Big Stone Gap

  Pearl comes into the store with a chic short haircut and a nice outfit. Could it be a cinch belt? It is! I haven’t seen her in a little over a week. What a difference. She has lost weight! Enough that you can tell! I am about to fall all over Pearl when June does instead.

  “Pearl Grimes, you done dropped some weight. How’d you do it?”

  “I joined Weight Watchers. And I eat a lot of Jell-O.”

  “Well, count me in. I’m gonna eat me a ton of Jell-O so I can drop me some weight, too. Now, missie, I got me some wrinkles on my face you could hide a roll of quarters in. Which one of these here creams do you suppose I oughta slather on my mug of the night?”

  “I would recommend the Queen Helene Cucumber Masque. It’s thick, but it soaks in. And you get a lot for your dollar.”

  Pearl leads June Walker to a little makeup table she’s put together. I watch Pearl the Expert as she demonstrates all the different creams on June’s hand. What salesmanship. Perhaps Mr. Cantrell is right. This girl’s got a future, and it ain’t in Insko.

  The pleasant jingle of the tri-bells on the door signals the entrance of another customer.

  “Good afternoon, Preacher.”

  “Hello, Miss Mulligan.” Preacher Elmo Gaspar, our local Church of God in Jesus Christ’s Name reverend and snake handler, stands before my prescription counter and commences to go through all of his pockets.

  “Preacher, you are the most disorganized man in Southwest Virginia.”

  “Ave Maria, I know I’m a mess. But you know, there ain’t no perfection in this world, only in the next.”

  “You speak the truth, Reverend!” June cries through her cream.

  The preacher chuckles, reminding me of the light side to his character. When I was little, every Friday morning we had assembly in the elementary school auditorium. The speaker was always a minister from one of the local churches. Of course, as we grew older, we dreaded it. But when we were kids, we loved the fire-and-brimstone Bible stories, delivered with passion and zeal by the Protestant of the Week. The Protestants were on rotation until one week when there was a cancellation and no preacher could fill in, so the spot went by default to the only Catholic priest in the area. The schoolkids used to tease me about my religion, saying Cath-licks drank blood in our service and worshipped statues. The kids were convinced when the priest showed up that he’d have horns and green skin. They were mighty disappointed when Father Rausch, a mild man with a crew cut, brought out puppets and acted out the parable of the Prodigal Son—not exactly a barn burner. I almost wished my priest had a little of the devil in him, for theatrical purposes. I wanted the Catholics to have some pizzazz. Couldn’t he have explained stigmata or weeping statues? But it was not to be. We didn’t have the stuff. The Protestants did.

  The Protestants knew that the hard sell was everything (there has always been a heated, if unspoken, competition among the various sects), so they came fully loaded, ready to convert, with audiovisuals, pamphlets, and songs. When Preacher Gaspar came, he showed an actual filmstrip of what heaven would look like. The living room in the Palace of Heaven was made of pink and gold marble, and young, beautiful people in flowing gossamer robes were reclining on stones and staring into a bright light that came from the open ceiling. The light was God, and he was stopping by to visit the folks in one of the many rooms he had prepared for us. Then Preacher Gaspar showed us hell. It was layers of people stacked upon one another, in torment, feet crushing into faces, hands reaching out, begging for release, gnashing their teeth and wailing in horror. Preacher Gaspar left that image up a very long time and preached over, around, and in front of it, trying to scare the tarnation out of us. He succeeded because by the end of the filmstrip most of us were weeping. After we wiped away our tears and swore never to lie or steal or cheat anybody, we sang a song about the Bible.

  “Preacher, remember that song you taught us at assembly when I was a girl?”

  “Miss Mulligan, aren’t you still a girl?” he says with a wink.

  “You’ll have to answer to God for lying.” I hum a bit, and then in my terrible singing voice, “The B-I-B-L-E. Yes, that’s the Book for me! I stand alone on the word of God! The B-I-B-L-E!”

  “Very good.” Preacher looks happy that I’m done serenading him and relieved that he has found his prescription order in his breast pocket.

  I unfold the paper and attach it to my clipboard. It’s from Doc Daugherty: a tincture for poison, for rattlesnake bites. I keep a supply on hand at all times; after all, it’s hunting season and occasionally one of the men will get bitten.

  “Going hunting, Preacher?”

  “No, no. We got a revival down in the Frog Level. I’m preaching and handling. I promised Doc Daugherty I’d keep the medicine on hand.”

  The preacher has been handling snakes at revivals since he was very young. There’s one story that he handled three rattlers at once and tamed them to sleep. Snake handling is mentioned in the Old Testament. It’s a way for believers to prove their faith in God; if they truly believe, God won’t let them get bitten. Preacher Gaspar’s beliefs must be sincere, because in all these years he’s never been bitten. He looks up at me and smiles. His expression is beatific, there is a saintly sweetness to him. He must be close to seventy now, but his face is unlined and youthful. He still has his own teeth, straight and white. His hair, once black, thick, and unruly, is gone, but his scalp is smooth and pink, an advertisement for his good health. His blue eyes shine with a knowingness and humor that can only come from a serene and intimate relationship with God. There is no pretense to him; he is the real article, kind and good.

  “You be careful now, Reverend.”

  “I will. I will.” He turns to go, then looks back at me. “Miss Ave, do you remember the rest of that song I done taught you?”

  “Reverend, I’m ashamed to say I don’t.”

  He sings, “God’s words will never fail, never fail, never fail . . .”

  Pearl, June, and I join in, “God’s words will never fail. No! No! No!”

  Reverend Gaspar laughs as he leaves.

  “Someday you ought to come down and see him preach,” June says from the makeup table. “He is one of the greatest, I’ll goddamn guarantee you.”

  Tayloe Slagle and her majorettes come in giggling and chatting. They are always loud enough to draw attention, but not so loud as to be considered obnoxious.

  “What can I do for you girls?”

  They swarm around the magazine rack and don’t answer. If Fleeta were here, she’d swat their hands with a duster for reading the magazines and never buying them. I cut them some slack because they spend their money in other ways in my store.

  Finally Tayloe asks, “Did you get any waterproof mascara in yet?”

  “I don’t know. Did we, Pearl?”

  Pearl continues to rub cream into June’s face like she’s waxing a car. “Yes, ma’am. We got in the Great Lash.”

  “See there? One-stop shopping, girls. All your needs met right here. Maybe you ought to get Pearl to show you all of our new makeup.” Pearl shoots me a look like, Please don’t mention me. If you don’t talk about me, they won’t notice me. I will disappear into the vat of Queen Helene Cucumber Masque.

  “Now, Miss Mulligan, let me ask you one thing.” Tayloe looks at me. Even after school, without a stitch of makeup, even under my hideous fluorescent lights, she looks luminous. She sticks out her perfect chin. “Why would somebody who looks like me take beauty tips from somebody who looks like her?” The majorettes laugh loud and hard at this one. Tayloe takes my People magazine off of my rack and flips through it. Her casual cruelty makes me angry. Suddenly I don’t want the likes of her touching anything in my store.

  “Put down the magazine,” I warn in a voice that startles me. “You never buy them.”

  Tayloe quickly puts down the magazine. I look back at Pearl, whose eyes are not filled with tears, who is not blushing with embarrassment, who calmly works cream into June Walker’s face with p
urpose and resolve. Pearl isn’t a bundle of nerves anymore.

  “I’m gonna say something to you girls. And you’re gonna listen.” Two of the majorettes, one a redhead with Farrah Fawcett feathering, the other a brunette with a Jaclyn Smith center part, backtrack to the door to escape. “You’re not going anywhere, you two.” The girls stop in their tracks and turn to face me.

  “I’m sick and tired of your snide comments. You’re mighty proud, Tayloe. But I’d be careful if I was you. Someday you won’t have your looks anymore. And all those girls, like Pearl, who weren’t popular, will be the pretty ones. Why? Because they have had to work at it. So they appreciate beauty in all its forms. You only know beauty as something given, not earned. So you won’t understand what’s happening when your youth is gone and the pounds creep on and the wrinkles come; and you’ll panic because your best days are behind you. But Pearl’s best days will be ahead of her. Why? Because she had to make something out of herself from scratch. Nobody helped her. The best she got was a bunch of stuck-ups making fun of her to make themselves feel big. But trust me, that kind of power is poison. It’ll turn on you. When y’all are my age, you’ll be the ones envying her. Pearl will know the great power of self-acceptance and real self-love, not the shallow vanity you mistake for it. At the end of the day, Pearl Grimes will be so beautiful, she’ll wipe the floor with you.”

  All is silent in the store except for the creaking of the spin stool June Walker is sitting on as she leans into the mirror to examine her creamed face.

  “You are so weird, Ave Maria Mulligan,” says Tayloe. Finally, somebody pronounces my name correctly. Tayloe and her twirlers go. Pearl continues with her demonstration.

  I come out from behind the counter and stand in the doorway and watch them walk up the street. And I don’t know how to pinpoint what I’m feeling exactly, but for some reason I see myself at sixteen walking away from myself. I know it’s not me out there on the street, but it is, in the image of those girls, walking away getting smaller and smaller, and disappearing. For the first time in my life I feel the thread of who I am unravel. I am one of those people who swears she knows herself well, who in any given situation can be described and counted on to behave in a certain way. I never yell at people, nor do I make speeches. When things get tense, I usually make a joke, so everyone will feel at ease. But something, beyond defending Pearl, beyond standing up for what is right, compelled me to speak. Where did she come from? Who is this voice that isn’t going to make nice anymore, but will tell the truth? It isn’t Fred Mulligan’s daughter. I think of Mario da Schilpario, my father, the man in the picture. Why have I tried to put him aside, thinking him dead, gone, uninterested in the likes of me? But suddenly I know—and I am as sure of it as I am sure of myself standing here—that my father is alive, and he is well, and I must find him. I put my hand on my chest, expecting another anxiety attack to come, but it does not. Practical Ave Maria must go. Me. The never-married town pharmacist who is never caught without her first-aid kit. Me. So responsible she carries two spare tires in her Jeep instead of one. Me. Who has double insurance on everything because she’s afraid one of the companies will go out of business and leave me penniless after a flood. Me. The girl who built her life so carefully so she’d never have to ask anybody for anything. I have had it with me. Whoever I was! Get mad, Ave Maria! You’re alone in this world. You were abandoned. Let that anger fuel the job you must do. Find him. Find your father!

  I walk out of my store and into the street. I breathe deeply right down to my toes. I walk to the Bookmobile. I have a job for Iva Lou.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It is quiet in my living room except for the sound of Theodore and Iva Lou turning pages as they read. I’ve never had Iva Lou over to my house. I don’t know why. When Mama was alive, I didn’t have friends over much. Mama ran her sewing business out of the house, so people were always stopping by anyhow—maybe it didn’t dawn on us to formally entertain. Fred Mulligan hated having company. Mama had better have seen her last customer before he came home. Even after he died, she kept that schedule. When I came home from work, everything was put away. That must have been so hard for her. She was social. Mama loved people. She never knew a stranger. After she died, so many folks came up to me and thanked me for her kindnesses: girls, now women, who wore prom dresses that Mama had made for free. Brides who needed wedding gowns with extra fabric in front because they were a little pregnant and didn’t want to show for the occasion. She’d never complain; she’d just make the adjustments.

  Fred Mulligan, however, had boundaries in all things. He could never make his customers his friends. I think he felt he couldn’t make a profit from friends, so he simply never made any. Or maybe nobody wanted to be friends with him. Anyway, it feels right and glorious to have Iva Lou and Theodore sitting in my living room, eating chess pie, surrounded by stacks of books, all special orders from Clinch Valley College, a division of the University of Virginia in Wise. Iva Lou was allowed to check out these books because she knows the powers that be at the university library. (They’ve shared Sanka.)

  She shoves a book under my nose and shows me a panoramic photograph. “Look, here’s Bergamo. It’s about the size of Big Stone Gap.”

  I study the panorama of Mama’s hometown. There is a fountain with dancing angels in the middle of the square. Buggies led by donkeys cart people around. There are cobblestone streets. Fig trees. Small stone houses. Children. I picture my mother there as a girl. It seems to fit.

  Theodore and Iva Lou leave around midnight. I clean up the dishes and walk through the first floor, turning out the lights. Then I do something I haven’t done since my mother died. I go into her room.

  My mother’s room is simple. There is a double bed with a white cotton coverlet; over the bed hangs a small wooden crucifix. A straight-backed chair and a bureau stand against the wall opposite the window. Her sewing machine is tucked in a small alcove next to the window. The closet is small, its contents neat. I sit on the edge of her bed and look around the room as though I’ve never been inside of it before. I used to lie in here with her when she was dying. I took my rightful place next to her, as I was all she had. When I was little and I got sick, I would come and get her, but she never took me into her bed with my father. She would always come to my room on the second floor and lie with me there. She used to tell me that she didn’t want to disturb him, but now I know she could not disturb him. He knew I wasn’t his, and though he could have lovingly claimed me, he did not, and she kept me quiet. That was their understanding. And it was an understanding that lasted both of their lifetimes.

  My mother was an avid reader, too. Occasionally, she bought books, but usually she just checked them off the Bookmobile as I did. She loved books about romance. Books that took place in faraway places and times. Stories with costumes. When Mama designed the costumes for the Drama, she studied the period, drew the sketches and everything. She had less theatrical tasks too. Mama has made every cheerleader uniform since anyone can remember. She made elaborate square-dancing skirts. And prom dresses, of course. When a customer wanted fancy, my mother would say in her Italian accent, “Simple is better. Simple. Simple.” Sometimes she succeeded, but often I would hear her clucking as she sewed sequins and lace onto dresses that didn’t need the fanfare. Many times when folks dropped off their clothes for altering or mending she would convince a lady to line a cloth coat in red satin or a skirt in silk. “No one will see it, but you will know it’s there and it will feel wonderful,” she’d say. My mother knew the finer things, but she didn’t have a life that could celebrate them. I pick up a book off the nightstand. Glamorous Gene Tierney is on the cover. It’s a book about costumes from the movies of the Golden Age in Hollywood.

  Mama always took me to the movies over at the Trail Theater, right next to Zackie’s. I didn’t know it at the time, but Jim Roy Honeycutt, who owned the place, showed movies that were ten, fifteen years old. I never bothered to ask my mother why the people on the scr
een were wearing funny hats and hairdos; I just accepted it. It wasn’t until years later that I found out Mr. Honeycutt saved a lot of money renting old prints. That’s how I fell in love with the leading men of the 1930s and ’40s: Clark Gable, William Powell, Spencer Tracy, Robert Taylor, and especially Joel McCrea. Mama loved the actresses, costumed by the great designers Edith Head, Adrian, and Travis Banton. I remember their names because Mama always pointed them out to me on the screen. We would see the same movies over and over again so Mama could study the clothes. Later she would discuss them with me in great detail. The movies were black and white, but Mama could tell when they used real gold thread on Hedy Lamarr’s harem pants or real sable on Rosalind Russell’s coat.

  My mother was a great beauty. She had black hair so shiny it seemed lacquered; she wore it simply, combed back off of her face in a blunt bob. Her skin was golden—she died without a wrinkle or a line on it. She had deep-set brown eyes with lots of lid, like a Modigliani painting. Her neck was long and so were her fingers. She had full lips and beautiful teeth; she always was faithful about going to the dentist and taking me. Her nose was regal, aquiline. Her high forehead belied a nobility; to me she was a queen. But there was a deep sadness in my mother’s eyes always, a longing to be somewhere else. I used to ask her, “Why, Mama, why did you come here?” As though here were worse than a swamp, a place without air. But she loved the mountains. Mountains meant everything to her.

  I begged her to go to Italy with me after my father died. We had the time, we had the means, and most important, we no longer had him. We were free, but we couldn’t adjust to it. After he died, we could play Sergio Franchi as loud as we wanted, but we still kept it muted so we could hear his approaching car in the driveway. He wanted nothing Italian in this house, except food. He ate my mama’s cooking with relish; in fact, that’s when we could count on him to smile. My mother made everything fresh, from her own garden; olive oil she ordered out of New York. My father even drank espresso. Her cooking was his one concession to my mother’s heritage. Though he had studied Italian in college, he refused to speak it. He preferred my mother speak English. She taught me Italian, her regional dialect; we used it as a secret language.