Big Stone Gap

  I usually find the guts to get out of the Jeep when I see Mrs. Mac peeking out of her window. The last thing I want to appear to customers is chicken. Truth is, I appreciate her watching out for me as I open the door and swing my legs out. Ever so casually I pull myself to a rigid standing position and walk confidently through the yard to the front door, like Maureen O’Hara in every movie she ever made with John Wayne. Maureen O’Hara is short-waisted like me. She is my inspiration in wardrobe and courage. I’ve even taken to wearing my hair like her—simple and long in a neat braid. I pack less punch though; my hair is brown, hers lustrous red.

  The porch is freshly painted gray without a speck of dirt anywhere. The firewood is stacked neatly to the side of the house in a long row, in a lattice design. I try not to have favorites, but Mrs. Mac and her orderly home definitely top my list.

  “Took you long enough!” Mrs. Mac exclaims as she snaps open the screen door.

  “Iva Lou and I were chatting.”

  “I done figured that.” Mrs. Mac points to the fire. “Is that a good un, or is that a good un?” The flames lick the grid in hungry yellow bursts.

  “That is the best fire I have ever seen.” And I mean it.

  “Come on back. I made corn bread.”

  I follow Mrs. Mac to the kitchen, a sunny, spacious room with exposed oak beams on the ceiling. I hear a noise behind me. Praying that it’s not another dog, I slowly turn and look, first low, then eye level. It’s not a dog. It’s a man. Mrs. Mac’s son, Jack MacChesney, in his underwear, a faded-to-pink union suit that sticks to him like a leotard. We look at each other, and both our faces turn the color of his underwear before it faded—bloodred.

  “Jesus Christmas, Jack. Put some clothes on,” Mrs. Mac demands.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says to his mother, as if on automatic. “Good morning, Ave Maria,” he says to me, and goes. I can’t help it, I watch the man go. He has a fine, high rear end. I wish I did. I pull my belted CPO jacket down over my flat behind and follow Mrs. Mac into the kitchen.

  Mrs. Mac and I cross the kitchen to the big table by the windows, where she pours me a cup of hot black coffee that smells like heaven. She serves me fresh cream and snow-white sugar, which I dump into the mug. “So what’s happening in town?” Mrs. Mac asks. She has a mountain-girl face—a fine nose you could draw with a compass, shiny green button eyes, Cupid’s-bow lips, smooth cheeks. You can tell that she was a great beauty in her youth, and she still is.

  “Is ‘Nan’ short for anything?” I ask her.

  “What? You mean my name?” Mrs. Mac cuts the corn bread in the iron skillet into neat triangles. “My mamaw’s name was Nan. My middle name is Bluebell because that field was covered with ’em when I got born.” She points out the window with her spatula to indicate the field in the back.

  “Nan Bluebell. Pretty. What was your maiden name?”

  “God-a-mighty, you got a lot of questions this here morning. Gilliam. Nan Bluebell Gilliam.”

  “I like it,” I say as I sip my coffee.

  Jack stands in the doorway. He lingers there for a moment, as if to assess the situation. Or maybe he doesn’t want to interrupt our conversation. In town he is known as Jack Mac. He’s a little over six feet but seems shorter because he’s all neck and torso. His face is round and soft, with a determined chin. He has thin, straight eyebrows and hazel eyes. He has even lips—the top and bottom match (very rare)—and a nose that suits his face; it’s a strong nose, one that doesn’t break where it’s connected between his eyes but shoots out like a clean wedge. He has a defined jawline, which means he goes after what he wants in life and gets it. Jack Mac is dressed now, in a flannel shirt and old blue jeans. His hair is slicked down wet; in the sunlight it is gray and going. Jack Mac and I are the same age, but he looks a lot older than me. I don’t think he said two words in four years of high school; he’s one of those quiet types.

  Mrs. Mac pours her son coffee. “Sit down, youngun,” she says to him with great affection. “I was just asking Miss Ave here about the goings-on in town.”

  “Jack Mac ought to know more than me. After all, musicians get all the dirt.”

  “We do, eh?” Jack Mac says and laughs. “You’re the big director, you’re in charge of the flow of information.”

  Jack Mac is referring to my “job” (volunteer, of course) as director of our musical Outdoor Drama, The Trail of the Lonesome Pine. A mountain love story, or so the poster says. The Drama was put together sixteen summers ago. There’s a lot of dramatic and musical talent in the area, so local leaders decided to capitalize on it. We figure tourism will be a good business alternative if the coal mining dries up. The Outdoor Drama draws audiences from all over the mid-South.

  “Well, I don’t want to say anything,” I begin ominously, “but a certain Sweet Sue Tinsley is quite smitten with a certain picker in the pit band.”

  “Mercy, Jack, are you still seeing that little slip of a thing?” Mrs. Mac arches her eyebrow, annoyed.

  “Mama, I’m proud to say I am,” Jack says and winks at me.

  “That girl is not built for heavy lifting.” Mrs. Mac looks at me and sizes me up; obviously, I am a girl built for heavy lifting.

  “Now, Mrs. Mac, you’re just a little territorial about your only son. I’m sure you’ll grow to love Sweet Sue,” I say, getting off this topic. Jack Mac looks at me, relieved.

  Mrs. Mac goes on a long run about some sewage problem up in the hollers that she read about in the weekly paper, the Post. It’s hard for me to read our local paper because there are so many misspelled words in it. Spelling happens to be one of the things I’m good at, so I take notice when it isn’t perfect.

  As Mrs. Mac loads up the table with eggs, grits (hers are homemade pale yellow, not the store-bought kind), bacon, honey, and Lord knows what-all, Jack Mac eats. For a mountain man, he has fine manners. Delicate almost. And no matter how his mama drones on, he listens intently, like everything she says is of the utmost importance. What kind of life do the two of them have up here in Cracker’s Neck? I wonder how he sneaks off to see Sweet Sue, how he maneuvers spending the night away from home, what he tells his mother. This is one of the obstacles the adult child faces while living at home with his parents. I went through it until a year ago, so I know it’s hard. Maybe he goes down and stays with Sweet Sue when her kids are with their father on alternate weekends. Maybe they make love in the car on some road somewhere, like down at the Strawberry Patch, or up to Huff Rock, where the teenagers go. Or maybe they meet at a hotel over in Kingsport, Tennessee, where nobody would know them.

  “Ave Maria, are we losing you?” Mrs. Mac says as she pours me coffee. I’m caught, I blush, and they both notice it.

  “She’s off in dreamland, Mama.”

  “No, uh-uh. I was thinking about the Pharmacy. You know, Fleeta gets an attitude when I stay away too long.”

  Jack Mac rises like a gentleman as I stand.

  “No, sit down,” I tell Jack, a little embarrassed by his chivalry. “Your food will get cold.”

  Mrs. Mac nudges Jack. “See her out, Jack.”

  “Thanks for the coffee. And let me know how you like that new pill Doc Daugherty put you on.”

  “I will, honey,” Mrs. Mac says as she waves me off with her spatula. “Y’all scoot.”

  Jack Mac is careful to let me precede him through the doorways. At the screen door it’s a little awkward because I reach for it first and so does he, and he brushes my hand. “For a coal miner, you’ve got mighty soft hands,” I tell him. He smiles. What possessed me to blurt that out?

  I’m on the porch now, and he stands in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling it from frame to frame. He reaches up and plucks the coil on the screen door like it’s middle C.

  “Not really. Touch the tips.” Jack Mac extends his right hand and with his left takes my fingers and touches his fingertips to mine.

  “You’ve got calluses.”

  “From the guitar.”

  “Yo
u’ve been practicing.”

  “Have to. Pee Wee Poteet and I have an unspoken competition. Guitar versus fiddle.”

  “I think you’ll win.”

  “How do you know?”

  “His wife smashed his fingers in the car door last night. I had to take him some painkillers.”

  “Poor old Pee Wee.”

  “It wasn’t an accident. His wife was in a jealous rage and went after him—” I stop myself. I am telling this man confidential things. I never tell confidential things!

  “I like your perfume.”

  “It’s just residual from Iva Lou,” I say, turning four shades of red gingham (the curse of pale-skinned girls).

  “Well, it’s mighty nice, wherever it came from.” I walk down the steps into the yard. The dogs circle.

  “Are any of these your actual dogs?”

  Jack Mac laughs. “No. They’re all wild. This time of year, when the rain stops and the leaves turn, they get scared ’cause they can’t find water. They know I’m a soft touch.” I look down at the dogs, and for a moment I sort of like them, with their soft eyes and pink tongues.

  “You ain’t scared of ’em, are you?”

  “Me? No. Heck no. I’m not scared of much.” I guess he doesn’t see that I’m invincible, like Maureen O’Hara. As I make my way back to the Jeep, Jack Mac hollers at me.

  “Hey, Ave Maria, what do you think of my new truck?”

  Jack Mac points to a clearing by the shed. His 1978 Ford pickup gleams red-hot and shiny in the sun.

  “It’s a beauty,” I holler back.

  “Fully loaded.”

  “Can’t beat that.” I wave good-bye and climb into my Jeep.

  As I drive back to town I’m thinking about how everything at the MacChesneys’ is clean.

  There’s a traffic jam in the middle of town. Everybody’s out doing their trading. Plus, it’s due date in full on the electric and gas bills. I love town when it’s busy; makes me feel like something exciting might happen. Zackie Wakin, a compact Lebanese peddler-turned-local entrepreneur, is rolling racks of clothes out onto the sidewalk in front of his store. He is small at about five feet, his complexion café au lait, his lips full (sign of generosity). I’ve always loved his storefront: ZACKIE’S BARGAIN STORE: CLOTHES & SUCH FOR THE ENTIRE FAMILY. And he’s not kidding. He has everything from toasters to gold shoes. (I know because I needed a pair of gold shoes for a pharmaceutical-convention formal once, and he had them!)

  “Miss Ave!” Zackie waves me over. (He looks like a desert sheik from the movies, but he sounds like the rest of us.)

  “Another sidewalk sale?”

  “You betcha. Gotta clear out for the new fall merchandise. I got Frye boots coming in big next week. You keep that in mind, will ya?”

  “I’ll be over for my pair,” I promise. Zackie beams. The man was born to sell.

  The lot at the Pharmacy is full, so I double-park in the alley and leave the keys in the Jeep in case I block anyone. I see that Iva Lou is still at the gas station, and Kent is now sitting inside the Bookmobile with her. (Progress.) I examine the exterior of my building as I enter. Paint is chipping off the window casings, the sign is fading, and half of the neon mortar and pestle is flashing pathetically. I let the place go when Mama was sick. Fortunately, my customers don’t care about fancy trappings; I’m always busy.

  Fleeta Mullins, my only employee and the thinnest woman in the Gap, chain-smokes behind the counter. I’ve never seen Fleeta without a cigarette in her hand, regardless of how many conversations we’ve had about smoking being bad for her. I hear the start of emphysema in her cough, but she refuses to give it up. She’s only in her fifties, and her face is already wrinkled, a series of tiny pleats.

  “Hi-dee, Ave Maria,” she barks.

  “Nice do, Fleetsie,” and I mean it; she just had her hair put up.

  “I copied Jeanne Pruett’s upsweep.” Fleeta pats the spit curls gently. “I wish I could sing like her, too.”

  “Singing isn’t the be-all. I bet she can’t name all the wrestlers on the World Federation roster.”

  “You got you a point there.”

  “Busy morning.” I clear the register.

  “I need to declare me some sort of moratorium on these damn fund-raising jars,” Fleeta complains. “I can’t hardly ring up a sale without flippin’ one over.”

  She’s right. Our counter is overrun with homemade jars that have coin slots cut into their lids. Kids bring them by from school to raise money for all sorts of things. They glue their school pictures to the front of the jar with their names and a handwritten slogan. Right now the competition is heating up for Halloween prince and princess at the grade school, and I don’t like to play favorites, so anybody who makes a jar can leave one. Teena Lee Ball, a cute second-grader, stands by the register. Teena Lee looks at Fleeta and thinks better of asking her for a favor, so she turns to me.

  “Miss Mulligan, my mamaw said you’d put my jar on the counter ’cause we trade here.”

  “Your mamaw is a smart woman, and she’s got a point. It’s called ‘turnabout fair trade.’ You put your jar on the counter. Maybe we’ll raise a million dollars for your campaign!”

  Teena Lee smiles and shows the space where her front teeth should be. She scoots the jar in front of the others and goes.

  “You’re too much of a soft touch. Let me handle them kids that come in here. If it wasn’t for me, people’d run all over you all day long. I’ll tell them damn kids to take their jars to the Piggly Wiggly. We ain’t got the room; they do. They got three register lanes over there. We’ve only got the one.”

  I lift a jar off the counter. “Did that Coomer boy ever get his kidney?”

  “I think it was in the paper that he did.”

  I unscrew the Coomer boy’s jar and pour the coins into the March of Dimes canister.

  “Lew Eisenberg wants you to come see him over to his office. And I’m quitting.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Ave, honey, I’m sick of people. I want to set home and watch me some TV. Portly has his Black Lung comin’ through. It’s time to enjoy life.”

  Obviously, Fleeta hasn’t let herself make the connection that in order to collect Black Lung benefits from the coal company, her husband has to be sick. This isn’t exactly the time for celebration.

  “I don’t want you to go.” I sound pitiful, not like a boss at all.

  “You’ll get over it. I ain’t met nobody yet who ain’t replaceable.”

  “It won’t be the same.”

  “It’s time for a change is all,” Fleeta announces like a Greek philosopher. Change. Why does that word send a chill through me?

  Lew Eisenberg’s office is next door to the Pharmacy on Main Street. I sort of dread going in there, the place is so cluttered. Inez, Lew’s wife, is also his secretary. They met when Lew came down to do some legal work for Westmoreland Coal Company. Inez had just graduated high school. They had a romance and she got pregnant. Lew did the right thing and married her. (Well, the right thing for Inez, that is.)

  “He’s inside,” Inez says without looking up. Inez still has a pretty face, but she has gained about a hundred pounds since they married. It’s been frustrating for her, since she was known for her gorgeous figure when she was a cheerleader. Now she’s always on a diet. She’s tried Metracal shakes; AYDS, the reducing-plan candy; and Figurine Wafers (I carry all flavors)—nothing has done the trick.

  Lew sits behind his desk, smoking a cigarette. His round pumpkin head looks large atop his thin frame. He has small brown eyes behind thick glasses and a space between his front teeth (the Chinese call these lucky teeth). I haven’t seen the space recently; Lew rarely smiles.

  “Coffee or tea or something?” Lew asks. He always sounds agitated, but it doesn’t make him unpleasant. You can see he’s a sweetie underneath.

  “No thanks.” Lew looks relieved that I don’t want anything; the less contact with Inez, the better. He closes the door and si
ts in the chair next to me. He has never done that. “We need to talk.” He is quiet for a few seconds, but it seems much longer. He stands and paces. “I finished up your mother’s paperwork. Her will. The house, the Pharmacy, the life insurance—all that goes to you. Essentially, my job is done. Except for one thing.” He stands at the window, flicking the blinds.

  A floorboard creaks outside the office door, sounding like two hundred tiptoeing pounds. We look at each other. Lew turns on the radio for privacy—Inez has a reputation for snooping—and sits down next to me again. “There’s a letter.”

  Lew gives me a large manila envelope. It is addressed to me in care of Lewis Eisenberg. In the upper left-hand corner it says, “From Fiametta Vilminore Mulligan.” I’m one of those folks who opens her mail as she stands at the mailbox, so I rip into the envelope immediately and unfold the letter. I see my mother’s handwriting. (The letter is written in English; I assume it’s because Lew would have needed to read it, too.)

  My dear Ave Maria,

  When you read this letter, I will have left you. There are things I could never tell you about myself. Many times, I tried. But then, I would think better of unburdening myself and stay quiet. The first thing I want you to know is that you are the best thing that ever happened to me.

  At this point, my heart is pounding so hard it’s moving the buttons on my shirt. I look over at Lew, who is now lying down on the floor, smoking and staring up at the ceiling.

  “Did you read this, Lew?”

  “Yup. Don’t mind me, my back’s out.”

  When I was seventeen, I was a very happy girl. I worked as a seamstress in my father’s shop in Bergamo. My mother was beautiful, and my father a very respected man. A boy used to stop by the shop, his name was Mario Barbari. He came from a good family from Schilpario, a small town in the mountains. He was quite handsome and made me laugh. One time, my father had business in Schilpario. I begged him to let me ride along. I hoped I would see Mario, and as luck would have it, I did. Once he took care of business, Papa decided to stay in Schilpario and play cards. Mario offered to show me the town. He showed me the church, the waterwheel, the school. I felt like I had known him all of my life. I fell in love with him that day.