More praise for Big Cherry Holler
“As skillfully as Ms. Trigiani makes us laugh, she makes us cry…. This novel shares the strengths of Big Stone Gap. Its dialogue is perfectly tuned to the speech of Southwest Virginia. Its settings—a mountain town in Virginia and a mountain town in Italy—are portrayed accurately, with beautiful detail. Its pace never lags for a moment. Big Cherry Holler builds on these strengths and moves to a more involving emotional level…. Satisfying reading.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“Trigiani can make you laugh in one sentence then break your heart the next. Her Big Stone Gap series is sure to become the next Mitford.”
—The Clarion-Ledger (Jackson, MS)
“A big-hearted novel that alternates dollops of comfort with moments of folksy charm and stark poignancy … Ave is a spunky and likable narrator; the novel is populated with many of the same characters readers found endearing the first time around; and the story of a mother grappling with grief over the loss of a child is genuinely moving.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Recommended … This novel of love and forgiveness delivers its story in a believable manner. Ave Maria remains someone readers would like to know, and Iva Lou, her librarian friend, still has her finger on the pulse of Mars/Venus relationships in this neck of the woods.”
—Library Journal
“Trigiani provides plenty of colorful scenery, whether she’s traversing the Appalachians or the Alps. Her narrative canters along at a lively pace, and her supporting characters, especially Iva Lou and Fleeta, supply comic relief.”
—The State (Columbia, SC)
“Big Cherry Holler is every bit as engaging as its predecessor is and bittersweet. Trigiani fans will want more pages to turn.”
—Style Weekly (Richmond, VA)
ALSO BY ADRIANA TRIGIANI
Lucia, Lucia
Milk Glass Moon
Big Stone Gap
For my mother,
Ida Bonicelli Trigiani
CHAPTER ONE
The rain is coming down on this old stone house so hard, it seems there are a hundred tap dancers on the roof. When Etta left for school this morning, it was drizzling, and now, at two o’clock, it’s a storm. I can barely see Powell Mountain out my kitchen window; just yesterday it was a shimmering gold pyramid of autumn leaves at their peak. I hope the downpour won’t beat the color off the trees too soon. We have all winter for Cracker’s Neck Holler to wear gray. How I love these mountains in October: the leaves are turning—layers of burgundy and yellow crinolines that change color in the light—the apples are in, the air smells like sweet smoke, and I get to build big fires in Mrs. Mac’s deep hearths. As I kneel and slip a log into the stove, I think of my mother-in-law, who had fires going after the first chill in the air. “I love me a farr,” she’d say.
There’s a note on the blackboard over the sink in Jack Mac’s handwriting: Red pepper sandwiches? The message is at least three months old; no one should have to wait that long for their favorite sandwich, least of all my husband. Why does it take me so long to fulfill a simple request? There was a time when he came first, when I would drop everything and invent ways to make my husband happy. I wonder if he notices that life has put him in second place. If he doesn’t, my magazine subscriptions sure do. Redbook came with a cover exploding in hot pink letters: PUT THE SIZZLE BACK IN YOUR MARRIAGE! WE SHOW YOU HOW! Step #4 is Make His Favorite Food. (Don’t ask about the other nine steps.) So, with equal measures of guilt and determination to do better, I’m roasting peppers in the oven, turning them while they char as dark as the sky.
I baked the bread for the sandwiches this morning. I pull the cookie sheet off the deep windowsill, brush the squares of puffy dough with olive oil, and put them aside. Then I take the tray out of the oven and commence peeling the peppers. (This is a sit-down job.) My mother used to lift off the charred part in one piece; I’ve yet to master her technique. The vivid red pepper underneath is smooth as the velvet lining of an old jewelry box. I lay the thin red strips on the soft bread. The mix of olive oil and sweet hot bread smells fresh and buttery. I sprinkle coarse salt on the open sandwiches; the faceted crystals glisten on the red peppers. I’m glad I made a huge batch. There will be lots of us in the van tonight.
There’s big news around here. Etta is going to be on television. She and two of her classmates are going on Kiddie Kollege, the WCYB quiz show for third-graders. Etta, who loves to read, has been chosen for her general knowledge. Her fellow teammates are Jane Herd and Billy Skeens. Jane, a math whiz who has the round cheeks of a monarch, has been selected for her keen ability to divide in her head. Billy, a small but mighty Melungeon boy, was chosen for his bravery. He recently helped evacuate the Big Stone Gap Elementary School cafeteria when one of the steam tables caught fire. No one could come up with a prize big enough to honor him (an assembly and a medal seemed silly), so the school decided to put him on the show. I guess the teachers feel that fame is its own reward.
Jack Mac borrowed the van from Sacred Heart Church because we’re transporting the team and I’ve promised rides to our friends. The television studio is about an hour and a half from the Gap, right past Kingsport over in Bristol, Tennessee. The show is live at six P.M. sharp, so we’ll leave right after school. Etta planned her outfit carefully: a navy blue skirt and pink sweater (her grandfather Mario sent it to her from Italy, so Etta thinks it’s the best sweater she owns, if not the luckiest). She is wearing her black patent-leather Mary Janes, though I pointed out that you rarely see anyone’s shoes on TV.
I make one final pass through the downstairs, locking up as I go. With its simple, square rooms and lots of floor space, this old house is perfect for raising kids. Of course, when Mrs. Mac was alive, I never dreamed I’d live here. For a few years, this was just another delivery stop for me in the Medicine Dropper. I remember how I loved to drive up the bumpy dirt road and see this stone house sitting in a clearing against the mountain like a painting. If I had known that Mrs. Mac would one day be my mother-in-law, I might have tried to impress her. But I didn’t. I’d drop off her pills, have a cup of coffee, and go. I never thought I would fall in love with her only son. And I never thought I would be looking at my face in these mottled antique mirrors, or building fires for heat, or raising her granddaughter in these rooms. If you had told me that I would make my home in this holler on this mountain, I would have laughed. I grew up down in town; no one ever moves out of Big Stone Gap and up into the hills. How strange life is.
I check myself in the mirror. Etta is forever begging me to wear more makeup. She wants me to be a young mom, like her friends have; in these parts, the women my age are grandmothers! So I stop in the hallway for a moment and dig for the lipstick in the bottom of my purse. My youthful appeal will have to come from a tube. You would think that someone who has worked in a pharmacy all her life would have one of those snazzy makeup bags. We have a whole spin rack of them at the Mutual’s. Maybe Etta’s right, I should pay more attention to the way I look. (Covering up my undereye circles is just not a priority.) Folks tell me that I haven’t changed since I was a girl. Is that a good thing? I lean into the tea-stained glass and take a closer look. Eight years with Jack MacChesney have come and gone. It seems once I fell in love with him, time began flying.
Someone is banging on the front door. The thunder is so loud, I didn’t hear a car come up the road. With one hand, Doris Bentrup from the flower shop juggles an umbrella in the wind and with the other, a stack of white boxes festooned with lavender ribbons. Two pairs of reading glasses dangle from her neck. Beads of rain cover the clear plastic cap she wears on her head.
“Come on in!”
“Can’t. Got a wagon full of flowers. Got a
funeral over in Pound. I’m gonna kill myself if this rain done ruined my hair.”
“It looks good.” I’m about a foot taller than Doris, so I look down on her tiny curls, each one a perfect rosette of blue icing under a saran-wrap tent.
“It’d better. I suffered for this look. I sat under that dryer over to Ethel’s for two hours on Saturdee ’cause of the humidity. She sprayed my head so bad these curls is like tee-niney rocks. Feel.”
“They’re perfect,” I tell Doris without touching her head.
“Etta all ready for the big show?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“We hope they win this year, on account of no one from Big Stone ever wins.”
“Didn’t the Dogwood Garden Club win on Club Quiz?”
“Yes’m. But that was a good ten year’ ago. And they was grown-ups, so I don’t think you can count ’at. Wait till you see who these is from. I nearly done dropped my teeth, and you know that ain’t easy, ’cause I glue ’em in good.”
I pull the tiny white card bordered in crisp pink daisies out of the envelope. It reads: Knock ’em dead, Etta. And remember, the cardinal is the state bird of Virginia. Love, Uncle Theodore.
“That there Tipton is a class act. He ain’t never gonna be replaced in these parts,” Doris announces as she tips her head back to let the rain drain off her cap. “Sometimes we git a ferriner in here that makes us set up and take notice. How’s he doin’ at U.T.?”
“He says he’s got the best marching band in the nation.”
“Now if they’d only start winning them some ball games.”
As Doris makes a break for her station wagon, I open a box. There, crisp and perfect, is a wrist corsage of white carnations. Nestled in the cold petals are three small gold-foil letters: WIN. I inhale the fresh, cold flowers. The letters tickle my nose and remind me of the homecoming mums that Theodore bought me every year during football season. For nearly ten years, Theodore was band director and Junior Class Sponsor at Powell Valley High School. He chaperoned every dance, and I was always his date. (Parents appreciated that an experienced member of the Rescue Squad chaperoned school dances.) Theodore always made a big deal of slipping the corsage onto my wrist before the game. Win or lose, the dance was a celebration because Theodore’s halftime shows were always spectacular. Besides his unforgettable salute to Elizabeth Taylor prior to her choking on the chicken bone, my favorite was his salute to the Great American Musical, honoring the creations of Rodgers and Hammerstein. Each of the majorettes was dressed as a different lead character, including Maria from The Sound of Music and Julie Jordan from Carousel. Romalinda Miranda, daughter of the Filipino Doctor Who Was on the Team That Saved Liz Taylor, was the ingenue from Flower Drum Song. Theodore pulled her from the Flag Girls; there was a bit of a drama around that, as folks didn’t think that a majorette should be drafted out of thin air for one show just because she looked like she was from the original cast. Once the controversy died down, the Miranda family basked in the glory of the celebration of their Asian heritage. (Extra points for my fellow ferriners.)
I gently place the boxes on top of my tote bag full of things we might need for the television appearance. Extra kneesocks. Chap Stick. Comb. Ribbons. My life is all about collecting things for my family and then putting them back. Lists. Hauling. And I’d better never forget anything. Even Jack relies on me for tissues when he sneezes and quarters for the paper. Sometimes I wonder if all these small details add up to anything.
Big Stone Gap Elementary is a regal collection of four beautifully appointed beige sandstone buildings, built in 1908. In mining towns, the first place the boom money goes is to the schools; Big Stone Gap was no different. There is at least an extra acre of field for the kids to play in, a glorious old auditorium (with footlights), and a newly refurbished cafeteria (since Billy the Hero). I wait at the entry fence as my own mother did for so many years.
As the bell sounds and the green double doors swing open, the kids pour out onto the wet playground like beads from a sack. Etta stands at the top of the stairs, surveying the fence line. When she sees me, she hops down the steps two at a time and runs toward me. She has a hard time holding on to her red plaid umbrella in the fierce wind. Her rain slicker flaps about. I give her a quick kiss as she jumps into the Jeep.
“Did you remember my socks?”
“Are you nervous?”
Etta peels off her mud-splattered white kneesocks and pulls on the fresh ones. “Very.”
“Uncle Theodore sent you a present.”
Etta rips into the box. Her light brown hair hangs limp and straight. (I’m glad Fleeta can put it up in a braid tonight.) Her little hands are just like mine, made for work. Her face is her father’s, the straight nose, the lips that match top and bottom, and the hazel eyes, bright and round. Etta has freckles—we don’t know where those came from. Jack told Etta a bedtime story about freckles when she was very little, which she believed for the longest time: God has a bucketful of freckles, and when he’s done making babies in heaven, he lines them up right before they’re born and sprinkles freckles on them for good luck. The more freckles, the better your luck. Let’s hope the freckles do their job tonight. Etta holds up the corsage. “I shouldn’t wear it if Jane doesn’t have one.”
“Not to worry. He sent one for Jane and a boutonniere for Billy.”
“Just like a wedding,” Etta says. “But I ain’t never gonna marry Billy Skeens. No way. He’s too short.”
“He’s probably gonna grow,” I tell my daughter, sounding like someone else’s annoying mother. “And we don’t say ‘ain’t never.’ Do we?”
A horn blasts next to us. “Daddy!” Etta shouts, off the hook for her bad grammar. The van from Sacred Heart Church careens into a parking spot. My husband smiles and waves to us. Etta climbs out of the Jeep and runs to the van, where Jack has thrown open the door. She shows him her corsage, which he admires. I watch the two of them through the window as they laugh. They look like an old photograph, black and white and silver where the emulsion has turned.
Jack must feel me staring through the rain and motions for me to join them. He shoves the van door open, and I jump in and climb into the seat behind him.
“How was your day?” I ask.
“Fine.”
“Daddy, kiss Mama.” Jack kisses me on the cheek. “Why do they misspell ‘college’ in Kiddie Kollege?”
“I don’t know.” Jack defers to me.
“Maybe because it matches the ‘K’ in ‘Kiddie,’ ” I tell her.
“That’s a dumb reason. If you’re smart enough to go on a show called Kiddie Kollege, you’re smart enough to know that college starts with a ‘C.’ ”
Jack looks at me in the rearview mirror. The corners of his hazel eyes crinkle up as he smiles. He finds Etta’s know-it-all tone funny; I think her loud opinions are just nerves before competition. Or maybe it’s confidence. I’m not sure.
My family cheers when I announce I’ve brought along red pepper sandwiches. As I cross to the Jeep to get the cooler, Jack gets out to help me. He looks beautiful to me, fresh-scrubbed from the mine. He’s gotten better-looking as he’s aged. (Men are so lucky that way, and in others —don’t get me started.) His hair, which receded in his late thirties and looked like it might fall out, stayed in. It’s all gray now, but with his hazel eyes, it looks elegant. He lost some weight, determined not to be Fat and Forty. I smooth down my hair, which has frizzed in the rain.
“I’ve got it,” Jack says as he lifts the cooler over my head.
“What’s wrong?” I ask him.
“Nothing.”
“Something is wrong. I can tell.”
“Ave. Nothing’s wrong.”
“Are you sure?”
“I can’t talk about it right now. I’ll tell you later.”
“Tell me now.”
“No. Later.” Jack looks at me and then through the window at Etta. She looks out at us. “I don’t want to get Etta all riled up.”
“Okay,” I say impatiently. “But you can tell me.” Why won’t he tell me what’s wrong? What is he protecting me from?
“The mines closed.”
“No!”
“Yeah,” he says under his breath angrily.
“I’m sorry.” That’s all I can say? I don’t throw my arms around him? I don’t comfort him? I just stand here in the rain.
“I am too.” Jack turns toward the van.
“Let’s not ruin Etta’s night,” I say to his back. Jack turns around and looks at me as though I’m a stranger; it sends a chill through me. He straightens his shoulders and says, “Let’s not.”
The day we have dreaded has come. My husband is out of work. But it’s worse than that; Jack’s identity and heritage is tied to the coal in these hills in a deeply personal way. The MacChesneys have been coal miners for as far back as anyone can remember. My husband is a proud miner: a union man who worked his way up from a pumper to chief roof bolter. Some say it’s the most dangerous job in the mine. Now what will he do? What kind of work can my husband find at his age? He has no degree. How are we going to make it? I only work three days a week at the Pharmacy. We count on his benefits. Sure, we own the house, but it doesn’t run on air. I wish we didn’t have this show tonight, or all these people coming. Why do I always have to make an event out of everything? I had to arrange the van, fill it with friends, make sandwiches. I couldn’t let it be just the three of us.
Iva Lou Wade Makin pulls up and parks across the street. Her glorious blond bouffant is protected by a white polka-dot rain cap with a peak so pointy, it makes her seem medieval. Actually, Iva Lou looks more like the state bird as she puddle-hops across Shawnee Avenue. Her lips, her shoes, and her raincoat are ruby red. She hoists herself into the van (hips first) with a Jean Harlow grin. Her gold bangle bracelets jingle as she lifts the rain cap off her head.