Big Stone Gap Page 14

  Theodore sits in Fred Mulligan’s easy chair as I straighten up the house. Headlight beams track across the walls. “He’s gone,” Theodore says, not looking up from the paper. Washing dishes, putting them up, sweeping, and straightening are my favorite things to do when I’m upset. I move around the living room and through the kitchen, back and forth like a pinball. I have a lot of nervous energy.

  Theodore wants coffee, so I prepare the pot—we’ll be doing a lot of talking tonight. When I look in the cabinet for the coffee, I find very little left in the canister. So I drag out the step stool to see onto a high shelf. There is a coffee tin at the back of the top shelf that looks like it came with a Christmas gift basket. I’m relieved. I need a cup of coffee right now. I pull the tin out. Theodore joins me in the kitchen and sits down at the table.

  The tin is sealed around with clear tape. I grab a steak knife to unseal it and pop off the lid. There is no coffee in the tin. Just a bunch of letters. At first I don’t think much of it: Mama was a pack rat. Of course she kept letters in cans. But from whom?

  This thought makes me drop the tin. The letters shower all over the kitchen floor.

  “What’s all that?” Theodore asks.

  “I don’t know.” He can tell from my tone that I’m afraid, so he helps me off the step stool and into a chair. He kneels down and gathers the letters. I look down at my chest. The utility pocket is moving up and down, up and down. The palpitations are back! I breathe deeply.

  Theodore sits with me and gives me one of the letters. It is addressed to my mother, at P.O. Box 233, Big Stone Gap, Virginia 24219. At the bottom of the envelope, in handwriting, “USA.” The stamp is Italian. The letter is postmarked April 23, 1952, right around my ninth birthday.

  The return address is Via Davide, Bergamo BG Italia.

  “Shall I read it?” Theodore asks.

  “Go ahead.”

  Theodore unwraps the letter and scans it. “Ave. Honey. It’s in Italian.”

  Theodore gives me the letter and I begin to read. It starts with “My dear Sister,” and ends with “Your loving sister, Meoli.” It’s all about the goings-on in Schilpario and Bergamo. Aunt Meoli speaks of her twin, Antonietta, who is healthy and happy. There are details about cousins Andrea, Federica, and Mafalda. Comments about my mother’s parents! My grandparents! An uncle had died. And then she writes that she has not seen Mario. That’s all it says about him.

  She inquires about me. Could my mother send pictures? Don’t I have a birthday soon?

  “What does it say? Honey? What does it say?”

  “My mother has two sisters. Twins.” I sit down on the floor. The letters are scattered all around me, filled with more shocks and surprises. I wonder how much more I can take.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The town paper has issued a special (lavender!) supplement with a guide to all the events involving the visit of screen legend Elizabeth Taylor. She arrives Friday afternoon, October 23, 1978, around 3:00 P.M. She is staying at the Trail Motel in their deluxe suite (boy, is she in for a surprise). At 6:00 P.M. she and her husband will be taken to Railroad Avenue, conjunct to Shawnee Avenue (Main Street), and placed in an open convertible provided by Cas Walker’s grocery-store chain. At approximately 6:15 the car will follow the marching band into the ballpark. The convertible will make two 360-degree trips around the football field on the paved running track, so that Elizabeth and her husband can wave to the crowds. At 7:00 the game starts: Powell Valley vs. Rye Cove. Elizabeth will watch the game from a specially constructed platform stage, provided by Don Wax Realty, near the home stands. (This stage has been used for band-competition judges; Nellie decorated it special for this evening.) Then, the halftime show.

  On Saturday morning the Republicans are having a pancake breakfast—we’ll skip that. Then, starting with hors d’oeuvres at 5:30 P.M., the library fund-raiser will commence. Iva Lou made sure that our table is right next to Elizabeth’s!

  The beauty of Nellie Goodloe is that she wants to do everything right. The entire weekend starring Elizabeth Taylor is in her capable hands, and she is planning it like a royal wedding. The library dinner takes the place of a reception (I’m sure Nellie’s own wedding was less detailed). She chose the theme “Colors” for the decorations: violet in honor of Miss Taylor’s eyes, and white because it is a good contrast. The Dogwood Garden Club is doing the centerpieces; the Green Thumb Garden Club is making a floral backdrop; Holding Funeral Home is supplying AstroTurf runners for the entry and their funeral canopy in case of bad weather; I am donating the candles; Zackie Wakin is providing napkins printed with E.T. and the date in gold; and the Coach House Inn is making Elizabeth Taylor’s favorite meal (and their specialty): fried chicken, mashed ’taters, and collard greens.

  There’s been a slight amount of tension between Iva Lou and Nellie regarding the dinner. Iva Lou has asserted herself in the dinner plans because she envisions herself as head librarian for the new facility. Of course, Iva Lou is no Nellie Goodloe; she couldn’t care less about centerpieces, she wouldn’t know a votive from a candelabra, or which side the small spoons go on in a place setting. Nellie, on the other hand, is the queen of etiquette. She went to Sweet Briar College and has a degree in home economics, so she brings a vast knowledge of elegant living to the Gap. Iva Lou wanted to do a barbeque. When she suggested this, Nellie nearly had a stroke; after all, you can’t hardly ask the Queen of Hollywood to tie on a bib in Miner’s Park and suck ribs. Nellie had to come up with a way to keep Iva Lou occupied, so she put her in charge of ticket sales for the dinner. Within several hours the dinner was completely sold out. Iva Lou unloaded every ticket. She knows a lot of businessmen, and evidently, they owe her favors.

  Every detail of the planning for the pregame parade—in which Candidate Warner and Miss Taylor will ride through town in the convertible—must go through Theodore. He is in charge of everything from the Kiwanians who lead the parade to the drum section of the band that pulls up the rear. The cheerleaders traditionally ride on our town fire truck. Anticipating problems, Theodore makes sure that Spec has our fire truck waxed and polished and that he has secured a backup truck in case of an emergency. Spec has one truck in his arsenal. If there is a fire somewhere in town between 6:00 and 6:30, the parade is ruined. A couple of years back there was a house fire during one of our pregame parades. The cheerleaders were tossed off the truck like turnips as the unit sped off to respond to the call.

  With Elizabeth Night—as it has come to be known in these parts—a few days off, I stay late at the Pharmacy to catch up on my work. Pearl is out front vacuuming and dusting. I am worried but trying not to show it. I figure I’ll wait until all the big doings are over to deal with my own problems.

  Pearl wraps the cord to the upright vacuum cleaner around the holder, then wipes down the front of the machine with a dust rag. “Do you have a date for the Elizabeth Taylor dinner, Miss Ave?” she asks.

  “I’m going with Mr. Tipton.”

  “He’ll be the center of attention after he knocks ’em dead with his halftime show; that’s for sure.”

  I nod and continue with my work. Pearl stands and looks at me.

  “Do you need anything, Pearl?”

  “Miss Ave, are you sure you want to give me the Pharmacy?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. We’re just waiting for the final paperwork and it will be yours. Why? Are you having second thoughts?”

  “Don’t you want to own this yourself? What if you get murried someday? I’m sure the place is worth something.”

  I smile at Pearl. I was waiting until the paperwork was finalized before I shared the scope of our transaction. She will be shocked when she realizes that we are part of a chain of Mutual Pharmacies. She won’t simply own a building and its contents, but she will have a very valuable franchise to sell or keep, if she so desires. Pearl doesn’t realize she’s coming into some money.

  “Pearl, I’m never getting married.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but how do you k
now that?”

  “I just do.”

  “You shouldn’t never give up.”

  Poor Pearl. She’s a romantic. She doesn’t understand what really goes on between adults. At fifteen, she could never comprehend the depth of the relationship I have with Theodore. Bells, whistles, gold bands, and a gown are not my idea of meaningful. I don’t need to get married to feel whole.

  “You really never tried to get murried?”

  “No, ma’am, I didn’t.” I’m sure she heard the rumors of Theodore’s car at my house all night last weekend. She’s fishing. My personal life has gone beyond gossip, and now the rumor mill wants to bump me to next level: marriage. Two grown adults cannot carry on a romance in this town without a marriage license.

  “I thought everyone wanted to get murried.” Pearl shrugs.

  “What makes you think I do?”

  “You got rid of all the junk.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, you cleaned up the back. When I first worked here, it was a mess. Now it’s empty. You’ve been fixing things up. Otto and Worley fixed your roof. Now you’re paying them to repoint the bricks on this building. You’re working less. You hired me to work here, even though Fleeta can handle it alone.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You even gave me your business. Don’t you see? Folks lighten up their lives when they’re about to make a move.”

  “Maybe I just got tired of having junk all over the place.”

  “I don’t think so. I think you’re making space in your life to squeeze a man in.”

  Pearl looks at me. I don’t say anything, which she takes as a sign to shut up. She wheels the vacuum cleaner to the back storage closet.

  “We’ll be needing a new sweeper directly,” she says as she goes.

  Sometimes I think Pearl Grimes is a very strange girl.

  October 23 arrives gloriously without a cloud in the sky. The mountains are in the final stage of autumn, and the leaves have faded to a dull gold—the perfect backdrop for a woman who played the queen of Egypt. How I wish my mother had lived to see an actual movie star! My mother loved Elizabeth Taylor. She would go on and on about her perfect features: those eyes, that straight nose, the just-full-enough lips, that strong chin. Elizabeth Taylor is Dresden china, the finest white porcelain set off by that midnight-black hair.

  Everyone is excited, and the nervousness is bringing out odd behavior in some of our townspeople, particularly the men. Ballard Littrell, our town drunk, has sobered up. He only has one ear—no one knows how he lost the other one—so he never gets his hair cut off on the left side. But he was seen at the barber, gussying up for the evening, trying to even out the sides. Otto and Worley were seen at Zackie’s store buying new shirts. They never buy anything new, so this is an important event for them. The women in town who are around Elizabeth’s age, forty-five and up, took this milestone visit as a cue to upgrade their looks. Pearl noted that we have completely sold out of Black Sable hair dye and blue eye shadow.

  I thought about closing the Pharmacy today, but I couldn’t. I need to keep my mind busy. I am so nervous for Theodore; I want everything to be perfect for him tonight. He has worked so hard. I hope the kids don’t crack under the pressure. There would be nothing worse than a fire baton going up in the air and landing on the visitors’ bench instead of in the waiting hands of Tayloe Slagle. I can’t imagine she’ll choke, but you never know.

  I decide to lock up early. Pearl is counting on it; she brought a new outfit with her to work this afternoon, and she plans to change in our powder room, then head off to the park to help Theodore set up the pyramids for the halftime show. I recruited her to work on Theodore’s field crew. If there’s one person who can handle a lot of pressure, it’s Pearl. Just having her around is soothing.

  The door bells jingle merrily. I look out the window and see a few folks milling on Main Street, staking out their spots for the parade. Two little boys stand in front of the register. They argue about whether to use their candy allowance for Good ’n Plenty or Hot Tamales. One look at their blond heads tells me they could only be Sweet Sue’s boys.

  “Are you the Tinsley boys?” I ask.

  “I’m Jared and he’s Chris,” says the older of the two.

  “How much money have you got?”

  “Two dimes, one nickel, and one penny.”

  “You’re in luck! It’s two-for-one day. You get two boxes of candy for exactly twenty-six cents.” The boys jump up and down as the bells on the door ring again. I look up and see Jack MacChesney standing before me.

  “What’s taking you boys so long?”

  “Jared couldn’t pick fast,” Chris says.

  “Well, go on now. Get in the truck.”

  “We won’t get no stickies on your seat, Uncle Jack,” Jared promises.

  “Hey, how’d you get two boxes?”

  “The lady give them to us.” Jared points to me.

  “Did you thank her?”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” they chorus, and run out. There’s that word ma’am again. It really and truly bugs me. I must remember, these are little boys; to them, everyone is old, even their thirty-five-year-old mother.

  Pearl comes out of the powder room in her new two-piece plaid suit. She looks like she’s lost almost twenty pounds. She stops to check her makeup at her station but thinks better of it when she sees Jack MacChesney at my counter.

  “That was mighty nice of you, Ave Maria,” Jack Mac says.

  “They’re cute kids.”

  “Yes, ma’am, they are.”

  I straighten the folds on my prescription clipboard, flattening the creases with one of the nickels Jared gave me. I can’t look at Jack Mac, not because I’m embarrassed but because I don’t have anything to say. What can I say to a man whose proposal I turned down? I wrack my brain, but small talk seems teeny tiny. Jack Mac just stands there, with his hands in his pockets, jiggling coins and keys. He takes the change out of his pocket and begins sorting it. I’m glad he looks down; it gives me a chance to fix my hair. I inhale. Why does he always smell so good?

  “Oh no, the Hot Tamales were on the house. They couldn’t decide between Hot Tamales and Good ’n Plenty.” Jack Mac looks at me, confused.

  “The kids, they only had—” Shut up, Ave Maria. The guy doesn’t care what their favorite candy is; he’s not their father, you idiot. He’s Uncle Jack, the nice man who takes them for rides in his truck and plays catch with them. Uncle Jack, who will someday be their stepdaddy.

  “You going to the dinner tomorrow night?”

  “Yes.” Is he a loon or what? Asking me if I’m going to the dinner. He should hate me. I was so rude to him. And now he’s standing here putting change in every single fund-raising jar on my counter. The coins drop into the jars, one clink, two clink, three clink; and it’s a good thing, they fill up the silence.

  “Well, I guess I better be going,” he says, and turns and walks out.

  “He likes you,” Pearl announces as she rolls her lips with Bonne Bell strawberry gloss.

  If only she knew. But I can’t tell her.

  “He looks at you like you’re the most beautiful woman he ever saw. He’d dump Sweet Sue for you in a second.”

  “He’d be a fool if he did that.”

  “No, he wouldn’t.” Pearl can be very stubborn. “You know something, Miss Ave? If I was him, and I had to pick between Sweet Sue and any other woman in town and you, I’d pick you.”

  “You’re very nice to say that.” I wish she would stop.

  “I’d pick you because there’s just something about you. You’re sparkly. Yeah. That’s it. Sparkly.” Pearl grabs her purse and goes to the door. “See you on the field.”

  I wear my very best coat—a red velvet swing coat—so Theodore can single me out from the announcer’s booth. As I look out over the crowd in the stands, I realize that pretty much everyone in town had the same idea. We look like a hunter’s convention, splashes of red
and bright orange throughout the stands. Everyone wore their loudest and brightest clothing; perhaps subconsciously we are hoping Elizabeth Taylor will see us in the crowd and single us out with a smile or a wink. Fleeta flags me down from the top of the stands with a purple light wand she got at a University of Tennessee football game. She elbows Portly to wave at me; he does.

  The crowd in the visitors’ section is filled with overflow from our stands. Rye Cove is a small village, much smaller than Big Stone Gap. When we play them, it seems pathetic to even cheer against them since they have no manpower at all in their stands and just as little on the field. We’ll beat them decisively tonight, and we should; after all, we’re the side that’s got the movie star.

  The teams aren’t on the field yet. They’re lined up around the track to wave to Elizabeth Taylor. I look all around the park, and everyone is standing. There’s a buzz, but it is definitely reverential. The band curves off the parking lot and onto the track, a long Carolina-blue snake, precise and pliable. And then there she is! The convertible! With her! The car harrumphs over the parking-lot median and bounces onto the track; for a moment I worry Elizabeth and her husband will be thrown off of their backseat perch. But they hang on to each other and laugh. I’m in a perfect spot to get a real good look at her.

  I haven’t heard this much cheering since we won the state championship in 1972. The stadium fills with sound that echoes into the black mountains behind us. The chanting: “Liz! Liz! Liz!” The occasional gut holler: “I love you!” cuts through the din, all of us, yelling, whistling, applauding, thrilled! Notice us! Over here! See me, Elizabeth! We’ve sure been watching you all these many years! Watch us!

  The convertible rolls around the track slowly. On the front grid of the car is a sign from the Nabisco distributor that reads, DON’T GO ’ROUND HUNGRY. HAVE YOUR NABS—short for Nabisco crackers around these parts. Cas Walker must have cut a deal with his distributors. I hope somebody explained to Elizabeth what Nabs are.

  The convertible gingerly inches up to the fifty-yard line, where I am standing. Spec is behind the wheel. He sees me, and he knows I love old movies, so he practically slows to a stop so I can get a close-up look.