I drive up to Cracker’s Neck first, starting at the top of the mountain with the first pan return. Then I’ll work my way back down to town. Tufts of white smoke puff out of the kitchen chimney at the MacChesneys’. I knock at the door. No answer. I knock again. Still no answer. In a split second there is loud barking behind me, and I practically jump out of my skin. It’s the family dog. He keeps barking and circles back around the house. I follow him.
Mrs. Mac is hanging out the laundry. The white sheets are whiter than the clouds overhead, and even outdoors the air is filled with the clean smell of fresh laundry. She looks up and sees me and smiles.
“Thank you for the chess pie. My family loved it.”
“Who wouldn’t? It’s good pie.”
“Do you need some help?” I ask.
“I’m all done. Come inside. I got coffee.”
I follow Mrs. Mac into the house through the back porch. I have never seen this porch or entered the house this way. In fact, I didn’t even know she had a room like this on the back of the house. You can’t see it from the kitchen; it is off at a different angle and easily hidden.
The sunporch is lovely. There is rattan furniture with soft cushions, quilted in elaborate designs; I recognize the traditional “drunkard’s path” motif on a matching chair. There are hanging plants everywhere, spilling over with blooms of pink, purple, and yellow. I have never seen an indoor garden quite so beautiful; it looks like it belongs in another house, not in this clean, spare stone house in Cracker’s Neck.
“Yep, this is my favorite spot in the house. Plants need a lot of care, though.”
I imagine Mrs. Mac making the sunporch her own special room, full of her feminine touches. But it is more than that; it has a spiritual feeling, like a sanctuary. I follow her through a small pantry back into the kitchen that I know so well.
“Everybody get off all right?” she asks as she fetches me a cup of coffee.
“They had the best time.”
“How about you?”
“It was a dream.”
“Good.”
“Mrs. Mac, you probably know that Jack sold his truck to pay for all of it, and I—”
She holds up her hand to stop me. “That is his affair.”
“I know. But I want you to know that I appreciate it.”
“Honey, it ain’t none of my business.”
“But—”
“It ain’t.”
We sit in an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes.
“You raised a very fine person.”
“Thank you kindly.”
“Mrs. Mac, are you upset with me about something?”
“I wouldn’t call it upset.”
“What would you call it?”
“There is a word for it; let me think.” She thinks a moment, gets up, goes to the cake saver, pulls off the lid, cuts a couple of pieces of pound cake, puts them on a plate, fetches two forks and two plates and two napkins, and comes back to the table and sits down with me. “I’m mystified.”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you want my son or not?”
I can’t answer her. Not only am I embarrassed, I realize that I am in that horrible position of having dragged somebody’s mama into my confusion, a bad place for her and me.
“Do you mind if I don’t answer that?”
“Suit yourself.”
We eat our cake and drink our coffee. Mrs. Mac stares off at the field. She looks old to me this morning. Or maybe I’m afraid that I will miss her when I leave.
“I got a lot of pans in the car, so I better shove off.”
“Ave Maria?” Mrs. Mac looks at me directly and does not blink.
“My sister Cecelia is coming to git me this afternoon to take me down to her place for a visit. I’m gonna be gone about a week. My son gets off of his shift at six sharp; he comes home here through the door no later than seven. He don’t know I’m going to see his aunt, so he’s gonna come home here directly, expecting dinner as usual. If I was you, and if you have one tenth the brain in your head that I think you do, you’ll be sitting there on the porch waiting for him. Now, is that clear enough, youngun?”
I nod.
I give Mrs. Mac a quick hug. When I let go of her, she gives me an extra-quick hug that instructs me, Do what I’m telling you, or I can’t be responsible for what happens next.
There are some low patches of fog as I drive down the mountain. I think of the kiss in the trailer park. It’s the first time I have ever thought about it during the day. As I make the turn onto Valley Road, a cat runs out in front of my Jeep. I slam on the brakes and jump out. The cat disappears into the ditch. I’m afraid it might be injured. I cross the road and climb down the bank just as the cat slips into the dark opening of a gully. I crawl closer and brush away the leaves at the mouth of the tunnel. There are three kittens, not even old enough to open their eyes, tucked safely under some leaves. I back away and sit at the edge of the ditch for a moment, waiting for the mother. Eventually she crawls out and tends to the babies. She licks them. They seem to be okay. I start to cry. I realize what a phony I am. I told Otto in no uncertain terms that he had to be honest with Worley about his shame. And yet I cannot be honest about my own. I have chosen not to fall in love because I thought it would heal my mother’s shame if I was a perfect daughter, virtuous and independent. I have spent my life trying not to need anyone. But I hear Mrs. Mac again in my mind and I realize I don’t want to live like this anymore.
A car horn blasts behind me. It’s Nellie Goodloe.
“Ave Maria, are you all right down there in that ditch?”
“I’m fine, Nellie,” I call back to her.
She shrugs and drives off. I stand up and brush the leaves from my pants. By the time I reach the Jeep, I know what I’m going to do.
I drop by the Pharmacy with Fleeta’s pan. Fleeta is restocking the candy.
“They done picked the new Drama director,” Fleeta announces.
“Oh yeah? Who?”
“Sarah Dunleavy, that new English teacher up to the high school.”
“No!” This really makes me mad. I didn’t think I was territorial about the job, but her? She doesn’t have any pizzazz at all.
“Sarah”—Fleeta pronounces it like it’s a brand name for industrial sludge—“has done been greasin’ the board of dyerectors up one side and down the other. She done joined the Dogwood Garden Club, hell, she hosted their Early Bird Breakfast, she got herself into the sewing circle at the Methodist church, and she got Don Wax Realty to sponsor her tenth-grade English class on a field trip over to the Barter Theater to see a play. This gal is takin’ things over. Trust me on that one. Are you chapped?”
“Yes. I’m chapped.” I don’t know exactly why, but I am.
“I would be, too. After all you done for the folks around here. Driving yourself cuckoo, volunteering for this and that. And this is the thanks you git. Your scent ain’t even evaporated in the area, and they done filled your spot. For whatever it’s worth, Portly thinks it’s terrible too.”
“Have we got any Coty’s Emeraude cologne?”
“It’s in the locked case.” Fleeta points to it, pulling a key ring with ten thousand keys on it out of her back pocket and flipping through it.
“How do you know which key?”
“It’s like Braille to me. I feel the grooves.”
The first key Fleeta chooses fits the case.
“It’s your lucky day. One bottle left.”
“Put it on my tab.”
Fleeta laughs and it turns into a rattle. She coughs. “That’s pretty funny, bein’ it’s your place.” I wish I could join in the hilarity, but I’m not feeling very funny right now. Sarah Dunleavy has taken my place in Big Stone Gap, seamlessly, effortlessly; it’s as though I never existed. And I haven’t even left town yet! I guess I’m just going to have to be a little more careful about marking my territory. I’ll start with the Emeraude.
I spend most of the afternoon get
ting ready for the evening. I want to make sure that I am on the MacChesneys’ porch by six o’clock, sitting there waiting. I’m afraid that if I’m late, and I drive up and see Jack Mac’s truck, I’ll throw the old Jeep in reverse and back down the mountain. I am very nervous about all of this; my last conversation with Jack wasn’t a friendly one. I don’t know if he’ll turn mountain man on me and order me off his property or what. So I need to get there first and plant myself. That will give me courage.
I choose something very simple to wear: one of my new Mama blouses and a pair of jeans. A skirt would look like I’m trying to impress him, since I rarely wear them. This is a business meeting for me; I need to project a certain seriousness, and I have that in pants.
As I make the drive up through Cracker’s Neck, I review carefully in my mind all the twists and turns of my friendship, or whatever you want to call it, with Jack MacChesney. Back in school, he was a shy, shadowy sort of figure. He didn’t join a lot of clubs. I remember that he might have played baseball, but that would be all. My real memories of him started that morning when I caught him in his long johns and stayed for breakfast. That’s the first time I really took note of him—sparkling, out of the shower. And I think I fell for him for real when he winked at me at the Drama rehearsal.
But I am not the kind of woman to steal another woman’s man. First of all, I wouldn’t do that to any woman because I sure as hell wouldn’t want it done to me. And second, situations based on one-upmanship never, ever last. Those romances are not built on solid foundations; at the first sign of trouble, they collapse. Maybe that’s part of the thrill, but to me no man was ever worth the heartbreak of a woman.
I am not naÏve, though. I know there are the Sarah Dunleavys out there, who make a project out of finding the best men in every group and working their way into their hearts by being quiet, orderly, and not much fuss. But there isn’t one among us who can playact for a lifetime. Men don’t understand that, though. They think they know what they’re marrying because it would never dawn on men to change their behavior for anybody. “Accept me as I am,” they seem to say as they plant their feet, “or move on, girl.” But women? We adapt. Adapting gets results. It worked for Mama, but that life is not for me. Perhaps that is the real reason I never married. I just couldn’t adapt.
Why am I driving to Cracker’s Neck? What do I think I’ll find here? Maybe the subconscious lull of Jack MacChesney’s kiss remembered each night before I go to sleep has imprinted itself on my heart and sent a message to my brain to face myself. I don’t know. It unlocked something in me, though. This old Jeep cannot plow through Cracker’s Neck fast enough to deliver me safely to the MacChesneys’ porch.
My fear leaves me as I sit on the porch. I am amazed at the view, and I wish the sun would stay up longer so I could really study the landscape. Finally, after what seems like years, I can see truck lights down the mountain as they make the big turn onto the property.
The truck bounces over the pits and holes in the dirt road, kicking up a little dust. The headlights shine on me as Jack drives the truck to the side of the house. I shield my eyes from the glare but stand to greet him. The truck has the price $3,100 USED written on the windshield in white shoe polish.I guess Rick Harmon loaned it to Jack from the used-car dealership. I don’t know how he can see through the big white writing well enough to drive. For a moment I panic. What if Sarah Dunleavy is in the truck with him? I wish I would have brought a cake pan; at least I could look like I have an excuse to be here, and then I could cut out, with my face intact. Too late to jump in the Jeep and get out of here, so I wait. Jack parks the truck; the setting sun shines into the passenger window, and I can see he is alone. I breathe deeply.
It takes him a moment to get out of his truck, gathering his lunch pail and boots. He comes around the back of the truck and up the walk. He looks at me funny.
“Is something wrong with Mama?”
“No, no. She . . . she went to visit your Aunt Cecelia.”
“Why didn’t she tell me?” Jack Mac walks up the steps, past me, and up to the door with the keys.
“I guess it came up all of a sudden or something.”
“Could be,” he says, and opens the door. Jack leans in and turns on the lights. Mrs. Mac has left a note on the front-hall table verifying what I just told him. He reads it and puts it back on the table.
It’s as if I’m not even here. He isn’t happy to see me, but he’s not annoyed either. It’s just a cordial indifference. How awful. Or is this a ploy to make me suffer? I’ve hurt him, so now he has to hurt me? Oh, God, he’s going to make me work for this. I’m going to have to get down on my knees and beg this man to forgive me. I grab the rail on the front-porch stoop and hold it.
“Would you like to come in?” His voice is so monotone that there is no way to read whether he actually wants me to or is just being polite.
“Yes, I would.”
I stand in the doorway awaiting further instruction. But he doesn’t say a word. He just goes in and out of rooms, turning on lights, dropping off the lunch pail, putting the boots away, and moving the mail from the mantel to the hallway table. It is as though I’m invisible. I wish I were.
“Do you think Mama left any supper?” he asks me, finally. It’s the first friendly thing he’s said, but I don’t trust him.
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s check.” Jack Mac goes into the kitchen. I could not feel more stupid than I do, standing here. He pokes his head out of the kitchen.
“Well, come on,” he says, and goes back into the kitchen.
I follow him. Sure enough, Mrs. Mac has prepared a meal. The table is set for two, and there is a patio candle, a dark blue one, in white mesh in the middle of the table. The setup makes me feel awkward; it is almost as bad as parents fawning all over their pimply kids on prom night.
“Why don’t you heat up supper and I’ll start the fire?” He looks at me like I’m a moron, who can’t figure out that if I came all the way up here and it’s suppertime, we might as well eat. I go to the refrigerator and pull out a casserole that has the indelible ink and tape strip that says “mac ’n cheese.” I preheat the oven.
What am I doing here? This is the worst idea I’ve ever had. I have to make a move to get out of here, and fast. I would rather die than tell him about the kiss-before-sleeping thing, or how I love the way he smells, or how I’d just as soon rip out Sarah Dunleavy’s eyes as lose him to her. Why did I come up this mountain tonight? I should have just bought him a new truck and had it delivered and moved away and forgotten all about him. I am too old to be feeling this out of control. Why is he so calm? He is doing this to me on purpose. I bet he thinks this is funny. Mr. Never Without a Girlfriend. Go ahead, make fun of the Terrified Old Maid.
“I’m going to take a shower. You make the salad.” He goes.
Where is the phone? I’ll call Theodore and tell him to come and get me. I don’t think I can drive in the state I’m in. This man has me completely and totally unglued. My hands feel numb, as though I could snap them off like rubber gloves. Jack Mac sticks his head back into the kitchen. I jump.
“Don’t put any radishes in it. I hate them.” He goes again.
Jesus, he popped his head in here and scared me like a lurker in a horror movie. He must have seen me jump, because it’s the first time I saw him smile tonight. This is torture. Should I just leave? Why don’t I? I can’t. My feet won’t move. Deep inside, I feel my core and it centers me. I breathe deeply and evenly, regulating my nerves and settling my heart. I check my makeup in the toaster. I look good. I can do this. I make the salad. I make the dressing. I find a bowl and put it on the table. I put the casserole in the oven. Then I choose a seat at the table and sit down. And I wait.
Finally, he comes back into the kitchen. He is freshly scrubbed and looks neat. He is dressed nicely, in a denim shirt and old jeans, but it doesn’t look like he’s trying too hard. He goes to the oven, pulls out the casserole, and puts it
on the table. He takes a bottle of wine out of the refrigerator. Without asking me, he uncorks it.
“Wine?” he offers.
I put my face in my hands. “I’d rather have an aspirin.” Now, why he finds this so amusing, I do not know. But he laughs like he thinks it is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. He laughs long enough that I take offense.
“What is so funny?”
“You are.”
“I’m mighty glad I’m so entertaining.”
“You’re more than that.” Jack Mac sits down. What is he talking about? What does he mean? I feel like he’s speaking a different language. There’s a good starting point.
“My father told me you spoke Italian with him.”
“I know a little.”
“How?”
“From a book. I got the Berlitz book-and-tape series from the county library.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to learn it.”
“Because of me?”
“You aren’t the only Italian in the world, you know.”
“I didn’t mean it to sound that way. I just assumed—”
“Well, don’t.”
I have had enough, and I haven’t even been inside this old, ugly, hateful stone house for an hour. But I am not going to bite his head off. I am going to be dignified about this whole thing.
“Why are you being cruel to me?”
He thinks about this for minute. “Maybe it’s self-protection.”
Okay, now I get it. I hurt him, so he has to decimate me to level the playing field. How childish. How childish for a man with more gray hair than brown.
“I am not going to hurt you.” I don’t know why I say this, but it seems to me that this is the issue and I should address it.
“Too late for that.”
He is really mad at me. I don’t know how I’m going to get through to him. Or should I even keep trying? Maybe he wants me to leave, and his genteel Southern manners won’t let him throw me out.
“Do you want me to go?” I ask very nicely.
“Do you want to go?”
I hate when people answer questions with questions. “No, I don’t,” I say to him pointedly. I don’t know where that came from; I would have given my right leg to get out of here a minute ago, but somehow, hearing that I have hurt him makes me stay.