“No, he’s no saint. He’s my husband.” If only I could tell Pete the truth: Jack Mac has not been acting like my husband, and he’s probably been breaking his own rule all summer.
——
I want to savor my last night in Schilpario, so I go to bed early. After rolling around Heidi’s pasture above Schilpario with the Marble Man from New Jersey, I think it’s best if I take some time to be alone. When I told Pete good-bye last night, Etta and Chiara were with me. They seemed more upset than I did. Pete just seemed resigned to the whole thing. I need my solitude and my rest. I am going home to battle. And I have a hunch that I am going to lose.
I turn over onto my side and try not to remember Pete’s kisses. When I lie on my back, I can feel him on top of me. It’s as though he is right here in this bed. Yes, his kisses were real. And real kisses are dangerous. I could go find him and ask for more. Thank God he lives far away!
Maybe I like the idea of that; maybe I like the idea that Pete will be in New Jersey pining for me. I could have made love to him and evened the score with Jack MacChesney. But my conscience is mine. I can’t control what anyone else does, including my husband. I know only my own heart. I couldn’t live with myself if I made love to another man outside my marriage. I’m going to glue this wedding band on my finger from now on. I’m sure there will be days when the idea of Pete and marble fireplaces and the woods of southern New Jersey will call to me like a corner of heaven right here on earth. I just won’t choose that little piece of heaven. I have my safe place, my home in Cracker’s Neck Holler. But it may not be mine anymore. Karen Bell might have taken it from me. I know one thing for sure: I have never been this confused in my life. This mess I am in has made me yearn for my days as an old maid; how simple it all was. This femme-fatale business is a lot of work.
Etta is exhausted on the flight home. She sleeps so peacefully; while she didn’t sleep a wink on the way over, now she’s just another blasé American who uses time on airplanes to catch up on sleep. My daughter became more beautiful this summer. More self-assured. And her personality and humor came through. How lucky I am to have this great kid. She has written “Stefano” seventy-two times on the back of her notebook. Even Etta developed new romantic muscles in Italy.
I don’t think she senses how much I dread going home. Most of the time I think I’m doing a good job of shielding her from my angst. Maybe I’m fooling myself; maybe she’s like the coral sponge she brought from the beach of Sestri Levante. Maybe she soaks up everything and it becomes a part of her eternal self. Maybe she’ll realize this later and resent me for it. I hope not.
The airport at Tri-Cities is empty. Etta and I deboard the little prop plane and go inside for our bags. I look up to the viewing window on the second floor of the airport and expect to see Jack there, behind the glass like a mannequin in the Big & Tall Men’s Shop. But there is no one there. Etta and I walk into the luggage area.
“Daddy!” Etta screams and rushes toward her father.
He scoops her up in his arms and kisses her. She hugs him and kisses him. Jack looks good; too good, with a tan and a perfect patch of pink sunburn on the bridge of his nose. He looks slim too. His jeans hug his thighs. Must be from the construction work. I don’t want to think about what else he might have been doing, or with whom. I’m all Mommy right now, watching the two of them fussing over each other. I will forever be a sucker for fathers and daughters. Jack looks up at me and grins.
“Isn’t Mama pretty?” Etta says loudly.
“Yes, she is,” Jack says, and kisses me on the lips lightly.
I want to say, “Pretty enough to keep you faithful?” but instead I say, “Thank you.”
“Etta, honey, guess who’s in the truck?”
“Who, Daddy?”
“Why don’t you take a look?”
Etta opens the door of the cab, and Shoo the Cat tiptoes across the front seat with his tail in a stiff loop like a Christmas ornament hanger. He jumps into her arms.
“God a-mighty, did your luggage give birth over there?” Jack laughs as he hoists our bags into the back.
“What can I tell you, I learned how to haggle,” I tell him, doing my best impression of Gala Nuccio.
Etta talks nonstop on the trip home to Big Stone Gap, and I’m glad. I don’t want to start a conversation with my husband, because I know it will get serious fast. It’s best for all of us if I keep it light. As we roll into the Gap, from the top of the hill on the descent into town, I see the stage lights from the Outdoor Drama. Rose and white beams shoot out into the blue twilight. I have always loved this time of day best. It wasn’t so many years ago that I spent every night at the theater. We drive past, and I don’t mention it. As we make the curve off of Shawnee Avenue, on our way out of town through the southern section and then on to Cracker’s Neck, Etta looks up at her father.
“Daddy, can we stop in Glencoe? I brought Joe something.”
Jack makes the right onto Beamontown Road. When we get to the entry arch, the curlicue gates are locked with a chain. Jack starts to turn around and head for home.
“Park. We’ll jump the fence,” I say. Jack gives me a look. “We do it all the time.” I get out of the truck and go around the arch and over the low fence into the cemetery. Etta hands Shoo to me, then I help Etta scale the fence. Jack follows her. Night is falling and settling on the stones in a haze. I climb the hill to the Mulligan plot. I don’t even feel it in my legs; all those Alpine hikes made me strong. When I climb the last little bit to the plot, I am glad that there is still enough light to see Joe’s headstone. I run my fingers in the gold grooves of his name and through the words “Beloved son and brother.” Black marble. White streaks.
“How do you like the impatiens?” Jack says from behind me. Etta puts Shoo down on the ground, and he trots right over to the headstone and sniffs around it. The red and white impatiens form a beautiful bright border.
“It’s lovely.”
“Mommy, it’s like the marble on Assunta Mountain.”
“You know what I wish?” I tell Etta. “I wish it was the blue kind with the black glitter in it.”
“What are you talking about?” Jack says gently.
“We visited a marble quarry in Italy.”
“Mama, take that rock off the stone,” Etta says.
“No, leave it,” Jack says.
“Why?”
“Lew Eisenberg left it there. Says it’s something they do in the Jewish faith.”
So we leave the rock. I dig deep into my pocket and place the lapis marble square Pete gave me next to Lew’s rock. “Honey, get Shoo,” I tell Etta. She picks him up. It’s too dark in the cemetery to read the stones. It’s time to go home.
I take a long bath and realize how much I missed my big four-legged white enamel tub and the way our water gushes out of the pipes. In Italy, you always feel like you’re trying to save water. Water barely streams out of their faucets. It’s the only negative thing I can say about the entire country. In fact, if they had better plumbing, it would be a perfect place.
I climb out of the tub without even holding on to the sides. I’m in such good shape, I just lift myself out of the water like Venus. I grip the stopper with my toe and yank it out. I guess my feet got stronger too. I dry off and slip into a new nightgown, white cotton with spaghetti straps and small red-ribbon rosettes on the neckline, a good-bye gift from Giacomina. She’s more a sister to me than a future stepmother.
Jack is in bed when I get there. He’s awake. I slide into my side of the bed and under the covers.
“You look good,” Jack says to me. But it isn’t a come-on. It sounds like a compliment you pay to a really nice dish of chipped beef.
“Thanks. I hiked a lot. I think I’m going to start running. It’s nice to be in shape.”
“Great.”
“Jack?”
“Yeah?” He answered me really fast, so maybe that means he has something to tell me.
“How was your summer?”
/>
“It was pretty good.”
“Did you miss me?”
“It ain’t the same around here without you and Etta.”
“No, I know you missed Etta. But me. Did you miss me?”
Jack looks up at the ceiling. His hands are clasped behind his head. “ ’Course I missed you,” he says to the ceiling.
“Just checking,” I tell him as I turn over. He turns over to spoon against me, but he doesn’t reach around and pull me close. He puts his hand on the side of my thigh instead.
“You really did build some muscles in the Alps,” he says.
And that’s the last thing I remember before I wake the next morning.
Iva Lou meets me at the Mutual’s for breakfast. I have her new purse, and she has a boatload of gossip. The Tayloe Lassiter story is true; she’s been sporting one-carat diamond studs in her ears. Doc Daugherty has put Zackie on antianxiety pills to help him cope with his burglar paranoia. Pearl and Dr. Taye Bakagese are getting very serious.
“Now. Let’s get down to It,” Iva Lou says, buttering her toast.
“Are you sure about Jack Mac and Karen Bell?”
“Well, I haven’t caught him in the act. But I’m pretty certain. Let me tell you what I know. And don’t think it hasn’t been an effort for me. James Varner got over his cold and is itching to get back on the Bookmobile, but I won’t let him, ’cause if I let him, I lose that run up to Coeburn, and then my source dries up on me.”
“Who’s the source?”
“Karen Bell’s best friend. Benita Hensley. The librarian up in Wise.”
“Great.”
“How’s Jack Mac treatin’ you?”
“Like a sister.”
“Not good.”
“Maybe it’s over, Iva Lou.”
“Don’t say that! Don’t ever say that! Y’all are true lovers! Look how long you waited to get together. Come on.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“You waited so long, to lose it all like this? Over what? Sex? What’s the matter with you? Don’t you care?”
“Iva Lou. Something happened to me.”
“A horrible thing. I know, honey. You’ve been betrayed. I feel turrible about it.” Iva Lou glops orange marmalade onto her toast.
“I mean something else.”
“What?” Iva Lou looks up. From my tone, she guesses it must be a man. “Have you fallen in love with someone new, is that what you’re sayin’?”
“No. I’m not in love. But he might be in love with me.”
“Who is he?”
I tell Iva Lou all about Pete Rutledge, all the stories, all the way through the kisses in the field of bluebells.
“Well, look. On one level it’s so goddamn romantic I can hardly take any more details. But you say you’re not in love with him. So why would you leave what you got?”
“I wouldn’t. I don’t know how to explain this, Iva Lou. I really don’t. But the love I have for Etta and for Joe sort of replaced the romantic love I had with Jack. And the love I have for my kids is more important to me than the love I have for Jack or the lust I had for Pete. Or any man who might come along. I’m not proud to admit it. I know I’m supposed to put my husband first, and then from there, from what’s supposedly the center of everything, comes your love for the kids. But I realized when Joe got sick that things had changed between Jack and me as soon as Etta was born. She replaced him as the love of my life. And then when Joe came, I was thrilled that I could give Etta a brother and Jack a son, but I also knew that there was no question: Jack was number three. For sure. Behind Etta and Joe, my new true loves.”
“Oh, you’re all confused.” Iva Lou rifles through her purse and finds her cigarettes. “You know, I quit.” She grips a cigarette between her lips and urges me to continue as she flicks the lighter.
“I don’t mean to make this sound complicated.”
“Honey-o, that ain’t right. It’s two different kinds of love. One is not more important than the other. They’re different. Love for your husband is about you. Love for your kids is about them.”
“I know. It goes against everything I believe. But don’t you think Jack knows that he’s number three? He’s not stupid.”
“No, he’s not. That’s the first true thing you’ve said all the mornin’.”
“I’m not even mad at him. What’s the matter with me?”
“That’s just a defense. You’re giving up because you’re afraid you’ll lose him altogether.”
“We don’t have anything to talk about anymore.”
“Do you talk about Joe?”
“No.”
“There’s your problem. It’s all you two are thinking about, and no one’s saying anything about it. You’re blaming him. He didn’t give Joe the cancer.”
“No, but he didn’t save him either, did he?” I can’t believe I said it. I’ve only ever thought it, I’ve never admitted it out loud.
“Ave, you listen to me. Jack couldn’t save Joe. No one could.”
“But—”
“But nothin’. You stop this. You’re killin’ your marriage with blame. And you’re holding on to bad feelings that have no place in the present.”
“I know.” Iva Lou is right.
“What’s your plan?” She looks at me. “ ’Cause, honey, I guaran-damn-tee you that Karen Bell has got a plan. What’s your plan?”
CHAPTER TEN
Fleeta, who swore she’d have nothing to do with the Soda Fountain, now stays late and bakes the desserts. And they’re not simple ones, either. Pearl bought those aluminum cake stands with the glass domes to show off Fleeta’s red velvet cake, her pecan and cinnamon pound cake drizzled with glaze and topped with crunchy sugar-dipped walnuts, and her mile-high chocolate cake with white butter-cream frosting. (“The secret to that one is the cup of strong coffee instead of cold water in the batter,” Fleeta told me.) There is a SPECIALS! sign behind the counter and a chalkboard with folks’ birthdays listed (you’re entitled to a free sundae on your big day). This is unbelievable. In a few months, Pearl has hit a home run. Look out, Norton.
“I’m tellin’ ye. It’s a lot of work, but I love it,” Fleeta says as she goes behind the counter.
“I thought you didn’t want a soda fountain in the Pharmacy.”
“I didn’t. Till it was here. Then once it was here, I got to like doin’ the bakin’. And makin’ the lunches. I just added soup beans and cornbread to the menu. See?”
“Fleets, you have found your passion.”
“Maybe.” Fleeta blushes; she doesn’t think of herself as passionate.
Ed Carleton has done a good job subbing for me in the pill department. He’s caught up; the new orders are only as of this morning. I feel good as I slip into my smock and take my place on my bar stool behind my counter. I missed my job. I sort through the new orders. There is one for Alice Lambert for a very potent drug usually prescribed for cancer patients to counter the nausea that comes from chemo and radiation.
“Fleets? What’s happening with Alice Lambert?”
“I told Eddie to refer her orders over to the Rite Aid in Appalachia.”
“No, it’s okay.”
“She has cancer. I guess her meanness done turned on her.”
Fleeta walks away. Now, there’s loyalty for you. Fleeta cannot forgive Alice for the way she behaved after my mother died. As I count out twenty-four tiny pink pills and load them onto the knife to place them in the bottle, I wonder why I feel sad. Is it because Alice Lambert is the last person left from my old life? When she’s gone, will it all be ancient history?
Etta is in town, spending the night with her girlfriends. I’m sure she will tell them all about her crush on Stefano and about Pete Rutledge and peach lip gloss. She hung a picture of Tom Cruise over her bed; Pete must have triggered her new taste for brunette men with flashy smiles.
Jack is working late. Or so he says. I go to bed at my usual time; often, when I wake up, he’s already up and dress
ed and making coffee. I try to stay awake to see if he even comes to bed at all; I know at least one night he fell asleep in the living room in the easy chair with the television on. I keep waiting for the right time to have our talk, but there doesn’t seem to be a right time. Maybe he is avoiding me. I’m not sure.
I have a chance to go through the house for the first time since our return last week. I have a stack of pictures from vacation to put away. I’ve bored everyone I know from St. Paul to Pennington Gap with the pictures of the summer snowcaps in the Alps—enough is enough. I sent some off to Papa, and I’ll put the rest in the box where they stay until I fill albums with them. I pull the box out of the hall closet. I hear a mew. Shoo the Cat peers out at me, annoyed that I’ve found his hiding place. I give him a quick kiss on the head.
I sort through the box. I really need to get some photo albums. The box is practically full. I study the faces in the pictures. We look so happy; we are a family. The pictures from last Christmas are as clear and bright as the ones from years before. We were back on track. Ready to celebrate again. Weren’t we happy last Christmas? And yet I sensed something. I was scared, even then, that Jack Mac was slipping away from me. I wasn’t just being paranoid. I know that all men look at women. But I couldn’t get that stupid Halloween Carnival out of my head. I remember it in such vivid detail, right down to the way the popcorn balls smelled so sickeningly sweet as I watched my husband chitchat with Karen Bell. What is that little voice in our head that tells us to Watch Out? How do we know when to heed the warning signs instead of chalking them up to PMS, or getting older, or just having a bad day?
I put the pictures in the box. Jack’s canvas work vests are hanging in the closet. He didn’t wash them while I was gone (obviously); he just wore them and hung them up again. I pull them off the hangers and head for the sun porch to wash them.
I pull keys and nails and bolts and scraps of paper out of the pockets. I make a neat stack of all the junk on the dryer. As I toss the vests into the machine, I hear something crackle. So I pull the vest out of the machine and go through the pockets one more time.
There’s a square of loose-leaf paper folded many times. It reminds me of a note passed in high school study hall. The edges of the paper are ripped fringe. I unfold the paper and read: