Big Stone Gap

  A horn honks out front. Theodore jumps out of the car and comes around to open my door. He whistles at me. “You look beautiful.”

  “Say hello to the Strawberry Daiquiri of Big Stone Gap.”

  Theodore laughs and I climb in. “What’s new?” he asks innocently.

  “I got a letter from Mario da Schilpario.”

  He practically stops the car.

  I open my beaded clutch (my maid-of-honor gift from Iva Lou) and take out the letter. “It’s okay.” As Theodore drives us to the church, I read it to him.

  There’s a big crowd outside the church. Iva Lou didn’t send out personal invitations, but she did run her engagement photo in the Post, announcing the time and date and other particulars. This is called an open-church wedding, which means everyone in town is welcome. Everyone likes Iva Lou, so she has a full house.

  I haven’t been in the Methodist church since Fred Mulligan’s funeral. I’ve pretty much stuck to my Catholic church. But I know every room inside this building, including the sacristy, where brides wait before going down the aisle.

  Iva Lou looks stunning in a peacock-blue gown. She decided not to wear white because it makes her look too washed-out. She, too, wears a picture hat. She is sipping vodka from a small airline-size bottle. She offers me some. I swig it—not because I’m nervous about going down the aisle but because Mario’s letter has put me on edge—and I give it back to Iva Lou. She finishes it off and throws the empty bottle into her makeup case.

  “You are so beautiful, Iva Lou.”

  “You think?” She squints into the mirror.

  “You’re a little piece of blue heaven.”

  “Thanks, honey-o.”

  “How’s Lyle holding up?”

  “He got drunk last night up in Esserville. Thank God his buddies got him home so he could sleep it off.”

  “Nerves.”

  “Uh-huh,” Iva Lou agrees, as she applies a little more powder blush. Her hand is shaking, so she steadies herself.

  “Don’t be scared. You’re doing the right thing.”

  “I know that. I just hate crowds. And ministers give me the creeps.”

  “Reverend Manning is really nice.”

  “I know. I just have to focus on something besides the gravity of all this. It’s too overwhelming for a girl like me.”

  A girl like Iva Lou. What a girl she is. Always made up her own rules. Here she is, forty-plus, getting married for the first time, having tasted all the goodies in the county. Good for her. She understood what she needed and went after it. She drove the Bookmobile even though they said a woman couldn’t handle it. She sells costume jewelry, for profit and to give women something small and sparkly that will make them feel good about themselves. She always paid her own way, and she owns her own home. She is very strong and also very feminine. Iva Lou must love Lyle very much, because of all the women I know, she has the most to lose.

  Through the crack in the sacristy door I can hear the bellows of the pipe organ. Fred Mulligan bought that organ, and it sounds like it’s been kept up to snuff.

  “Iva Lou, I think it’s time.”

  “Jesus Christ Almighty on a mountain! I forgot your bouquet. It’s over there in the box.”

  I go to the box and remove a beautiful arrangement of tea roses in shades of pink. Iva Lou picks up her bouquet of white roses.

  “Nellie. She’s got the touch.” Iva Lou models her bouquet. “Someday, when you get murried, you’ll have to get her to do the flowers.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Iva Lou and I hover in the vestibule of the church. Nellie is directing the wedding, so she’ll send us down the aisle. I have to remember how these things go in the movies; we didn’t rehearse. Lyle said you would only find his ass in church three times in his life: for his baptism, his wedding, and his funeral. Iva Lou dispensed with the rehearsal.

  I take off with the bridal one-step, two-step down the aisle to an eight-track version of “Say Forever You’ll Be Mine” from Dolly Parton and Porter Wagoner. The pews are full, and I get lots of approving glances and winks from both sides of the aisle. Joella Reasor even cranes out of her pew to whisper “Welcome back” to me. Now I know how holler folks feel when they finally make it down to town after the long winter.

  As I reach the altar, I smile at Lyle, who looks very happy and extremely nervous. He pivots out ever so slightly to see Iva Lou start her trek down the great white (blue) way. I stop short when I see his best man: Jack MacChesney, polished up like mamaw’s silver, gives me a wink.

  I’m going to let Iva Lou have it later. Why didn’t she tell me Jack Mac was the other half of this wedding party? Maybe she noticed that he didn’t come to see me when I was sick. Maybe she thought I’d bow out if I knew he was involved. It’s funny. I don’t hate him when I look at him. I’m just glad I look good in this dress.

  The Methodists like their ceremonies short and sweet. This one is practically over before it begins. I’m sure it was the longest eight minutes of Lyle’s life; his face is the color of a cherry tomato. When Reverend Manning introduces Mr. and Mrs. Lyle Makin for the first time, Iva Lou weeps. Her parents are gone, too, and I know she wishes they were here to see how happy she is.

  The music begins again, and though we haven’t practiced the recessional, I know the proper thing to do is take Jack Mac’s arm and follow the bride and groom out. I face the congregation and wait for Jack Mac to join me. He does.

  “Nice hat,” he says and smiles. Then he extends his arm, I take it, and we go.

  Nellie has decorated the fellowship hall in a Victorian theme. There are decorative, hand-painted fans on the walls; the ceiling is festooned with a lace canopy. The tables are covered in white linen. The cake has stacked circle tiers with a bride and groom in an antique carriage on top. Silver trays lined with crisp white doilies are filled with Nellie’s homemade candy wedding bells dusted in blue and pink sugar.

  Lyle is relaxed now. Iva Lou is herself again, laughing and talking and making everyone feel at home. Theodore is chatting with a couple of teachers from up at the high school. I dip my cup into the bowl of champagne punch.

  “Pink is your color,” Jack MacChesney says.

  “Thank you. Lyle’s favorite color is peacock blue, so I’m the contrast.”

  “How have you been?”

  “I’m coming back strong. Thank you for asking. How are you?”

  “I’m fine myself.” Jack Mac looks off. I turn to see what he’s looking at. It’s Sweet Sue Tinsley, escorted by her ex-husband, Mike.

  “Are they back together?” I ask bluntly.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jack Mac says quietly.

  “You know something, Jack? I’ll buy you a new hunting rifle if you promise never to call me ma’am again.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s a habit from my upbringing.”

  Theodore joins us at the punch bowl. “Everybody’s meeting for a potluck at Iva Lou’s trailer later. Hope you can make it, Jack,” Theodore offers.

  “I’ll be there.”

  “I’ll get the car,” Theodore tells me as he places his punch cup on the out trolley.

  Theodore goes. I finish my punch and nibble on a wedding bell.

  “You’ll be at Iva Lou’s later, right?”

  I nod.

  “You’re gonna wear the pink dress, aren’t you?”

  I look at Jack Mac with a half smile that says, Yeah, right. I am going to stay in this cinched silk cummerbund and panty girdle the rest of the day. Little does he know I can’t wait to get out of here and peel it off.

  “See you at Iva’s.” I grab my hat off the bookshelf and go to meet Theodore.

  I’ve never been to Iva Lou’s trailer in Danberry Heights, but it’s a beauty. The outside is sleek, ecru wood panels set off by crisp black shutters. Iva attached a redwood deckette at the entrance. An old-fashioned light fixture on an antique pole at the curve of the entrance casts a pretty golden glow as you enter. I arrive alone. Theodore is coming in hi
s own car; he has a school-board meeting in the morning and might have to cut out early.

  The interior decor is beige and modern—the perfect backdrop for a cool blonde like Iva Lou. The shag carpeting is a thick salt-and-pepper mix, very cozy. Iva Lou’s inner circle is packed into the trailer. She has made macaroni and cheese, salad, and slaw. There are leftover mints and lots of cake—plenty to eat. She bought wedding paper plates and napkins with a bride and groom on them. Lyle is toasting pals with a bottle of beer. He looks like the lord of the manor now; he definitely fits in. Iva Lou feeds him a biscuit, then kisses the crumbs away. I’m starving, so I dig into the hot macaroni and cheese. Mama never made this dish, but I’ve always loved it. The soft elbow noodles nestled in butter and cheddar cheese melt in my mouth. The crushed potato chips on top give it a delicious salty crunch. I may have seconds. Sweet Sue comes up behind me with a plate of cake.

  “How’s it going, A-vuh Maria?”

  “Great. How are you?”

  “I got back with Mike.” Mike Tinsley is laughing heartily at one of Lyle’s jokes. He seems happy to be part of the Gap social scene again. “Yeah, the kids missed him.” The space between Sweet Sue’s eyebrows is knit into a little square. “I did too, of course.” I smile and chew; as long as I’m chewing, I don’t have to talk. I look at Sweet Sue’s face. She really is very pretty. Her eyes are a clear ocean-blue. There are little crinkles around them now, but they give her a look of knowing and experience, which she wears well. I wonder if Jack Mac ever told her he proposed to me. I don’t think he did, because she doesn’t seem uncomfortable with me. I am most definitely not a rival.

  “Well, I’ll see you later.” Sweet Sue smiles and wedges through the crowd to get to Mike.

  “What happened to the pink dress?” I hear from the entrance to the den. Now I see why Sweet Sue scooted off like a possum: It’s Jack Mac. He stands in the kitchen doorway with his arms folded.

  “It was cutting off circulation. I couldn’t take it another minute.”

  “What about the hat?”

  He smiles at me and moves close, and I must say, everything this guy says sounds like a come-on to me. There’s something in that slow delivery and those gluttonous pauses that makes you feel buck naked. I pull my cardigan closed and button it.

  “Are you cold?”

  “Ever since I had the Deep Sleep, I get shivers.” I hope he buys the lie, but I don’t think he does.

  “Do I scare you?”

  I laugh right out loud. “No, sir, you don’t.”

  “I don’t know. You get jumpy when I’m around.”

  “I do?” I don’t notice that I do, but even if I do, I don’t want this man pointing out my insecurities to me.

  “What did you dream about during the Deep Sleep?” he wonders out loud.

  Okay, now I get it. He’s drunk. He’s drunk and he’s making a pass at me. He probably had the Tuckett sisters in the den and flirted with them and got nowhere, so he moved to the kitchenette, and it’s my turn on the way to the living room, where he’ll hit on Iva Lou’s cousins in from Knoxville, and then he’ll go right up to Mike Tinsley and punch him in the mouth and Sweet Sue will scream, and the guys will pull them apart, and Mike will be bleeding and he’ll tell Jack Mac to stay the hell away from his woman, and Jack will tell Mike he was a no-good husband, and Sweet Sue will have to choose and we’ll all watch and be horrified and hope nobody’s got a gun.

  “Did you dream during your Deep Sleep, Ave Maria?” Jack Mac asks me again.

  I shrug as though I don’t remember, and I keep eating the macaroni and cheese.

  “Where do you go when you look off like that?” He totally caught me. Now what am I going to say? You know what? I’m going to tell him the truth.

  “I imagined you flirting with every woman at this party and then working your way over to Sweet Sue and trying to reclaim her, and you and Mike Tinsley getting in a bloody brawl and turning the trailer over.” Jack throws his head back and laughs.

  “Now you know never to ask me what I’m thinking.” I turn to walk away, but he grabs my arm.

  “I have something in the truck for you.”

  “I’ll bet you do.” Sometimes the mountain girl in me comes out. I try to gracefully remove my arm from his grasp, but he grips it more tightly.

  Then he laughs again, this time even louder.

  “Are you drunk, Jack?”

  “I haven’t had a drop since the wedding punch. And you know how cheap Nellie is with the spirits.” Okay. This is really bad. He isn’t drunk. So he means everything he’s saying. Now what do I do?

  “Come with me.”

  He gets a grip on my elbow and won’t let go. He guides me through the crowd in the trailer and out to the parking field. He moves fast, and I have to skip to keep up with him. It’s dark, but I’m not afraid.

  Jack finds his truck and reaches into the front seat. He gives me a brown paper bag. I move to the streetlight so I can see the contents. It’s a book. A shiny, new copy of Schilpario: A Life in the Mountains, the very book I saw on the front seat of his truck a few months ago.

  “Is this for me?”

  “It better be. I can’t even pronounce it.” Jack Mac smiles at me as I open the book. “I had to special-order it out of Charlottesville. It’s out of print, so they had to do a search. I thought it would be of some help to you, since you were trying to find your daddy.”

  I’m having a very strange sensation inside my body right now. I feel compelled to embrace him, to thank him for his kindness. But there are so many questions. When I told him about trying to find my father, he was at the Sub Sandwich Carry-Out with Sweet Sue. We didn’t talk about it for very long, and why should he take such an interest in it? Why does he care? I look at his face. He cares. I have this feeling that he knows more about me than I have told him. I hug the book to my chest; the paper smells so good, and the cover is cool and shiny. And then he pulls me close and holds me. The sandalwood and lime is so familiar, and so sweet, that I breathe deeply to take it in, and also to steady my racing heart, which is in desperate need of oxygen. My heart is not palpitating; that condition seemed to correct itself during the Deep Sleep. This is a different kind of thumping, a kind I haven’t felt before.

  I bury my face in his chest; it seems as though there is a place carved out for me there. I can hear the Statler Brothers as they sail out of Iva Lou’s trailer and into the woods; laughter and chatting underscore it; I am very comfortable right here in this moment.

  A few minutes pass, and Jack Mac lifts my head with his hands. I am sleepy now; every muscle in me is relaxed.

  “May I kiss you?” he asks.

  I search my brain for a witty comeback, but I can’t think of any. He senses I’m searching for one, and he’s determined to nip it in the bud. Sometimes humor has no place in life, and this is one of those times. He traces his lips from the top of my head and down my nose until he finds my lips. Then he kisses me.

  The ground under my feet is soft, and I am sinking into it. I am like a stick in a sandy creek, going deeper and farther down into the dirt, meeting no resistance but the lack of my own will.

  “I think we should get back to the party.”

  “Why?” He kisses me again. I stop him, remembering Iva Lou, the party, and my responsibilities.

  “Thank you for the book.”

  He looks at me, a little confused.

  “Let’s go back,” I say quietly. We walk back to the trailer in silence.

  Misty Dawn Slagle Lassiter, six pounds, seven ounces, was born at 12:03 A.M. on March 17, 1979, at Saint Agnes Hospital, Norton, Virginia. Her mama, Tayloe, is doing fine; she had an easy labor, and now she can plan her wedding. Betty came to the Pharmacy with pictures of the little one, and she looks to be a stunner just like her mother. Fleeta is concerned that Misty may develop the Lassiter underbite, but it doesn’t appear to be so in the pictures.

  Since I sold the Pharmacy to Pearl, I’ve had a different attitude abo
ut it. I don’t take business problems so seriously; markups on medications don’t irritate me as much; and to hell with the dusting. Fleeta and Pearl take good care of the place, but something inside me has shifted.

  I am teaching Pearl the log-in procedure on medication when Nan MacChesney comes into the store. She’s using a cane. Her white hair is pulled back in a tight braid. Her eyes search the store for me.

  “I know you’re in here somewhere, Ave Maria. I done saw your Jeep out front.”

  “I’m back here, Mrs. Mac. In the pharmacy.”

  “Oh.” She comes over to the pharmacy counter. She barely reaches the top of it.

  “How are you?” I ask.

  “I’m all right. Can you come out of there and talk to me, please?”

  “Sure.” I come out from behind the counter and stand in front of her.

  “Is there somewhere we could talk?” she asks me.

  “There’s the back room,” Fleeta offers. Does Fleeta eavesdrop on every exchange that takes place in this store? I give her a look and take Mrs. Mac to the back room. I pull out a chair, but she declines, so I sit. Otherwise, I tower over her.

  “Now, I know this ain’t none of my business, but I got a son to worry about. I just want you to know that he is a fine gentleman and a faithful son. They don’t make ’em no better than my boy. Now, I know he likes you. He thinks you’re a fine woman. And I encouraged him in that, ’cause I done think you made all the right decisions in your life. You’ve been loyal and you’ve been good, and that ought to be rewarded. I know you don’t see yourself as nobody’s wife or mother, ’cause you’ve said so from time to time to me. I’m not here to repeat hearsay and gossip, I’m only going on what I know directly from your lips to my ears. But I think you need to take some time and reflect on yourself. I’m not telling you what to do, but if you let my son slip through your fingers, you’ll be the sorriest gal in the world. I know what he’s made of, and it’s choice. He’s a man of quality. So you go ahead and do whatever it is you’re gonna do, but I just wanted somebody to tell you the real story about my son. You couldn’t do no better.”