In the foreground of the window she placed a small fan that blows the long white ribbons on the bouquet of the bride like kite strings; the bony hand rattles a bit from the breeze. Over the happy couple is a sign in Old English script and glitter: GHOUL LOVE.
“I’m back!” I call out. The first thing I notice is that Fleeta moved the perfume carousel to the front of the store, so a barrage of sweet lavender, crisp cedar, and wild freesia greets me as I step inside.
Fleeta, in electric blue leggings and a red and white Powell Valley band booster jacket, appears in the office door with an unlit cigarette dangling from her hot-pink lips. “It’s about time you showed your face. How was the trip?”
“Etta was beautiful.” I fish through my purse for pictures and give them to Fleeta.
“Well, we knew that.” Fleeta flips through the photos like playing cards. She holds up a picture of Etta and whistles low. “Now, is that a MacChesney or what?”
“Oh, she’s a MacChesney all right. Hey, I’m very excited about your own news. You went and got fiancéd while I was gone.”
“We live in perilous times.” Fleeta shrugs. “It had to be done.”
“You’re not having your bunions removed, you’re getting married. It’s a joyful thing. Usually.”
“Otto is around all the time anyhow, we might as well make it legal.”
“Did you turn Methodist?”
“Just
Otto.”
“Are you sure you want to get married?”
“Why don’t you just congratulate me and git it over with?” Fleeta extends her left hand and new engagement ring toward me. It’s a simple round stone set in pink gold.
“Congratulations,” I say with more concern than jubilation.
“You sound like I feel.” Fleeta sits down on a packing crate. “Law me. I never thought I’d git murried again. And here I am, right back in it to win it. I’m up to my left knee in a bear trap. Can’t run. Can’t hide. You know, Portly and I were young loves—and once you had that, you sort of sour on anything else.”
“You had a fine husband. And he was a good father.”
“Yes, he was. When he died, I didn’t fit nowheres. I had been in a couple since I could remember. ‘There ain’t no place in the world for a widder woman,’ my mama used to say, and boy, she was right. People thought I was pitiful. I hated that. Plus, I got lonely, I’ll be honest with ye. I missed the companionship of a man. Otto was always hangin’ around, and it just sort of became natural—I started missin’ him when he’d go, and it turns out he got attached to me too. At first I thought it was crazy—and then I thought, What the hell, what good is life when you’re alone? It weren’t the same, going over to Kingsport for the wrestling matches all by myself. Bowling over at Shug’s got to be sad too. One ball. One lane. One scorecard. I got sick of my own company.”
“You know what you need. That’s good.” I aim for upbeat.
“Uh-huh. I learnt a lot, being on the market at my age. Most men want a younger wife. And let’s face it, I am many things, but I ain’t young. What men is left at my age would make you weep. They’re like used cars. They look good on the lot, and you get ’em home and they fall apart. Piece by piece. What ain’t rusted out on ’em is rotted out. Otto was about the sturdiest of the bunch. So I settled, I guess.”
“Otto is a good man; I don’t think that’s settling.”
“The best part is, he’s older than me.” Fleeta takes a drag off her unlit cigarette and lifts her right eyebrow. “I get to be the younger woman. Trust me—nobody wants to make love to a grandmaw, exceptin’ maybe a great-grandpaw.” She chuckles. “You know men. No matter how old they is, they like ’em younger.”
The bells on the front door jingle, and another sure sign of autumn walks through the door. Nellie Goodloe wears a black cardigan with rows of orange felt jack-o’-lanterns appliquéd across it. The collar is gold-sequined, and the buttons are small plastic ghosts with black eyes. Her hair, arranged in an updo of lacquered red curls, really brings out the orange of the pumpkins.
“That’s some sweater.” Fleeta looks Nellie up and down, taking in her ensemble. “Ain’t it early for Halloween?”
Nellie smoothes down the placket of the sweater neatly. “I don’t get a lot of wear out of it if I wait for the actual day.”
“That’s the problem with holiday sweaters. Short shelf life.” Fleeta goes to the café kitchen. “I’m gonna get lunch prepped. Here.” She gives Nellie the wedding pictures. “Feast your eyes on these.”
Nellie looks through the pictures, oohing and aahing almost too much, which makes me wonder why she’s here. But Nellie’s a cutto-the-chase girl, so I needn’t have worried.
“Ave Maria, the Music Study Club has a favor to ask of you.” Nellie smiles. “We’d love to get you back into the theater. The officers took a vote, and we’d like you to direct the winter musical.”
“That’s sweet of you to think of me, but—”
“I’ll be honest. You weren’t the first choice. Our director, Boyd Blondell from the Drama Department up at the college, fell out. He has to go up north to help his mother with her hip replacement next month, so he’s unavailable.”
“Well, it’s still sweet,” I say wryly. “But I’m really woefully out of practice when it comes to the theater.” It’s true. It’s been years since I directed the Outdoor Drama.
“Oh, it’ll come right back to you. We’ve practically cast the show already.”
“Really.” This is what I was afraid of. “What’s the show?”
“The Sound of Music. We thought if there was a way for you to work tap into the show, that would be nice.”
“Tap dancing?”
“Yes, Miss Angie says she’ll provide the manpower from her Tops in Taps school.”
Under normal circumstances, I would take a pass on this offer. But, looking ahead, I may wish I had something to do on long winter evenings when Jack’s working late. “I’ll do it.”
Nellie claps her hands together. “Great! Rehearsals begin November first.”
As Fleeta writes the lunch specials on the blackboard propped in the entryway (soup beans and corn bread, collard greens, and stewed apples), I check the pharmacy desk, where Eddie Carleton has left a few notes for me. Eddie’s a good guy; I can always count on him to cover for me if I’m away. I check my e-mails and open one from Etta immediately.
Dear Ma, I hope you had a good flight home. Stefano and I love Rimini. It’s too cold for the beach, but we walk it anyway. The Adriatic Sea reminds me of our trips to the ocean in North Carolina. I miss you both. xoxoxo Etta (Stefano says hi)
I write back to her, and though each word I type makes me feel worse, I send a happy message. After all, that’s a mother’s job, to be cheerful.
“Ave, what say you?” Otto holds out his arms and walks over to my counter. He already looks the part of groom. His white hair is neatly combed, his khaki work pants are pressed, and he smells like Aqua Velva. Fleeta is particular about grooming. I climb down from the counter and give him a hug. His son, Worley, in denim coveralls, stands back.
“I can’t believe you’re getting married, Otto!”
“Plus I found the Lord.”
“I heard. It’s almost too much.”
Before Otto can speak, Worley says, “It is indeed.” Worley removes his baseball cap and heads for the café.
“Worley’s got an attitude. Thinks it’s crazy for me to get murried. But I want to.”
“He’ll come around.”
Fleeta waves a spoon. “Otto, you need to get over here. I only got so many soup beans and so much corn bread.”
“See there? Bossing me around already.” Otto smiles.
FLEETA’S SOUP BEANS AND CORN BREAD
Serves 2 hungry mountain men or 4 regular people
SOUP BEANS
1 pound pinto or mixed beans
1/3 cup corn oil
Salt
Soak beans in water overnight. Wash beans and bring to a boil in a fresh pot of water, stirring occasionally. Season with corn oil. Salt to taste. Lower heat; add more water if necessary. Cook slowly until beans are done and soup is thick.
CORN BREAD
2 cups self-rising cornmeal
1¼ to 1½ cup buttermilk
1 egg
Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Grease a heavy 8- to 10-inch skillet or 8-by-8-inch baking pan. Mix all ingredients and pour into skillet or pan. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes, or until golden-brown.
Over the years, more and more of my working day is spent in the Jeep, making deliveries. When I started working in the Pharmacy, I had two or three drop-offs a day. Now that folks are older and less mobile, there are well over ten deliveries each day. We have to compete with the big chains, and they have no problem driving pills forty miles to make a sale. It’s not possible for me to drive those distances and still fill prescriptions in the Pharmacy, so I limit my deliveries to town and the hollers just above Big Stone Gap.
I don’t know if the changes in these hills come from the outside world pushing through, or just the aging process, but we’ve become a bedroom community. Most of the stores on Main Street have closed, though we still have the Tri-State Carpet Rug & Books, Ball’s TV & Record Shop, Sue’s Hallmark, and Horton’s Florist. Seems most of the businesses that remain cater to getting married or buried. Or to history. The Southwest Virginia Museum gets lots of visitors, so it spawned
tours at local points of interest like the John Fox, Jr., House. Over at the Outdoor Drama, the Tolliver House is open to the public year-round. Besides tours of the theater, there’s a school memorabilia room spearheaded by Garnett Gilliam, and a gift shop that sells a collection of antique quilts, fine art, and sundries—a real plus for any tourists who come through.
As I drive through Cracker’s Neck Holler at twilight and pass the school, I remember picking Etta up from band practice on nights like this. I’d swing by after work, and there she’d be on the school steps, waiting for me. She’d climb in and start with the news of the day. That was our time, and I remember wishing the ride up the mountain would never end.
Tonight the Murky Murk has lifted; our house is bathed in the last pale orange beams of daylight, before the sun disappears behind the mountain. Jack beat me home. The first thing he does, before he looks at the mail, is light the fire in the hearth. I can see the tufts of smoke from the chimney.
There is an unfamiliar truck parked outside the house, as well as that of Jack’s partner, Mousey. I wasn’t expecting company, but it’s not unusual for Jack to have the guys in for a beer after work. I climb the steps with a foil package of corn bread from Fleeta, hoping there’s enough if Jack invites his guests to stay for supper. I have mastered many dishes over the years, but I can’t top Fleeta’s corn bread, so I don’t even try (the secret is in the buttermilk and the iron skillet she inherited from her mamaw). I hear voices as I push the screen door open and enter the house.
My husband stands next to the mantel listening carefully to a man in a suit, a man I’ve never seen before. He’s in his mid-thirties and doesn’t look like he’s from around here. His pin-striped suit is fine wool, and his tie, bright blue silk, seems expensive.
“Ave Maria.” My husband looks up and smiles. “I’d like you to meet Tyler Hutchinson from Pittsburgh.”
I extend my hand to the young man. “Good to meet you.”
“And you too, Mrs. MacChesney.” Tyler smiles. His high forehead and ears tell me that he’s bright, and the strong jawline says he’s persistent, if not stubborn. The tilt of his mouth, with deep indentations on either side, tells me he’s not to be trusted. He’s one of those men with a big head and tiny teeth, which means he’s a man with big ideas and a matching ego. I wish Jack would have taken my beloved Ancient Art of Chinese Face-Reading seriously, but alas, it’s one arena that I could never get my husband interested in.