Big Cherry Holler Page 2

  “Whoo. That storm is a bitch.” Iva Lou turns to Etta. “Now, don’t use that word ‘bitch,’ hon. It’s a grown-up word.”

  “Thanks for the clarification.” I give Iva Lou a look.

  “Nellie Goodloe ain’t coming. She’s gonna watch the show with the Methodist Sewing Circle at the Carry-Out.”

  “Is Aunt Fleeta coming?” Etta asks.

  “I saw her at the Pharmacy. I got the last rain bonnet. She’ll be along presently.”

  Etta’s teacher (and mine way back when), Grace White, a petite lady of almost seventy, holds an umbrella over Jane and Billy, dressed for television in their Sunday finest. Jack gets out and helps them into the van.

  “Jane, we got corsages!” Etta squeals. “Billy, you got a carnation.”

  “Okay,” Billy says, less than enthused.

  Fleeta Mullins’s old gray Cadillac with one bashed fin pulls up next to the Jeep. She barrels out of it quickly, tossing off the butt of a cigarette. Fleeta is small, and she’s shrinking; smoking has ruined her bones. I try to get her to take calcium; I’m sure she has osteoporosis. She’s still a nimble thing, though. Fleeta leaps up into the van after Iva Lou pulls open the door for her, then wedges into the middle seat next to Mrs. White, bringing a waft of tobacco and Windsong cologne with her. “I had me a line at the register, and folks was surly. Pearl Grimes needs to hire more help over to the Pharmacy,” she announces over her foggy reading glasses. I shrug. I am not the boss, haven’t been for almost ten years. But old habits die hard with Fleeta.

  “No problem. We’re right on schedule,” Mrs. White promises.

  “Pearl made peanut-butter balls.” Fleeta gives me the tin. The kids beg for them, but I tell them, “After the show. Okay? We don’t need your winning answers sticking to the roofs of your mouths.”

  As the kids chatter, Fleeta sticks her head between Jack and me. “I done heard. Westmoreland’s out.”

  “Don’t say anything, Fleets. The kids,” Jack says to her quietly.

  “Right. Right. I got me half a mind to get on the bus to Pittsburgh and go meet them company men myself and tell ’em to go straight to hell. After all we done for ’em. Sixty years of profit on the backs of our men, and now they’re just gonna pack up and clear out.” Fleeta grunts and sits back in her seat.

  As we drive out of our mountains and into the hills of East Tennessee, Billy regales us with the capitals of all fifty states in alphabetical order. Jane divides fractions aloud. Etta squeezes into my seat with me and faces her father.

  “Are y’all mad?”

  “No,” Jack and I say together, looking straight ahead.

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Jack tells her as she shuffles through her homemade flash cards.

  “Daddy, the coal of Southwest Virginia is …”

  “Bituminous.”

  “That’s right!” Etta smiles. “I hope they don’t make me spell it.”

  “If they do, you just stay calm and sound it out,” I tell her.

  “And if you can’t, we love you anyway, darlin’,” her father tells her.

  “I want to win.” Etta’s eyes narrow.

  “Etta, do you know how much coal there is in our mountains?”

  “How much, Daddy?”

  “Enough to mine for the next seven hundred years.”

  “That much?”

  “That much.”

  “If they ask me that, I’ll know,” Etta says proudly.

  “I don’t think they’ll ask you that,” Jack tells her.

  “You never know.” Etta hugs his neck and returns to her seat.

  I look over at Jack, who keeps his eyes on the road. I wish I could fill up the silence between us with something, anything, a joke maybe. I used to know what to say to my husband; I used to be able to comfort him or cut to the center of a problem and dissect it. I could always make him feel better. But something is wrong. Something has shifted, and the change was so subtle and so quiet, we hardly noticed it. We pull against each other now.

  “Jack?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Is there really seven hundred years of coal in our mountains?”

  “At least,” he tells me without taking his eyes off the road.

  The WCYB television station is a small, square, brown-brick building nestled in the hillside outside of Bristol, just off the highway.

  “Is that it?” Etta asks as she wedges between us and looks through the windshield.

  “That’s it?” Jane echoes.

  The building does look lonesome sitting there on the side of the road. It’s hard to believe that it’s the center of communications for the Appalachian Mountains. The kids were expecting WCYB to be a comic-book skyscraper with mirrored windows and an oscillating satellite dish shooting menacing green waves into the sky.

  “Now, see, that’s not so scary,” Jack Mac says to the team.

  “That ain’t scary at all. It looks like a garage,” Billy adds, disappointed.

  “It ain’t how big it is. It’s if they got cameras. All you need is a camera and some wires and some electricity. That’s what makes TV,” little Jane says definitively. (I hope Jane doesn’t get any questions about modern appliances. If she does, we’re in big trouble.) Mrs. White leads the kids into the studio.

  Fleeta needs a smoke. Iva Lou is so tense from the trip, she bums a cigarette. The rain has stopped in Bristol, but it’s still damp, and the fresh smell of the surrounding woods makes the place feel like home.

  “I don’t know how you people with kids do it.” Iva Lou lights up, folds an arm across her waist, and perches her other arm with the cigarette in midair. I’ve always liked how she leans in to smoke, sort of like the cigarette might be safe to smoke if it’s off in the distance a bit.

  “It weren’t easy, let me tell ye. That’s how I started with these.” Fleeta holds up her cigarette like a number one. “My nerves was so bad from the day-in-day-out with my younguns, I turned to tobacky and it’s been my friend ever since. Thank you Jesus and keep the crop pure.”

  “Our kids are well prepared for the show. Sounded like,” Iva Lou says hopefully.

  “I want ’em to whoop the asses off Kingsport,” Fleeta says as she stomps her cigarette butt. “I been watching every week, scopin’ out the competition. I had Ten to Two Metcalf run some stats for me.” Fleeta exhales. (Ten to Two is a bookie out of Jonesville. He got his name because he has a permanent tilt to his head, forcing his neck to crick over his shoulder at the ten-till mark.) “I got twenty bucks ridin’ on our team. And I don’t like to lose.”

  If the exterior of WCYB is a big fat disappointment, the interior doesn’t do much to impress the kids either. The check-in desk is an old wooden table with a backless stool on wheels. A fancy plastic NBC peacock sign spreads over the back wall. A wide electrical cord dangles down from it like a hanging noose (it must light up). I peek in the small rectangular window of a door marked STUDIO. The familiar Kiddie Kollege set, an old-fashioned schoolroom with six desks for the contestants, is positioned in front of the camera. The portable bleachers for the audience fall into shadow. The host’s desk, complete with a large spinning wheel full of tiny folded question cards, is bathed in a bright white light.

  A perky young redhead with a small, flat nose meets us at the studio door. “I’m Kim Stallard. Welcome to the WCYB studio.”

  “We can read, lady.” Billy Skeens points to the sign.

  “Aren’t you smart?” Kim says sincerely. “You must be from Big Stone Gap. Would you like to see the studio?”

  “You better do something with them damn kids. They’re squirrelly as hell, cooped up in that van for pert’ near two hours,” Fleeta tells Kim, popping a mint.

  “Right. Okay. Follow me.” Kim motions us into the dark studio. There is a small path to the set; on either side are painted flats, which serve as backdrops for the news shows.

  “Isn’t this interesting, kids?” Jack asks.

  “It’s a mess,” E
tta decides.

  “These are sets for the shows,” I tell her in a tone to remind her that we are guests in TV Land.

  “We’re what you call an affiliate. We are a multipurpose studio. Is it smaller than you thought?” Kim asks.

  “Much,” Jane Herd tells her as she cranes her neck to look up at the rafters rigged with lights.

  “Well, TV isn’t all glamorous.” Kim smiles.

  “Look, a bike.” Etta points to an off-camera bike.

  “That’s mine,” says the familiar deep voice of Dan DeBoard, the debonair fiftyish game-show host/weatherman/anchor of the six o’clock news (he shares these responsibilities with Johnny “Snow Day” Wood). He doesn’t seem one bit nervous as he reviews his notes. He is tall and slim; his black hair is parted neatly and slicked back. The Bristol Herald Courier once proclaimed him “East Tennessee’s Burt Reynolds.” The resemblance is definitely there, and so are the Smokey and the Bandit sideburns.

  “You look thinner in real life,” Fleeta says as she sizes him up.

  “So do you,” Mr. DeBoard replies. (I guess he hears that plenty.)

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Iva Lou extends her hand and right hip in one smooth move.

  “And you must be a former Miss Virginia?” Dan’s eyes travel over Iva Lou as though he’s starving and perusing the fresh pie rack at Stringer’s Cafeteria.

  “No, just plain old Miss Iva Lou.” She tightens her grip as her eyes travel all over Dan DeBoard.

  “She’s murried,” Fleeta growls.

  “Aren’t we all?” Dan winks.

  Our kids swarm the stage. “It’s good to let the children get comfortable on the set. It makes for a better show,” Kim tells us as she checks a list on a clipboard. They catch sight of themselves on the television monitor on the floor in front of them. “Look-ee! We’re on the TV!” Jane shrieks. Etta and Billy squeeze into the seat with Jane and wave to their images on the monitor.

  Then the enemy arrives. Kingsport Elementary is represented by three stern boys with identical crew cuts and creases in their little navy slacks. Their matching green plaid jackets are so stiff, they look like they were pressed while the boys were wearing them.

  “Lordy mercy,” Jack Mac whispers.

  “They look like triplets,” Fleeta announces.

  Mrs. White surveys the competition, then gathers our team in a huddle. The group breaks. Jane slips into her seat and folds her hands neatly on the desk. Etta smooths her hair and adjusts her nameplate so it is square on camera. Billy sits down at his desk and removes his boutonniere. The girls follow suit with their corsages. The mountain kids get it. This is for real. If they want to win, no flowers, no shenanigans.

  As the theme music plays (a swing version of the alphabet song), Dan DeBoard takes a sip of coffee and spins gently on a high stool. He nibbles on the rim of the Styrofoam cup as his eyes search the bleachers for Iva Lou. When he finds her, he smiles and double-blinks (very flirty). Then he stands and casually hooks the heel of his shiny tasseled oxblood loafer on the chrome rung of the stool. He is so calm, he might as well be playing charades at home in his living room. I grip Jack’s hand so tightly, I could crush a Coke can.

  “Let’s welcome the challengers from Big Stone Gap, Virginia.” Fleeta, Iva Lou, and I applaud, and Fleeta whistles long and low, like she’s calling a cow. He continues: “This is the team captain, Etta MacChesney. Etta, tell me about your family.”

  “My daddy’s a coal miner, and my mama sells pills.”

  “What kind of pills?”

  “It depends. What’s wrong with you?”

  The host stifles a laugh. “I understand you’re an avid reader.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “What are you reading now?”

  “The Ancient Art of Chinese Face-Reading. My Aunt Iva Lou gave it to me. She works at the li-barry.” Etta points to Iva Lou, who straightens her spine and beams as though she’s on camera.

  “How interesting. What is the Art of Chinese Face-Reading, exactly?”

  “Well. It’s all about how your face can tell you what kind of person you are and what the future holds for you.”

  “A little hocus-pocus, eh?” Dan looks into the camera, raising one eyebrow.

  “Not really. Like you. Your top lip is thin, and your bottom lip is thick.”

  “Does that mean something?” Dan rubs his chin.

  “You’re cheap.”

  “Somebody’s been talking to my wife,” Dan deadpans.

  “I’m sorry,” Etta says, realizing that she may have said something unkind.

  “I’d like to crawl in a hole and die,” I whisper to Iva Lou.

  “I’d like to crawl into a hole with Dan DeBoard,” she whispers back.

  Dan tells our team that, as the challengers, they go first. He asks Etta for a number.

  “Five for my cat, Shoo, who is five,” Etta says.

  “If you have two baskets of peaches and in one basket there are three hundred fifty-six peaches and in the other there are two hundred ninety-eight, how many peaches do you have?”

  Etta squeezes her eyes shut and tries to add in her head. Jane Herd’s little blue eyeballs roll back in her head and click up and down like the digits on an adding machine. Jane starts to shake; she has the answer. Etta’s expression of pure panic and desperation tells me she does not.

  “Five hundred fifty-four?” Etta says weakly.

  “Sorry. It’s six hundred fifty-four. Let’s go to the Kingsport team.”

  Etta’s cheeks puff as though she may cry. Jane is so disappointed, her head hits the top of the desk like a bowl of cold mashed potatoes. The champions look over to see what clunked. Etta pulls Jane’s head off her desk by the scruff of the neck; there’s no blood, thank God, so Dan throws the next question to the opposition.

  The Kingsport boys take the next three questions, answering each of them correctly, including one about the state capital of Vermont. “Look at the Skeens boy. He ain’t right,” Fleeta whispers. “He ain’t blinking.” Something is wrong with Billy. He is frozen, staring into the distance, his eyes round and vacant like pitted black olives. Our team has totally lost focus. Jane is obsessed with the monitor. She makes circles with her head, studying her face from all angles. She is sweating so profusely in the hot lights that the barrette is slipping from her side part. Etta obsessively twists the third button on her cardigan like a radio knob; it looks to snap off any second.

  By halftime, we have managed to scrape up zero points, while the Kingsport boys have fifteen. “Turr-ible. Turr-ible,” Fleeta mumbles, and she goes outside to smoke. She paces in the hallway, alternately puffing and scratching her head with a pencil she found lodged in her upsweep. Mrs. White spends the break trying to thaw Billy.

  As round two begins, we hope for a miracle.

  “When water flows out a drain, does it drain clockwise or counterclockwise?” Dan asks Billy. Billy’s forehead folds into one deep wrinkle.

  “Oh, for cripe’s sake,” Fleeta says loud enough that everyone in the studio turns and looks at her. Dan drops his chin and rolls his head, encouraging Billy to answer. Finally, Billy opens his mouth and says, “Uhhhh,” without forming words. His mouth hangs open like an unbuttoned pocket. Then his “uhhh” turns into a strange hum. “What the hell is wrong with that boy?” Fleeta whispers.

  Dan looks at the cameraman, who shrugs. Jane turns to her teammate. “Dang it, Billy. Say somethin’!” He says nothing, so she turns to him and shakes him. “Guess! Take a guess, Bill-eeee!” Billy slips out of his seat like a wet noodle. Jane lunges to yank him back into the seat, but instead he latches on to her and pulls her out of her seat. Jane’s desk turns over on top of Billy’s. The clanging and banging sound like a four-car pileup. As Jane tries to free Billy, her foot gets caught in the metal bottom of her desk and she flips it over again. The Kingsport boys are standing now, confused by the melee. Dan runs across the set and lifts Jane off the scrap heap, and her skirt flips up like an inside-out
umbrella. He yanks her skirt down, then unpins Billy and helps him back into his seat. Etta sits with a clenched smile so creepy, her upper and lower teeth form one wall of fear (I have not seen the likes of it since we watched Mr. Sardonicus on the Million-Dollar Movie). I look down at Mrs. White, who is dabbing her forehead with a hanky. How thrilled we are when the buzzer goes off and the game is over.

  As team captain, Etta must collect the consolation prize: a case of Pepsi for their next school party and a check for ten dollars.

  “Etta, what is your class going to do with the check?”

  “Well, if we won the twenty-five dollars, we were going to buy a set of Nancy Drews. Since we only got the ten, we’ll probably just get a Weekly Reader magazine or something. The Pepsi’s nice, though.”

  “Well, good luck with all that,” Dan says, and winks at the camera. The theme music plays through. “Let’s do the Good-bye Wave from Kiddie Kollege! See ya next week!” our host says in the same professional tone he uses when he’s signing off the six o’clock news or starring on a commercial for Morgan Legg’s Autoworld. He places a giant yellow cardboard dunce cap on Etta’s head, as she is captain of the losers, a tradition that began when the first Kiddie Kollege aired. The giant dunce cap is so big it covers Etta’s eyes. Billy, pressure off, has revived. He jumps in front of Dan and the kids and puts his face in the camera, barking out greetings to his kin—every Skeens and Sizemore in the Cumberland Gap gets a personalized greeting. He and Jane flail their arms so hard, it looks like they’re washing a car. The three automatons from Kingsport stand in front of the question wheel (which I believe should be set on fire and destroyed) and wave like movie stars. We are all relieved when the cameraman makes a slashing motion across his throat to stop this nightmare (at least he knows how we feel).

  “You guys did great!” I tell them peppily.

  “We lost real bad,” Jane says, looking at the ground.