I know this should be easy. Why should any normal person be attached to bolts of fabric: scraps, ends, and odd yardage? But I am. Each piece reminds me of something she made. There’s a yard of purple satin that she used to make my shepherd robe for the kindergarten Nativity. A mint-green dotted Swiss remnant that she used to make my dress for the May Day court when I was in seventh grade. A bolt of Carolina-blue wool for cheerleading skirts and a bolt of ruby-red wool that she used in the pleats of those same skirts. Red cording and frogs that she used when she made Bobby Necessary’s band uniform. Back in 1969 Bobby’s mama came over all hush-hush and begged Mama to make Bobby a band uniform. He was so heavyset, they couldn’t order one in his size. Mama toiled over that one. But when Bobby marched out with his clarinet during halftime, you couldn’t tell that his uniform wasn’t from the factory. It was a perfect match.
There are several bolts of cotton velvet in deep shades of red, blue, and gold. Mama was a big fan of velvet; she thought it was sturdy and elegant and that it “wore” in an interesting way. She used to crumple it and let it fall, pointing out how the light played on the folds, giving it a sheen and dimension. She made me so many things of velvet! Skirts, pants, coats, even a bedspread. I always had a poufy bed, with beautiful linens. Mama grew up with that over in Italy, and she wanted me to have it, too. In later years, when we went shopping for sheets, she would sniff them. She could tell the grade of cotton, the thread count, from the smell. She said she would rather have one set of sheets that were four hundred count than ten sets that were two hundred count. I’ve slept on the cheap stuff away from home; believe me, there is a difference.
Even my favorite bedtime story was about fabric! Mama told me the story of the Fortuny family in Italy who made their own fabrics and became world-famous for it. She told me how they invented double-sided velvet (her favorite to work with), and how they experimented with design, embroidering it, watermarking it, even burning it! I used to imagine the Fortuny factory and its workers. I pictured the men and women standing around cocoons as the silk was spun; the raw silk draped on the cutting table; the processes of soaking, stretching, pressing, and cutting. Mama told me that if you made fabric correctly and took care of it, it could last until the end of time. I guess she was right. Think of those medieval tapestries and even the Shroud of Turin. Good fabric, good care—eternity.
I know a couple of quilters up in the hollers, but I really want to bequeath this material to someone who is expert at quilting and would appreciate it. I settle on Nan Bluebell Gilliam MacChesney. She’s one of the best quilters around. I wrap the fabric in burlap casings. Mama never used plastic because the fabric could not breathe. She would be proud that I remembered this. I load up the Jeep. There is barely room for me in the driver’s seat once I fill it.
It’s around suppertime. I don’t know where the day went; I started this project at breakfast, and it seems just moments ago. The ride up to Cracker’s Neck is smooth; everything is green. The MacChesney house looks so much larger in the twilight; it’s a warm way station in the mountain, not just a simple stone house with four chimneys as it appears by day. Light pours out of every window, and all four chimneys puff smoke. It is very inviting.
I pull up and park. I don’t see any stray dogs around; of course, it’s spring and there’s been plenty of rain, so the creeks up in the mountains are full. I balance one bolt of velvet on each shoulder. Jack Mac’s truck is gone. Good. I can drop these off and scram.
I can see into the house through the screen door. The main door is propped open behind it. I hear talking and laughing. Mrs. Mac must have company. At first I think to throw the bolts back into the Jeep and come back another time, but it is too late. The dog stands in the doorway of the kitchen, barking like mad. Mrs. Mac pokes her head out of the kitchen door.
“Who’s there? Speak up or I’ll shoot!” There is a wave of loud, rolling laughter from the kitchen.
“Hold your fire, ma’am. It’s just me, Ave Maria.” There is dead silence. “Uh, I can come back another time. Good night.” The weight of the bolts is starting to press me into the ground like a nail, so I turn to go down the porch steps, juggling the bolts. I almost push in the mesh of the screen door.
“Whoa. Hold up,” Jack Mac says. “Wait a minute.”
Damn, he is here. He must have parked in the back; it’s dark and I couldn’t see.
“I was just dropping off some fabric for your mother.It was my mother’s and I didn’t want to just throw it out,so I thought I’d bring it up here because she’s such a good quilter.” My voice broke. I hate that. Why am I overexplaining? I just want to go home. By now Jack Mac is on the porch steps, lifting the bolts off of my shoulders and setting them down on the porch gently.
“There’s a lot more in the Jeep.”
“I can help,” a familiar voice says from inside the house. It’s Theodore. What in God’s name is he doing up here? I want to ask him, of course, as he is my best friend in the entire world, but I cannot, because I have chosen to project this calm, casual thing to Jack Mac, and to change course in the middle of my performance would be death.
“Hi, Theodore,” I say as though it’s an everyday occurrence to find him up in Cracker’s Neck Holler with the MacChesney family.
“There’s a lot more in the Jeep,” Jack Mac tells Theodore. They follow me to the Jeep.
“You loaded all this yourself? Why didn’t you call me?” Theodore wants to know. I think he’s got a lot of crust. I should be the one asking questions. Like, What are you doing here?
“You guys need any help?” It’s a woman’s voice, but it isn’t Mrs. Mac. I am not going to ask who she is, so I wait.
“I think we got it, Sarah,” Jack Mac hollers off. Who is Sarah? What is going on here?
“It got chilly,” another voice says. I look up at the porch; there, in the light, is another woman. Are they breeding slim, pretty women inside the MacChesney house? Or is this a double date? I am mortified. Theodore has a date and Jack Mac has a date, and Mrs. Mac is making them roast pork chops and potatoes, and they’re all in the kitchen, laughing and talking and making plans to go on excursions together to Cudjo’s Caverns or maybe to North Carolina, to Biltmore House and Gardens. Theodore is in charge of the guidebook, and Jack Mac is in charge of the parking. The girls, in their halter tops and short shorts, are in charge of nothing. They are there to enjoy. Boy, these girls are fun and ever so game! Easy to be with! Undemanding! And witty and sweet, too! And they have nice figures from my vantage point, and long hair, parted down the middle, silky and straight with no clips. These are girls who can get their hair wet and have it dry with no frizz. They’re spontaneous. They don’t need any time for advance planning; no, they are just ready to jump in the car, powdered and fresh, anytime, day or night, ready to just hit the open road and have some laughs. They’re breezy and no-hassle and chatty and sexy and unserious, and they’ve probably never been depressed or suffered the humiliation of a Deep Sleep or had rattlesnake blood splattered all over them at a revival. No, these girls are the ice cream after the steak. All sweetness and light, an excellent finish to an evening.
“You got a lot here,” Jack Mac says as he hauls remnants on his third trip up to the house. I lift the last heavy bolt myself, stretching it across my shoulders horizontally, yoke-style, like the Israelite slaves in Ben-Hur. It is the last bolt, and I don’t care if it weighs two thousand pounds; I want to get this up to the house so I can get the hell out of here. Jack Mac and Theodore have different ideas, though. They run into the yard to help me with the last one.
“Let me get this,” Jack Mac orders.
“Sure. Sure.” I hand it over to him and Theodore. It takes both of them to carry it; that’s how heavy it is. I’ll bet Sarah and her slim buddy can’t lift a bolt of wool.
Mrs. Mac is on the porch. The tsetse-fly twins are helping her transport the fabric in small loads into the house. I wave to her from the middle yard.
“Well, thanks, ever
ybody. Good night,” I shout gaily. I turn to get into my Jeep. I’m glad it’s dark, because I think I’ll start crying the second my key hits the ignition.
“No, no,” chimes the Greek chorus in hot pants. “Stay.”
“I can’t. Sorry. I have to go.”
Theodore crosses down into the yard. He says to me under his breath and firmly, “Don’t be rude.”
This is the kryptonite of nice girls: We don’t ever want to be rude. And even though I am leaving town, I would like to be perceived as the good person I’ve been all these years, and not a rude lout who doesn’t say good-bye properly. Besides, the Jeep is empty, and there’s nothing more to do; how long can this humiliation last? I walk up to the house with Theodore.
He says: “Ave Maria, I’d like you to meet Sarah.” Sarah shakes my hand. Her hand is soft and her nails are painted ballet-slipper pink. They are hands that have never lifted a four-hundred-pound man onto a gurney or patched a roof. I put my ragged nails in my coat pockets.
“Hello, Sarah.”
“And this is Gail.” Gail says hello. She’s even tinier than Sarah, if that’s possible. I feel very large, like I’m three heads taller than either of them, and two planks wider.
“Ave Maria is a very interesting name,” Sarah offers.
“It means ‘Hail Mary,’ ” Theodore, Jack Mac, and I say in unison.
“That’s a Catholic prayer, right?” Gail asks, hoping it’s an intelligent question.
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply. I hope I make her feel good and old.
“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Mrs. Mac asks.
“I couldn’t possibly. Pearl Grimes has a teacher’s conference tonight, and I’m subbing for her mother, who is getting some new teeth.” Nice, Ave Maria. Could you stretch the truth a little more, please? The conference, the teeth—why don’t you make up a boyfriend who’s waiting for you back at the house with beer and pretzels?
Theodore and Sarah look at each other confused. Oh God, no. Theodore is a teacher. He knows there is no conference.
“I’m the new English teacher at Powell Valley,” Sarah says. “I wasn’t aware of a conference tonight.”
Sarah, the new English teacher. How literary. Does she wear short shorts to class? I wonder.
“Ave probably has a private meeting with Mr. Cantrell.” Theodore comes in for the save. Just like old times.
“That’s exactly right,” I concur. I look at poor Gail, who is standing there, shivering. “What do you do, Gail?”
“I’m Sarah’s sister. I came for the weekend to help her get settled into her new place.”
“That’s great.” Sure, it’s great. Two piranha sisters chomp their way into town and instantly find the only two eligible bachelors with a pulse and make a snack out of them. Couldn’t their dates, both of them standing with their hands in their pockets staring at me like two sick fish, have waited until I left town to carry on with these girls? What am I thinking? I turned both of these men down; now I am very glad I did.
“I really need to be on my way.” I check the time on my wrist. Nice. I forgot to put my watch on this morning. Maybe no one noticed.
“Thank you for the quilt pieces, honey,” Mrs. Mac says sincerely.
“You enjoy them.” Then I turn to the girls. “You’d better get inside. It’s gotten real chilly.” Wouldn’t want you two tasty nuggets to catch your death and die long, hideous deaths on a respirator, would we?
Sarah and Gail smile at me and follow Mrs. Mac into the house. Jack Mac and Theodore offer to walk me to my Jeep. I thank them, but no, I don’t need anybody walking me anywhere. In fact, I don’t need anybody. I am Maureen O’Hara in Buffalo Bill; I can take anything you throw at me.
I climb into the driver’s seat, shove the key in the ignition, and turn her over. I back out of the drive and off of this mountain, and I don’t even check the rearview mirror. I don’t cry. I don’t even come close. The sexy sisters are just the goose I need to leave town. Life will go on quite nicely without me in Big Stone Gap.
CHAPTER NINE
There is something thrilling about an almost empty house. When you crave the comfort of things, as I have for much of my life, unloading them is a very freeing experience. I was always so careful in Fred Mulligan’s easy chair, not to spill on it or sit on the arms or flip the footrest up and down too much. I wanted it to last. So when it is carried out of my house, I am relieved. I won’t have that to worry about anymore. Lyle Makin can bathe it in beer and onion dip forever. Enjoy it. Use it. And when you’re through with it, leave it in the street for Otto and Worley. Pearl and Leah will purchase all new things for this house—their new home—when I’m gone. I figure it’s a bad idea for them to move in here with my old stuff. They need a fresh start; they should never feel like renters in a home of their own.
I can see the architectural bones of this house in a way I couldn’t before. The floorboards are handsome and simple. The arches in the doorways are whimsical, with funny curves along the edges. The windows are very wide and eye level. It is a romantic cottage; how funny I never thought of it that way! Shorn of heavy drapes, just the rolling shades remain; I am reminded how important it is to let light play through rooms. I will remember this rule wherever I go.
I am lying on my back in the empty living room, looking up at the ceiling, a vast expanse of pure white—it seems to be a painting. My mind clears as I stare into it. I feel a moment of deep contentment, similar to what nuns and monks must feel when they pray. Being quiet is a very soothing experience.
I hear a hacking cough coming up my walk; for a moment I think it might be Fleeta with another question about accounting, but it is too deep a rattle. It must be a man. Without sitting up, I roll over, and craning my neck ever so slightly, I can see the porch steps through the mail chute in the door. It’s Spec. He raps on the door.
“It’s open.”
Spec takes one step into the house and stands there. He is surprised to see the interior so bare, and he is also surprised to see me lollygagging on the floor like an old cat.
“Are you all right?” Spec wonders.
“Never better.”
“I need you to come with me to the hospital.”
“Why?”
“Otto’s done had himself a heart attack.”
I’ve ridden in the Rescue Squad wagon with Spec many times. He keeps it in prime condition. I notice that the interior has changed a bit, though. My replacement has put the clipboard in a different spot. His kit is on the hump, not under the seat, where I used to place mine. There are notes Scotch-taped to the dashboard. I never did that.
Otto asked Worley to take him to Saint Agnes Hospital instead of Lonesome Pine. The Catholic nuns appeal to his superstitious nature. When Spec and I check in, we’re told Otto is in Intensive Care. The tone of the nurse’s voice tells us that the situation is serious. Nurses have many excellent skills, but they are never good actresses.
Worley kneels next to his brother’s bed, holding his left hand, the one without the IV, in both of his hands. It reminds me of a Buster Keaton movie, where Buster is swinging from a building, holding on to his rescuer with both hands while he flails in midair trying not to fall. Spec goes to the opposite side of the bed, close to Otto’s face. I gently place my hands on Worley’s shoulders. He has been crying.
“Worley, what happened?”
“My brother done ate his lunch. And then he went out back and threw up. He asked me to run him up here to Saint Agnes. And then he passed out. He didn’t come to, so I put him in the truck and brought him here.”
“You did good.”
“Please don’t let him die. Please.”
I wish I could promise Worley that Otto wasn’t ever going to die. But I can’t lie to him, and it’s not fair to give false hope where there is none.
“Worley, let old Spec take you for a cup of coffee and a chew.”
“I don’t want to leave him!” Worley looks at his brother with deep affection.
/> “If you leave for a couple of minutes, I can talk to the doctors and get some information for you. Just do what I say, okay?” Spec takes Worley away. Sister Ann Christina, the head of Intensive Care, comes up behind me.
“How is he, Sister?” She lowers her head, indicating that it was very bad, motioning to me not to ask any questions.
“Can I talk to him? Can he hear me?” Sister nods, so I lean in to Otto’s ear.
“Otto, what in the hell are you doing in the hospital?”
He smiles at me weakly. His eyes are lively, though. He motions to the oxygen mask. He wants me to lift it off. I lift it ever so slightly, so he can catch some air to speak.
“I need you to tell Worley something.”
“Sure.”
Otto and I settle into a breathing-and-speaking routine. I push the mask up and down as he finishes a sentence. He catches his breath and continues.
“I ain’t Worley’s brother.” I look confused. Sometimes folks go out of their minds when their bodies shut down on them, but hallucination isn’t usually part of a heart attack, nor is memory loss.
“Who are you, then?”
“I’m his daddy.”
I grip the stainless steel bed guard to steady myself. It is cold.
“Remember Destry?” I nod. “Destry was his mama. She died when she had him. The state wanted to take him, but Mama told them Worley was hers so they couldn’t.”
“He doesn’t know?”
Otto shakes his head.
“You have to tell him, Otto. You have to.” I say this slowly and deliberately, emphasizing the you.
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. You just told me. You can do this. You must.”
Otto takes a long breath, and his eyes fill with tears. “I can’t.”
“Why can’t you?” Otto closes his eyes tightly, hoping I will change my mind once he opens them. Then he opens his eyes and looks up at the ceiling. He barely whispers, “He will be ashamed of me.”