Big Stone Gap

by Adriana Trigiani

  I unravel the tennis ball of noodles. It makes a square on the plate, like the frame of an open window. In the square, I imagine a cartoon, primitive and bright. A buck-toothed gorilla is being chased by an angry mouse with a giant mallet. The mouse climbs up the gorilla and clunks him on the head repeatedly. The gorilla’s eyes cross, and stars shoot out of his head. The image makes me smile, so I won’t cry.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Fleeta is serious about quitting. I can tell because she has cleaned up the shelf behind the register. Her lifetime supply of Coke and peanuts is gone. Her bifocals are safe in their case. Her paperwork is stacked neatly in two piles. In one stack, her professional wrestling schedules. Fleeta and Portly go to wrestling matches in Kingsport and Knoxville every chance they get. Pictures of the great wrestling stars Haystack Calhoun, Atomic Drop, Johnny Weaver, and the frightening Pile Driver are in protective clear-plastic sleeves. The wrestlers’ thick, clublike bodies are greased in oil. Their heads are smaller than their squat, muscular bodies; they look like apples on top of buildings. In the other stack, Fleeta’s recipes. When business is slow, Fleeta rewrites her recipe-card file; she’s had this project under way for about five years. In Fleeta’s block print:

  MAMAW SKEEN’S POSSUM

  Skin your possum. Place in a large pot and boil till tender. Add salt and pepper to taste. Make gravy with broth and add 4 tablespoons flour and 1⁄2 cup of milk. Cook until thick. Save a foot to sop gravy!

  I wonder what they do with the other three feet. I flip through the cards; many of Fleeta’s specialties are included: divinity candy, a confection of whipped sugar that looks like clouds (she brings it in every Christmas), lemon squares, cheese straws, peanut butter balls, and my favorite, rhubarb pie.

  “I’m putting my recipes together for my granddaughter, for when she gets murried,” Fleeta says as she stands behind me. “You ever ate possum?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Well, you’re missing out. It’s the best, most tenderest meat of all.”

  Fleeta grabs her smokes and motions for me to meet her in the back office for lunch. She locks the front door and flips the RING BELL sign.

  Fleeta sits on a folding chair, smoking. She pours a small cellophane sack of salted peanuts into her glass bottle of Coca-Cola, stops up the top with her thumb, shakes it, and when it’s fizzy chugs it back. I’m going to miss our lunches.

  “Fleeta, do you really have to quit on me?”

  “Honey, my mama died when she was fifty-five. I’m fifty-six. The clock is ticking. I want a life before mine’s over. I will miss the money, though.”

  “I’ll give you a raise.”

  “Too late for that. Come on, Ave. You got a lot ahead of you. You’re gonna get murried to that Tipton fella.”

  “What?”

  “His car was parked over to your house till all hours Saturday night, and Nellie Goodloe done spread it all over town that you and he was swapping slobbers on the dance floor over to the Drama. Now that’s public. Don’t hold back on me, youngun, I know you too well.”

  “He doesn’t want me, Fleeta. We’re just friends.”

  “No way. Shoot-fire, y’all do everything together. Y’all are each other’s destinies.” I start to argue with Fleeta, and she stops me. “Even when you put two rats in a box they might chew each other up at first, but give it time and they’ll make baby rats.”

  “Fleeta, I’m eating.”

  “He’s a fine-looking man. And he’s clean. I like me a clean man. And he’s got nice thick hair, and honey, after thirty you gotta put that in the plus column. He’s got them nice Irish looks and features. The rusty hair, the blue eyes. The purty smile. Law me! What more do you want in a man?”

  I don’t answer her. Nothing! There’s no one but Theodore for me. Why won’t she stop this?

  “Or do you even want a man?” Fleeta looks at me over her bifocals.

  “Not just any man,” I say defensively, with my mouth full of food.

  “I want you to git a good man like I got. You know, Portly and I still have intimate relations. Of course, it takes a lot longer than it used to to warm up my toaster. I done gone through The Change. And that’s a good word for it because everything done changed on me. I have to prepare for when he gets that look. But I’ll tell you one thing—Portly has him some big clubby forearms and man-hands, you know what I’m saying, he could palm my head—really, just like a basketball. And if I didn’t have those gigantic arms wrapped around me of the night, I would be one cantankerous old woman. So I know what you mean.”

  “How’d you and Portly meet?”

  Fleeta exhales and her eyes fill with a faraway memory. She squints to make out the details of this old picture.

  “Up to the school. When East Stone Gap High School was closed down, they transferred all them kids over to Powell Valley and Portly was in the bunch. First day of school, I seen him and knew he was the one. I was feeling old, though, like I’d never find nobody.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Sixteen. And never been kissed. My mama was so proud of ’at. But let me tell you, when I snagged Portly, I made up for lost time. I remember the very first kiss he done give me. Up behind the bleachers up to the school. Hit was around five o’clock in the afternoon, after Portly’s baseball practice. He looked at me. I looked at him. Course we had to take the snuff out of our mouths first—Portly and I both love our chewing tobacky. Well, we spit it out, and then we kissed, and the rest is history.”

  I’m so wrapped up in Fleeta’s love life, I don’t hear the persistent bang of the bell on the store counter. I come to and get up to answer it. The majorettes stand at the counter, some reading the National Enquirer, others thumbing through People. Tayloe waits at the prescription-pickup window.

  “I’m here for my prescription.”

  “I’ll be right with you, honey.”

  “It’s not ready yet?” The annoyance underscores each of Tayloe’s words, and she rolls her eyes. God, she’s impatient. I remember that she’s just a kid, and that keeps me from biting her head off.

  “No, not yet,” I reply gaily.

  Pearl Grimes enters the store and, upon seeing the majorettes, instantly skulks behind the hair-care rack.

  “Look how fat she got!” Glenda the majorette says with authority. That’s all it takes for all the majorettes to gather round People magazine and gloat over the picture of some formerly slim, now chunky TV actress.

  “I don’t know why somebody’d let themselves go like that,” says another.

  “ ’Cause she likes to eat,” Tayloe announces. It’s not one bit funny, but all the girls die laughing, because in her circle, Tayloe gets to be funny as well as beautiful.

  “She’s not as fat as Pearl Grimes, though.” A louder laugh.

  I see the top of Pearl’s head disappear behind the medical-supply rack. I wonder if they saw her come in. Are they that cruel? Mrs. Spivey, Mrs. Holyfield, and Mrs. Edmonds enter the store and split up to shop. Three finer Baptist women I’ve never known. They’re also responsible for spreading more information than the town paper.

  “Miss Mulligan, could you please hurry? We’ve got band practice. You know . . . with Mr. Tipton?” Another round of giggles. I guess they heard about Theodore’s car being outside my house till all hours. Now I wish I’d had sex with him, so the joke wouldn’t be on me.

  I shout out from behind the counter, “It’s gonna take a minute, girls.” More sighs and eye rolls. They continue reading the magazines.

  Fleeta comes out from the back. “Be careful with the magazines; we can’t hardly sell wrinkled, used ones. Folks like their reading material virginal. And I can’t blame them, as they are paying,” she growls.

  Inspired by Fleeta’s choice of words, I seize my moment. I had a microphone installed in the prescription department because the store is large, and when I get busy I can call for the customer. I blow into the microphone. All the heads look up.

  “Tayloe Sl
agle, your birth control pills are ready at the prescription window. Tayloe. Slagle. Your. Birth. Control. Pills. Come on over.”

  Tayloe lunges for the window and grabs the white sack.

  “They’re for cramps.”

  “Really.” I ponder this possibility. The fine Baptist women look at one another and then at Tayloe with such disdain, they become a scary tableau on a stained-glass window.

  “Charge it,” Tayloe barks as she sprints for the door. The girls follow her.

  I hear the ladies murmuring in the dental-hygiene section—mission accomplished.

  Fleeta is chuckling, and of course the chuckles turn into a hack. “I’m done tarred of them girls coming in here and reading and never buying. You got ’em good.”

  I pick up a basket of conditioner and head for the hair-care aisle. Pearl is sitting on the floor reading labels on the backs of bottles.

  “Hey, Pearl.”

  “I come down for the acne treatment you told me about.”

  “Then what in God’s name are you doing in hair care?”

  Pearl shrugs. Her eyes are a mite puffy, so I know she heard the majorettes.

  “You wanna help me restock the shelves?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Fleeta’s quitting on me, so I’m looking to hire somebody part-time. You up for it?”

  “I have to ask Mama.”

  “Go call your mama and ask her if you can start today.”

  “We ain’t got no phone. And I don’t know if she’d let me take a job. How would I get to and from work?”

  “I could take you home after work,” I offer.

  “But I live up in Insko.”

  “I drive fast. How much you want an hour? For your pay.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, Pearl. You’re gonna do sales. Sell yourself.”

  “Well, I git fifty cents an hour baby-sitting the Bloomer kids.”

  “Not bad. They’re a handful. I guess I gotta do better than Mrs. Bloomer.”

  “How ’bout one dollar an hour?” Pearl looks away, embarrassed to be talking figures.

  “Only a dollar? Hmm. You’re a real tail twister, Pearl. How about three dollars an hour?”

  Pearl’s eyes widen. “Thank you, Miss Ave! Can I start tomorrow?” Pearl straightens her spine, and I swear she grows an inch.

  “You sure can.”

  Fleeta watches Pearl go and lights another cigarette. “Why in holy hell would you hire that girl?”

  “I like her.”

  “She don’t keep herself nice.”

  “You heard her. She lives up in Insko.”

  “I don’t care. That ain’t no excuse.”

  “I’m surprised at you, Fleeta. I thought you could see potential.”

  “Honey, there’s potential, and then there’s bullshit dreaming. I think you got a case of the bullshit dreams, if you know what I mean.”

  Fleeta grazes the big feather duster over the vitamins, barely tickling them.

  “What I meant to say was that we could transform Pearl into a great employee if she was trained by a master.”

  “I told you I don’t want to work no more.” Fleeta lights up a cigarette and thinks for a moment. “But if you’re gonna throw away all I done built up here, I’d better rethink my position. All right, I’ll work part-time for ye.” I am so thrilled, I hug Fleeta, who stiffens like a telephone pole. I’ve never hugged her before; we’re both surprised.

  “Three days a week and fifty cents more an hour.”

  “You got a deal.”

  “What? I’m no tail twister?” Fleeta says with a smile.

  “You ain’t no Haystacks Calhoun.”

  “No, I guess I ain’t. But given the right circumstances, I might be able to take him.” Fleeta chuckles to herself.

  Pearl shows up for work the next day in her best outfit: a smock top and eyelet-trimmed bell-bottoms. Her hair is in a low ponytail. She looks neat, but that doesn’t stop Fleeta from eyeing her up and down. Pearl’s work life at Mutual begins with a shipment box haul. Fleeta and I have a system. Fleeta unloads and prices items, I break down the boxes and bring them to the Dumpster behind the store. Fleeta does product placement and displays because that feeds her creative side. She gives Pearl a dirty look when Pearl artfully places shampoo bottles in a shadow-box display. I decide it’s a good idea to separate the two of them during this training period; Fleeta is an old cat with well-defined territories and the claws to protect them. Pearl joins me, already full of suggestions on how to make the box haul a more expeditious process. This kid is smart, and it’s not bugging me.

  “I want to thank you for the job. It’s really gonna help me and my mama out.”

  “I’m happy to have you. And don’t worry about old Fleeta. She’s mean on the outside but marshmallow on the inside.”

  “Not like Tayloe and them girls up to school. They’s mean to the bone.”

  “Ignore them.”

  “I try, but it ain’t easy to hide when you’re the fattest girl in school.”

  “You’re not the fattest girl in school.”

  “I’m pretty sure I am.”

  “No, you’re the girl with the best after-school job.” This makes Pearl laugh as we throw empty boxes into the Dumpster. “Besides, those type of girls talk about everybody. Even each other.”

  “You know what they’re saying about you?”

  “Me? Why would they talk about me?”

  “They say you’re a bastard, that Fred Mulligan wasn’t your father.”

  “People say that?”

  Pearl nods that they do. How naÏve of me. I thought that no one talked about me in that way. I never spread stories, so I figured none were spread about me. But in a small town a good story bears repeating, even mine.

  “Well, Pearl. They’re right.”

  “They are?”

  “Yep. I guess my mama came over from Italy pregnant and Fred Mulligan married her because back in those days you had to get married if you were having a baby. Only thing, my mama didn’t tell me herself; she left it in a letter. I got it after she died.”

  “Aren’t you mad about it?”

  I guess I look off for a long time, because Pearl asks me again. I don’t know how to answer her, because it’s not like me to ever get angry about anything.

  “If I was you, I’d be mad.”

  “You would?”

  “Your mama shouldn’t never have lied to you about your papa.”

  “Well, she did, and there’s nothing to be done about it now.”

  Then Pearl asks me the question that would forever change my life.

  “You gonna find your real father?”

  “My real one?” I ask quietly. The word real sounds so new.

  “If he’s alive, are you gonna find him?”

  Who has time to think about Mario da Schilpario? I’m busy. I have the Pharmacy, deliveries, the Rescue Squad, the Drama, and the Kiss.

  “You gonna marry Mr. Tipton?”

  “Don’t tell me people are talking about that, too.”

  She nods; they are.

  “Well, Pearl, I don’t think it’s anybody’s damn business who I marry, or who my father was, or what size my underwear is.”

  “Good for you. Now you’re mad!” Pearl says this with great pride.

  She’s right. I’m mad. But what she doesn’t know, and what I don’t know, is I’m just getting started.

  Ethel Bartee’s Beauty Salon is tucked behind the post office in a trailer. I take the back alley from the Pharmacy and cut through the loading zone to get to Ethel. She fixed the trailer up real nice with window boxes overflowing with red geraniums. The tip end of my braid is like crispy straw; I need a haircut.

  The door is propped open with a drum of pink shampoo. Ethel is putting up Iva Lou’s hair.

  “Can you take me for a quick trim?” I ask sweetly.

  Ethel, stout with a perfect bubble hairstyle that matches her shape, looks up over her b
ifocals as she finishes winding Iva Lou’s last curl around a plastic roller.

  “I guess so,” she says, annoyed.

  “I should’ve called.”

  “Yes, you should’ve. But you know I ain’t the type to turn nobody away.” Ethel gives me the critical once-over. “Especially not no one who needs a clip. I got two comb-outs before I can git to you, though.” Ethel indicates her customers under the dryers.

  “I can wait.”

  Iva Lou rises. “I’m gonna sit outside and let it dry in the sun, honey. It’ll save you on your electric bill.” Iva Lou cocks her big head full of jumbo curlers, giving me a signal to follow her outside.

  “Ethel’s cranky.” Iva Lou lights up a cigarette. “I heard,” she says, looking at me directly.

  “Is everybody talking about it?” I ask.

  “Let’s put it this way. I make six stops in the Gap. It was the topic of conversation on each one.” Iva Lou points her cigarette toward the trailer door. “And the two biddies under the dryer bubbles had themselves a field day before you dropped by.”

  For a moment I am overwhelmed by it all. I figured my paternity was my business. I lean back on the steps and close my eyes.

  “You know what?” Iva Lou says brightly. “I think it’s exciting news.”

  “You do?”

  “Follow me on this. All your life you was one thing. And now you can be something else if you want! Somebody completely different. You can actually start yourself over from scratch. Turn yourself into what you have always wanted to be!” Iva Lou continues with her Knute Rockne pep-up, and I sit up and shift so I can see the back of my pharmacy. The building looks in even worse shape from here. The mortar between the bricks is chipped, leaving spaces. They look awful. I make a mental note to get them repointed. It annoys me, though. I shouldn’t have to fix them; they had a lifetime guarantee.

  Closing night of the Drama signals the start of the Powell Valley High School football season. My theater life winds down and Theodore’s kicks in, as he is responsible for designing and executing home-game halftime shows. The fans are as competitive about the shows as they are the football games. Every year we wonder how Theodore will top himself, and every year he does. Our downtown stores are festooned with flags in our high school colors, bright Carolina blue and ruby red. Zackie hauls out an eight-foot papier-mâché Viking, spray-painted silver, letting anyone passing through town know that we are “the Vikings, the Mighty, Mighty Vikings.”