Home to Big Stone Gap

  It’s odd to bring the ornaments down from the attic without Etta. When she was little, she’d start asking about Christmas around September, and I’d spend the next three months promising her that the holidays were coming; she’d say, “When?” and I’d say, “Soon, soon.” When she got older, she did more and more of the decorating. Last Christmas she and Jack put the tree up when I was at work, and by the time I got home, she had it decorated.

  “I guess I better go and get a tree,” Jack says when he sees the piles of crates in the hallway.

  “Good idea. And can you make me a holly wreath for the front door? I like the leaves with the red berries. Oh, and let’s put Santa and the reindeer on the roof. Make sure you get the guys to help you. The kids loved it. They could see it from the road below.”

  “I thought we were keeping it simple.”

  “I’ll feel better if we’re lit up.”

  “Okay.”

  “Maybe you can put a string of lights on your new bridge.”

  “For who? The squirrels?”

  “You never know who’ll traipse through our woods.”

  There’s a knock at the door. Jack and I look at each other. We didn’t hear anyone drive up—but who would? I’m playing the Firestone Christmas CDs at top volume through the house.

  I open the front door.

  “Hello, Ave Maria,” Lovely Carter says and smiles.

  “Why, hello,” I say. We met only once, but there’s something familiar about her that puts me at ease, so I open the door and invite her in. “Jack, this is Lovely Carter.”

  “Nice to meet you. Great name.”

  “Thanks. I can’t take any credit for it. My mother found it in a yearbook.”

  “I met Lovely down at Iva Lou’s on Thanksgiving Day. You were watching football,” I say.

  Jack smiles. “I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

  “That would be nice,” Lovely says, looking around our house. “This is a beautiful home.”

  “Thank you. It’s been my husband’s family home for three generations. Can you believe it? I’m lighting fires in hearths that are over a hundred years old.”

  Lovely follows me into the living room and sits on the sofa. I take a seat in the old armchair across from her.

  “So, what can I do for you?”

  “Well, it’s a long story.”

  “The best ones are.”

  “I don’t know if Iva Lou said anything to you about me.”

  “She didn’t.” I won’t share that Iva Lou seemed rattled after Lovely’s visit; something tells me that would be a breach of our friendship.

  “I guess I should start at the beginning. I contacted Iva Lou’s aunt down in Lee County in August of last year.”

  “Why?”

  “I was trying to find Iva Lou.”

  “Everybody knows Iva Lou.”

  “I found that to be very true.”

  “She’s basically a legend. She’s been driving the Bookmobile since I was in high school. And that’s a long time ago.”

  “Did you know much about her?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where she came from.”

  “London, Kentucky,” I say.

  “Right.”

  “And then she moved here,” I go on. “She had kin here and there in the area. And she was a workingwoman, a single workingwoman until she met Lyle Makin.” Why am I telling Lovely so many details? I feel like I’m defending my friend. There’s something in Lovely’s tone that makes me feel I have to. “Oh, sorry. I don’t mean to ramble.”

  “I don’t mind. Anything you tell me helps.” Lovely’s clear blue eyes fill with tears.

  “Is there a problem?”

  Lovely snaps open her purse and pulls out a Kleenex. “I’m sorry.”

  “Is there some reason you came to talk to me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Whatever it is, you can say it.”

  Jack comes in with a tray of coffee and a few leftover cookies from Fleeta’s funeral spread. He puts the tray down on the coffee table. “I’ll leave you ladies alone.”

  “Thanks, honey.”

  Jack goes, giving me a quizzical look, as Lovely dries her tears.

  “I didn’t want to have to do this, but I need your help. I just turned forty. I was born in 1958, and I’m adopted. For many years I wondered who my parents were, and they finally unsealed the records in Kentucky, and I was able, with the help of an adoptee group, to start the process of finding my biological mother. In fact, I have found her. But she doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  “Lovely, who is your mother?”

  “Iva Lou Wade Makin.”

  I’ve taken in all sorts of information in my life, and even when the news was surprising, I would take it in stride. But at this I gasp aloud.

  Lovely looks at me, surprised. “She never told you?”

  “No.” So many thoughts swirl through my head at once. I’m close to Iva Lou, as close as friends get without being family. She’s been a part of my life through all the good times and the terrible moments too. She was an honorary aunt to both my children. She got me through my romantic travails with Theodore, my fate with Jack, Joe’s death, and Etta’s marriage—I can’t imagine why she wouldn’t have told me this. It’s inconceivable. I blurt, “Are you sure?”

  Lovely is put off. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just—I’m so close to her, I can’t believe she wouldn’t have told me.”

  “I believe she put the whole event out of her mind.” For the first time, I hear anger in Lovely’s voice.

  “That doesn’t sound like Iva Lou.”

  “I don’t know what her reasons are—” Lovely begins.

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “Maybe she’s ashamed of what happened.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She told me that she was sorry she had to give me up, but she believed she did the best thing for me.”

  “When did she tell you that?”

  “After I came over on Thanksgiving, I realized that was awfully rude of me. I just assumed she’d be gone that day and I’d leave a note with my phone number. I found her address, so I thought, I’ll just leave my information under her door. That way, if she wanted to see me, she could call, and if she didn’t want to, well, I had my answer. But when she opened the door, I had to say something, so I sort of blurted it out—and she was stunned. But she took my number and called. We met again for lunch in Norton today.”

  “Today?” Iva Lou had said she had inventory.

  “Yes, ma’am. And we talked everything through. It was very emotional for her and for me.”

  “Of course it was.”

  “We both did a lot of crying. I felt terrible. I didn’t want to hurt her. Eventually, we came to a place where we both were feeling a little more in control of our feelings. And then I asked her who my father was, and it was like a wall went up. She didn’t want to tell me—and she wouldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m here.”

  “But I don’t know who your father is.”

  “Everyone said you and Iva Lou were the closest of friends. I want you to find out who my father is for me.” Lovely implores me with her eyes. She looks so sad, I might promise her anything to see that sadness go.

  “Lovely, I’m…Well, I’m so stunned by your news, I’ll have to think about that. I’m not sure she’ll tell me—I mean, she never told me about you. Iva Lou came to work here around 1958. I didn’t really know anything about her before that.”

  “But she would tell you if you asked her.”

  “I don’t know why she would. She never told me about you, why would she open up about your father?”

  “Mrs. MacChesney, I’m worried I will run out of time. For years and years, I swore I’d never, ever try to find my biological parents. My mom and dad are the best—well, my mom was the best. She died this year. She alwa
ys encouraged me to find my biological parents; she never set up a single obstacle. And as clear as I was about not trying to find them, one day my feelings changed. Maybe it’s my age, or the fact that I have children, or maybe I was just tired of wondering. But now I won’t rest until I meet him. I can’t tell you how devastating it is to know my mother—for her to admit that, yes, she’s my mother, and she’d like a relationship, but only if she can keep the identity of my father a secret. I don’t know if you can understand that.”

  I should set Lovely Carter straight here and now. I found out who my real father was after my mother’s death, in a letter she left behind with a photograph of him. Lovely has no idea how many times since that day I have read that letter. Just a few weeks ago, I read it again. It’s the only proof I have that my mother wanted me to live in truth. Thank God Mario Barbari was alive, and is still alive, and somehow, with time and care, we’ve built a beautiful father/daughter relationship. This relationship, in many ways, saved me and held me together as I dealt with the death of my son, a crisis in my marriage, and Etta’s marriage. In fact, if my father weren’t in Italy, close to Etta, I couldn’t cope with her decision at all. At the outset, the only saving grace of her marriage for me was my father’s close proximity to them. I don’t know Lovely, and I don’t want to bury her with our similarities when she is so clearly in pain. I don’t know if it would help. I lean toward her. She settles back in the chair. I say, “I completely understand how you feel. I was raised by a father who wasn’t my biological father, and it was kept secret from me.”

  “So you know!”

  “Yes, I do. And I can tell you that you have to come to this with a loving heart—without judgment.”

  “I don’t judge Iva Lou!”

  “But you have. You sort of gave her terms for a relationship with you—and made the identity of your father the deal breaker.”

  “But I’m in pain about this!” she cries.

  “I understand that pain. I know it well. But I also know that you have to trust Iva Lou. She is a thoughtful, contemplative, bright woman.”

  “I have a right to know!”

  Lovely is emotional, so I lower my voice to a soothing level to comfort her. “Iva Lou doesn’t make decisions in a rash way. I’ve never seen her buckle under pressure, or snap at anyone. She’s a rock. If you want to have a friendship with her now, you should know that she never would have made a flip decision when it came to your best interests.”

  “I understand that. She explained that to me today.”

  “It was different back then too.”

  “I’m sure it was.” Lovely stands abruptly. I find myself standing as well.

  “If you think you can help me, here’s my number.” Lovely gives me her phone number on a scrap of paper.

  Her body language has changed: her shoulders are back, and she pulls her purse close to her waist as though she has locked a gate. It’s as if a wall of clear ice has formed around her. I can see her, but she’s removed—certainly she is different than the woman who came to my door to seek some information.

  Instead of finding her behavior odd, I realize it’s familiar. It’s what I used to do before Mario Barbari came to meet me. I’d find myself at a party, or in a large group, or even in a quiet conversation, and then suddenly I’d have to leave. It was as if someone were cutting off my oxygen. I’d get up, despite pleas to stay from whomever I was talking to; I couldn’t take another second of chatter, of conversation, of noise. I was living my life, but it always intruded. The it would not go away; it was my center. It was confusion from my lack of resolution about who I was. I kept shoving it down, and it would stay down for long periods of time, and then something would bring those feelings to the surface again. Silly, innocuous things like a passing comment or a look on someone’s face. I’d feel that anger rise, and I’d have to go.

  After I found out my mother’s secret, I remember thinking that if my own father didn’t care about me or want to know me, who would? Why did my mother, who loved me completely, keep her story from me for so long? If I was too weak or fragile to know the truth, then what was I? Had my mother been keeping the truth from me so I wouldn’t get angry with her? Maybe she was afraid she’d lose me. I will never know. I did know that the only way to keep safe was to be alone. No one would ever see how lonely I was or know my rage. That was my secret. I pretended I wanted love, but I never experienced it, because I didn’t think I deserved it. What would I bring to a relationship? Who would love me? Who could, when I had no way to know who I really was?

  There is no romantic love, no husband, no friend, no relationship on earth that can fill the void of a mother’s love lost or a father’s rejection. We need our parents, and we need them as long as they are alive. And then, when they’re gone, we must go about shoring up our memory banks with the wisdom they imparted while letting go of the secrets and the hurts, which do us no good when we’re moving forward. I remember the feeling in my body when I was trapped in anger—it was like being buried in wet cement. I couldn’t look to the past, because it was riddled with half-truths, and I couldn’t move forward because I couldn’t let go of my anger at the lies told to protect me.

  I learned bitterness is the most destructive emotional force there is. Bitterness is anger with a few years on it (and I’d had thirty-five long years). Bitterness prevents us from loving, and without love, we are without sun and water and sustenance—without love, our bodies wither and our souls long to die. I remember thinking, Well, I’m thirty-five years old now. It won’t be that long until I’m old and death will come. I’ll just keep busy until then. I’ll fill up the years with work and trips and hobbies. Time will fly; I’ll hardly notice it passing. I’ll keep a garden and my job. That will get me through.

  I look at Lovely and wish I could say, I understand. I get it! But I can’t say any of these things, because she won’t hear them. She can’t hear them. She found the road to truth, and she’s been denied it again. I want to say all these things so she won’t feel so alone. Instead, I hold the piece of paper with her number on it. “I will call you. I promise.”

  Lovely goes to the door. I follow and open it for her.

  “Thank you, Mrs. MacChesney.” Lovely’s eyes fill with tears again. “I just want peace.”

  “I know you do.” I reach to embrace her, but she steps away and goes down the steps quickly and into her car. I watch her as she drives away, until her red brake lights disappear into the black like rubies at midnight.

  “What was that all about?” Jack asks from the kitchen.

  “You won’t believe it,” I tell him. And I can’t believe it. I can’t.

  Stone Mountain

  High in the hills, a layer of white clouds settles on the horizon like cotton padding in a gold-foil jewelry box.

  “Snow,” my husband says as he drops me at the Pharmacy. “I’m gonna run some errands. Then I have a lunch date at the Mutual’s.”

  “Don’t make it sound so casual. You’re meeting the enemy.”

  “Tyler Hutchinson is not the enemy. He may love these mountains as much as you do.”

  “We’ll see.” I give Jack a quick kiss on the cheek and climb out.

  Fleeta is in the café serving lunch. I see a RESERVED sign on the corner table (or should I say, Jack’s meeting site with the enemy). She waves to me.

  “Need me?” I ask her.

  “Hell, no. People’s clearing out early ’cause of the weather.”

  “Is it really going to snow?”

  Fleeta looks at me like I’m an idiot. “It smells like snow.”

  “You and Jack are like hunting dogs.”

  “Serves us well. There is a particular smell when it’s gonna snow. It’s a sort of a frosty, smoky smell. You have to be open to it.” Fleeta gives me an order form. “E-mail this list to Cover Girl for me, will ye?”

  “Okay, but just this one last time. You have to learn how to e-mail our distributors yourself.”

  “I hate mo
dern times! Hate it. Why should I, at my age, have to learn anything new? My head is already full of a bunch of useless information that will just cloud me up as I get older. I’m trying to learn less, not more.”

  “I’ll show you again later,” I say, trying not to snap at her. “You should be placing your own orders.”

  “I got a favor to ask of ye.”

  “What is it?”

  “You know, when I die, do me like your granny. Just do a picture up there on the pulpit. A good picture. Caskets always skeered me.”

  I hate to disappoint Fleeta, but there was a casket in Italy, and I know because Giacomina took pictures of Nonna in the casket—it’s a tradition over there. “I’ll do as you say, Fleets.”

  “I want to be cremated and put in a pot. Now, the way me and Otto got it figgered is when he dies, he goes to Holding Funeral Home, and when I die, I go down to Gilliam’s. This way both funeral homes in town get a piece of our business. It’s only right. Car Wash Gilliam always did right by me, and you know I got a special place in my heart for his wife, Want Wax.”

  “I know you do.”

  “I’ll get ole Lew Eisenberg to write it in a will.”

  “Good idea.”

  Iva Lou pushes through the front door in full snow gear: a hot-pink faux shearling coat with a white fake-fur-lined hood, beige knee boots with zippers up the calf, and a matching Cossack hat.

  “Look who’s ready for the snow.” Fleeta wipes off the counter.

  “What you got to go that’s fast?” Iva Lou asks her.

  “I’ll make you a hammy sammy. Got fresh biscuits and some ham in the back.”

  “Perfect. I gotta get up to Wise before it freezes.”

  I’ve seen Iva Lou at rehearsals since Lovely came to see me, but I haven’t had a chance to talk to her about it. I’ve tried to pick up the phone, and I can’t. Jack says I should go over and see her in person, but that’s even more upsetting to me than talking about it over the phone. Outside of rehearsals, I avoid her. I wonder if she notices.