Big Cherry Holler

  It sure would be nice to have a little cushion now. I don’t like myself for feeling this way. A little cushion is just a veil for what you really need. Don’t we all need extra money? Is there ever a time we don’t? The nest egg that I came into my marriage with has dwindled over the years. We needed extra cash to maintain the property. Things happened: the big pine tree that hit the back of the house two winters ago; a new truck for Jack when his old one broke down; Joe’s medical expenses.

  I began working at the Pharmacy again once Joe was in preschool. When I came back to work, I realized how much I had missed my work life. Maybe I initially became a pharmacist out of duty, but when I returned, it was by choice. I found out that I love what I do, the precision of it, learning about new medications, and helping folks look after their health. When I quit, I missed the delivery run and talking to folks in their own homes. I missed the way their houses smelled so distinctly from one another: the Tuckett sisters’ of cinnamon, the Bledsoes’ of lilies, and the Sturgills’ of fresh vanilla. The job was something that was all mine, and I liked that. I missed being needed for my skills and my knowledge of medications. My job fills me up in ways I never knew until I left it behind.

  The fifteen-minute commute seems more like ten seconds. As I come into the clearing, I figure I’ve taken a wrong turn or I’m at the wrong house. My home is lit up like a casino. Cars and pickup trucks are parked all around it. I don’t remember planning a party.

  As I climb the front steps, I look in the window like a visitor. I see my husband in the front room, surrounded by men. They drink beer and laugh and talk. I must stand there a long time, because the milk in the paper sack starts to feel wet on the bottom.

  The laughter dies down a bit when the men see me in the entryway.

  “I thought poker night was Tuesday,” I say with a big smile.

  “We ain’t gamblin’, Ave,” Rick Harmon says with a wink. He has his feet on my mama’s old coffee table. I push them off; the men laugh. Jack Mac takes the milk from me and leads me into the kitchen. Shoo the Cat makes a break for the kitchen and follows.

  “Where’s Etta?”

  “Watchin’ TV.” Jack puts the milk in the fridge and turns to me and smiles. His face is full of news to share, his eyes full of hope again. I haven’t seen him smile in days. Instead of being happy about this, I am curt.

  “Did she eat?”

  “I heated up the spaghetti.”

  “Did you make broccoli?”

  “No.”

  “So she didn’t have anything green?”

  “She had that green banana for dessert.”

  “Not funny. I’m tired. I’ve been working all day, and I’m really really tired.”

  “I get it. You’re tired.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m in the middle of a meeting.”

  “You’re in the middle of a party.” Why am I doing this? I want him to have a good time with his friends, don’t I? Jack stares at me with disbelief.

  “We got sidetracked.”

  “Sorry I interrupted the fun.”

  Jack looks back at me as he goes. I don’t look up at him. I sit down at the kitchen table and cry. I just have a nice little self-indulgent cry. I want to feel good and sorry for myself. I came home to a mess, a child fed supper with no greens, and noise and beer and company I didn’t want to see.

  I check on Etta, who does not look up from a cartoon show. I kiss her and walk back through the old kitchen onto the back porch, through the creaky screen door, and out into the black field behind our house. It’s cold, but I don’t turn back for my coat.

  The moon hangs between the mountains like a searchlight, making a path through flimsy clouds. I breathe deeply. The cool night smoke fills me with calm. The mountains, knit together seamlessly, form a black velvet fortress around me. The dark sky lightens to a shimmer of silver on the mountaintop, like a window shade that cannot reach the sash to keep out the light. The details are clean—bare branches with fluttery edges like curls, and strong black veins in the trunks and branches of the mighty pine trees. I am so small here.

  There’s a stump from an old weeping cherry tree in the back field that overlooks the side of Powell Mountain. When I sit on it, I’m nearly on the edge of our cliff, which gives way to a ravine and then the valley below. It’s a wild, dark tangle of shrubs and branches and overgrown footpaths. When I first lived here, it scared me to come out back alone. But as time passed, I became less afraid and began to explore the MacChesney woods. I’m not afraid of falling off mountains anymore (at least when I’m on foot). And something about these old hills reassures me.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting; it must be a while, because my hands are freezing. I hear the hum of motors starting in the field out in front. Jack’s meeting must be over. I don’t know why, but the sound fills me with dread. I feel a big argument coming on with my husband, and I don’t have the energy to fight. I go inside and up to Etta’s room. She finishes the second chapter of Heidi, reaches up to turn out her light, and dutifully lays her head on her pillow. There is a catch to her breathing—her nose is stuffed up, probably from the first cold spell of the season. I have to remember to give her something for that tomorrow. I give her a kiss and tuck her in.

  Instead of going to the living room to collect beer bottles (great), I go to the sun porch and fold a load of laundry. When I’m done, I straighten up the rest of the kitchen and look in the refrigerator, making a mental note that we’re low on lettuce. Enough procrastinating. The men left over half an hour ago, and the house is quiet. Time to go to bed. The light on the nightstand sends a warm glow up the walls of our room across from the kitchen. On the surface, everything seems safe, normal. I walk around the bed and see that the bathroom door is open, but I don’t see Jack.

  Shoo the Cat is asleep on the bench in the hallway in an empty box Etta uses for Barbie school. I look out the window. Jack’s truck is there. Good. He didn’t go out with the boys. I go to lock the front door, and through the small pane, I see him sitting on the porch steps, leaning back on his elbows. His legs drape down the stairs and are crossed at the ankle.

  “I’m locking up.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “It’s chilly out there.”

  “I like it.”

  I almost turn to go to bed, but something tells me to go to Jack. So I go out onto the porch and sit down next to him. He doesn’t make any room for me on the stairs.

  “I’m sorry about before. I’m just tired,” I tell him.

  “That’s no excuse.”

  “Yes, it is. When people are tired, they get a little testy.”

  “You’re more than testy.”

  “Not really.”

  “I’m not going to fight with you,” Jack says plainly.

  “I don’t want to fight either.” And I mean it. I hate fighting. “Jack. Please. What’s wrong?” My husband does not answer, but this is typical. I have to pull everything out of him, especially his feelings. “Just say it. Come on.”

  “Why haven’t you talked to me about the mines closing?” Jack says quietly.

  “We talked about it. Honey. We knew this was coming.”

  “Yeah. We did, didn’t we.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You act like it’s my fault. Like I wanted, after twenty-two years, to be out of a job, out of the only trade I’ve ever known.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Damn right it isn’t.”

  “What good is that going to do? To be angry? It won’t make Westmoreland reconsider. We have to face this.”

  “We? You’re the one who hasn’t faced this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You think that the solution to this problem is to take care of it yourself.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Everything. You don’t believe in me. I need your support.”

  Oh my God, he thinks that I don?
??t support him? That I didn’t admire him every day for taking such risks in a dangerous job? That I don’t respect his physical strength and leadership skills? Of course I support him.

  “Don’t you trust me?” Jack looks at me. He’s thrown a lot of questions around, but I can see that he’d like an answer to this one.

  “Of course I trust you.” I blurt this out instead of saying it like I mean it. Do I mean it? Do I trust him?

  “Do you think I’m going to get another job?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “I’m worried about my life too. But I’m not going to sit around waiting for something to happen. I’m out there making it happen.”

  “I never said you wouldn’t.”

  “You said you’d work extra hours. As if this were about money. Do you know how that made me feel?”

  “It should make you feel like you’ve got a wife you can count on.”

  “I know that. That’s not what I’m talking about. Ave, I have my pride. Okay? I thought we were partners. I thought that you understood me, that you knew that whatever comes, I would find a way for us to get through it. Instead, you make me feel like I’m expendable. You don’t need me around here if you’re gonna do everything yourself. Why are we married if you’re gonna handle everything alone?”

  “I don’t want to handle everything alone!” I feel my marriage sliding off this mountain like a loose rock, with me flailing after, trying to catch it and make it secure.

  “You aren’t the man in the family.” Jack Mac gets up to go back into the house. I grab his ankle, then pull myself up and put my arms around him.

  “I’m sorry. These worries overtake me sometimes. I still think I have to do everything myself.” This revelation comes from the deepest part of me, and my husband knows it. He knows how hard it is for me to let go. I know how hard it is for me, but then why do I keep making the same mistakes? Why do I push him away when I need him? I feel my husband’s heartbeat slow from an angry pounding to a sweet, steady rhythm. His arms encircle me tenderly. His great shoulders protect me from the cold; I melt into him in a way that I haven’t in a very long time.

  “I believe in you,” I tell my husband, meaning it with every cell in my body.

  “I hope so, Ave.”

  “No. No. I do. Here. Come on. Sit. Tell me your plans.” I pull Jack down onto the step and put my arms around him. My husband’s face is bathed in the golden haze of the lamplight from the living room window. I see the same expression I saw in the kitchen earlier. He is excited, hopeful, full of new ideas, solutions, even.

  “Rick and Mousey want to start a construction company. The three of us. We think there’s going to be a lot of development in the area. There’s talk of that prison being built, and that means a new highway coming through, and that’ll create a need for additional housing. We thought we’d be the first to get in on it.”

  “Great idea. You’re terrific with woodworking.”

  “Yeah, and Mousey knows electrics and plumbing.”

  “Is Rick going to quit his job at the car dealership?”

  “He thinks he can do both. Until we get busy enough that he can quit.”

  “Okay. This is great! When do you start?”

  My husband pulls me close and kisses me a hundred times, quickly and sweetly and gratefully. This is what I love the most about being married: sometimes, even after eight years, we feel new, like there’s a surprise in the familiar that I wasn’t counting on; the passion comes back, sneaks up on you. You gear yourself up for what might be a doozy of a fight and reach an understanding instead; instead of jabbing at each other, you kiss. And you learn to take advantage of a moment like this, because it comes and goes and may not return for a very long time.

  The moonlight blankets the porch. We lean into the pale blue, and in it I see my husband’s face clearly. Every detail. The strong, straight nose, the perfectly matched lips, and the hazel eyes that can show hurt and love in the same moment. We fold into each other naturally, but it isn’t like any time we’ve made love before. We laugh as we go for each other’s buttons, zippers, lips. He shushes me, tells me not to wake Etta, then kisses my laughter away. What wonderful thing is happening? How can it be so different this time? It’s romantic, yes, and a little daring (we’re outside, for Godsakes), but this feels like it used to, when we were first in love. Why did that go away, and why didn’t I know how to get it back? We talk too much or too little and show our love so rarely. We need to show each other more. Why do I forget this simple truth when I’m tired from work or caught up with Etta? This is the center of everything, this love right here. Without it, we’re nothing but an old boardinghouse in Cracker’s Neck Holler with Etta, the ghosts of those who are gone, and a box of problems. We’re more than our problems, aren’t we? As my husband kisses me, I am reminded of why he chose me, and how we must always come back to that, even when we’ve disappointed each other. Especially then. He holds me tenderly, and a night breeze settles over us. I shiver.

  “Let’s go inside, honey,” he whispers.

  “I love you, you know,” I tell him.

  “I know.” He kisses me again.

  In the warmth of our bed, Jack holds me closely as he hasn’t done in a long time. We’re united again under these old quilts, and I like the feeling.

  “Honey?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Spec asked me if I could come back on the Rescue Squad a few days a month. What do you think?”

  “I told him I thought it was fine.”

  I sit up in bed. “He asked you?”

  “Spec’s old-school. He does the right thing and checks with the husband before he goes to the wife.”

  Before I can object, Jack begins to laugh. I take my pillow and beat him with it. Jack grabs the pillow, and then me.

  “You got a problem? Take it up with Spec.” My husband smiles and kisses me.

  A square of homemade fudge topped with snowy mini-marshmallows and crunchy pecans is wrapped neatly in wax paper and waiting for me on my counter. I need the sugar this morning. (I forgot how much energy the love department requires; it’s like starting Jazzercise after a long hiatus.)

  “Hey, thanks for the surprise,” I tell Fleeta as she squirts a big blob of hand cream onto her forearm from the Estée Lauder display. (Never mind that the tube is not a sample.)

  “I’m just a big ole sweetheart, ain’t I?” Fleeta looks at me over her glasses and rubs her wrists together. “Nobody’ll miss it.” She puts the tube of hand cream back on the shelf. “What are you smilin’ about?” she asks suspiciously.

  “Nothin’,” I tell her and shrug.

  Pearl walks in carrying two big bags from the hardware store.

  “What’s that?” Fleeta asks Pearl.

  “Contact Paper for the shelves in the fountain.” Pearl goes to the back of the store.

  “I ain’t helping ye with nothin’ back ’ere,” Fleeta calls after her.

  “Not a problem, Fleets,” Pearl hollers back.

  I grab a pair of scissors and join Pearl in the Soda Fountain.

  “Pearl, I need a favor.”

  “Sure.”

  “I hate to ask, and I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to.”

  “Ave, come on. What do you need?”

  “I need to work more hours.”

  Pearl looks at me oddly at first; it is still hard for her to be my employer. “No problem.”

  “Are you sure? You’ve got the expense of this new venture back here, and I don’t want to strap you.”

  “Are you kidding? I need you.”

  “Great.” I turn to go back to my post.

  “Ave Maria?”

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s something I want to tell you. And it’s still real new, so I can’t say too much. I’m … I’m seeing someone.”

  “A man?”

  Pearl nods.

  “Romantically?”

  Pearl nods again, and this time she smiles.

  “G
ood for you! Who is he?”

  “I don’t want to say yet. In case it doesn’t work out.”

  “Okay.”

  “I like him a lot.”

  “That’s great!”

  “You know I’m sort of a late bloomer. So I’m a little nervous. You know.” Pearl looks at me. I spent fifteen years in this town without a boyfriend. I know all about late blooming. I was alone so long, there are still times when I forget I’m part of a couple.

  “Take your time. And don’t agonize.”

  Pearl laughs. “I’m having too much fun to agonize.”

  “Good girl.”

  “Ave Maria! Pat Bean needs her ’scription! She ain’t got all damn day!” Fleeta shouts from the register. (So much for the soothing shopping atmosphere at the Mutual Pharmacy.)

  “I’m on my way,” I yell back to Fleeta.

  “Hey, Ave. Thanks,” Pearl says, and her face flushes to a soft pink.

  Pearl Grimes in love? Things around here are changing fast. I wonder if I can keep up.

  The Halloween Carnival at Big Stone Gap Elementary is sold out. Nellie Goodloe thought it would be fun to host an all-county carnival to raise money for the John Fox, Jr., Foundation, which funds the Outdoor Drama. “Nellie has a flair,” I keep hearing over and over as I walk through the spectacular decorations. White ghosts with black button eyes line the rail of the balcony overhead; the basketball backboards are big black cauldrons; a family of black paper bats flies over the bleachers. Nellie banked the entire ceiling in a spiderweb made of thick rope. In the center, she attached a giant papier-mâché spider that dangles down like a creepy chandelier. How does she do it?

  The admissions table is loaded with straw and jack-o’-lanterns of all sizes; the ladies of the June Tolliver Guild are dressed as witches. The Foxes, who hand out programs at the Outdoor Drama, are also dressed as witches, but instead of billowing black robes, they wear short skirts (to show off their fishnet stockings, I’m sure).

  Nellie hauled the oil painting of Big Stone Gap’s most famous resident, John Fox, Jr., the author of The Trail of the Lonesome Pine, over here from the museum. Fleeta thinks Nellie has a crush on him, even though he’s been dead since 1940-something. “Whenever she throws a shindig, she drags his mug out,” Fleeta complains. Mr. Fox’s oil portrait is eerily perfect for Halloween: he sits in profile in a dark wood study; on his long, pointed nose sits a pair of granny glasses. Come to think of it, he looks like a male Whistler’s Mother. Nellie has draped fake white cobwebs on him. He fits right in.