Home to Big Stone Gap

by Adriana Trigiani

  “I’m happy to.”

  “You’ve been great.”

  “I’m relieved,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “I thought it was the end. Iva Lou told me to never, ever say that to you. But I was really scared. I actually thought, Oh, this is how it ends.” I tear up as I say this.

  “That’s funny. I wasn’t one bit scared.”

  “Not at all?”

  “No. I’m not afraid to die. I thought about it every single day when I went into the mines. First thing at the beginning of a shift as I prepped my gear, I thought about what could go wrong. Then once I was inside, I’d get to work, and I wouldn’t think about it again.”

  “I wouldn’t have stopped thinking about it for a moment.”

  “Eventually, you do. My dad did forty years in there.”

  “And he died of black lung.”

  “Complications of it, they said. And he smoked, so we’ll never know exactly what took him. When he died, I remember thinking, Well, at least wherever we go after this life, it’ll be ready for us with Pop getting there first. He was a fixer, he could build anything. I just figured he went ahead to make a way for the rest of us. When Ma died, I knew he was waiting for her, so I didn’t worry. Ever since Joe died, I knew that when my time came, I’d see him again. It’s not that I want to die, but I don’t think it’s so terrible, because I know he’ll be there. I’m looking forward to seeing him.”

  “I didn’t know you felt this way.” As I say this, my voice breaks.

  “Really? I figure you know me pretty well. It’s been almost twenty years.”

  Sometimes these twenty years seem like twenty minutes. I think I know my husband, and then something happens, he reacts a certain way, and I’m utterly surprised. There are certain aspects to his character that I can count on, and his habits are as ingrained as his ideals—it’s hard to separate the behavior from the man. But when it’s life or death, all bets are off. We make that walk alone, and no amount of love or wishing will change the outcome.

  This time Jack wasn’t ready to go, so he didn’t.

  I am haunted by small details the doctor has shared. If Jack hadn’t been close to the hospital, if this had happened in his sleep, he might have had a massive stroke. If the clot had formed an inch from where it was, it would have meant sudden and certain death. All these ifs, there’s a pile of them, one scenario more frightening than the next. We are lucky. We know it.

  “Stand still, Ma.” Janine crouches on the floor pinning the hem on Fleeta’s wedding gown. I flip the CLOSED sign on the entrance door of Mutual’s while Fleeta stands on a packing crate playing supermodel.

  “How weird is this? A daughter sewing a mother’s wedding gown? I’m ashamed.” Fleeta puffs on her unlit cigarette. (I miss the actual smoke rings Fleeta used to blow, but when she gave up smoking, she gave up lighting them.)

  “You sewed mine,” Janine says.

  “That were different. This here is backwards to how it’s supposed to be. I’m too old for this nonsense.”

  “You need to get over your prejudices,” I tell Fleeta pleasantly.

  “Look who’s talking. You’re the one who asked why didn’t I just live with Otto instead of gettin’ murried?”

  “I hope you didn’t tell Reverend Mutter I said that.”

  “I done told him everything.”

  “Great. They already think Catholics are a bunch of hypocrites—”

  “And now he’s got proof.” Fleeta chuckles.

  “Stay still, Ma. I mean it,” Janine barks. Janine is a no-nonsense mountain girl with a purpose. She’s focused, college-educated, ambitious, and driven. Now in her late thirties, looking far younger, she is an exact replica of her mother. We call her “Fleeta Part Two.” She’s petite and has a slight build but makes up for it with moxie. Her black hair is cut in a shag, and she inherited her mother’s clothes sense: she likes bright sweaters and leggings and ankle boots. Janine took over the management of the Mutual Pharmacy when Pearl left to go to Boston. We don’t see a lot of Janine—she stays at the Mutual branch down in Lee County—but she’s sharp and a managerial whiz. She has us turning a profit, and these days that’s not easy.

  “Pavis ain’t comin to the wedding,” Fleeta says, and shrugs.

  “He said he was gonna try,” Janine says.

  “That new wife of his said the trip is too long and they can’t make it.”

  “What wife is this for Pavis?” I ask.

  “Third,” Fleeta says.

  “Fourth,” Janine corrects her. “You never count that first one that Pavis married in high school.”

  “He was sixteen, she was twenty. Betty Jane Cline. How could I forget her? I had to sign permission to let him get murried. He threatened me with a grandbaby, so I had to sign him away. Jane weren’t so bad for him, though. She whipped Pavis into shape, made him git a job, lease a trailer. Grown-up stuff. When she left him—and I knew she would—he fell to pieces, then we was stuck putting him back together again. Took us about four years till he stopped crying about her. I don’t like older womens and young men together. Something ain’t right about that. And that right there was proof.”

  “I think older women and younger men make sense. Do the math. Men die about eight years sooner than women,” I say.

  “Maybe that’s a gift.”

  “Fleeta!”

  “My God, Ma, with all Ave Maria’s been through, that’s a terrible thing to say.”

  “She knows what I mean.”

  “Never mind me. What about Otto? Don’t you wish him many years of health and happiness with you?” I say.

  “What will be, will be, and what ain’t will have to do.”

  “You got that right,” I tell her.

  “Ma, you need not say everything you’re thinkin’.”

  “Why not?” asks Fleeta.

  “Your mother has never been subtle,” I say.

  “What’s the point? Are you almost done, Janine? I’m bored stiff standin’ here. And I want to get to the ballpark. You know it don’t set right with me to miss kickoff. I’d rather not go at all if I miss it.”

  “Okay, Ma. I’m done. Ave, can you help me get her out of this?”

  I unbutton the back of the dress and undo the zipper. The dress is shell-pink silk, with long sleeves and a sweeping peplum of matching chiffon. It’s tasteful and understated. It’s the last gown I would have expected Fleeta to pick. “I love this dress,” I say.

  “Thank Janine. She’s got an eye for formal wear. Remember those Nadine gowns you wore to the prom?” Fleeta says to Janine, and steps out of the dress. Janine folds it carefully. “I loved the white eyelet with the pale green velvet-ribbon trim. Now, that there was a classic.”

  “I still have it, Ma.”

  “You’d better. Ten months of layaway at Dave’s department store in Appalachia. Layaway—can you imagine? Now everything’s on the Visa.”

  “What a world.” I help Janine put the gown in the dress box.

  “What are you doing with your hair? A veil?” I ask Fleeta.

  “Hell, no. A veil at my age, I’d look like a beekeeper. No, I’m a-doin’ baby’s breath. I just love me some baby’s breath. It’s elegant.” Fleeta fishes in her purse for her cigarettes. She puts one in her mouth. It dangles dangerously from her lower lip. “Ave, you coming to the game?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Janine?”

  “Nope, I have to git home.”

  “There was a time when you wouldn’t miss a football game.”

  “I have work to do, Ma. This hem will take me all night.” Janine kisses Fleeta and goes.

  “Come on.” Fleeta puts on her Vikings jacket. “We don’t want to be late.” She grabs her purse. “The band is doing a special salute to Harley Stallard. You remember him, don’t you?”

  “How could I forget him? He was my high school principal. He was beloved.”

  “Yeah, well, they’re doing the salute up right. Th
ey’s makin’ a big ‘H.S.’ on the field, and the majorettes are gonna twirl fire at the tips of the letters. You know I love me a halftime show.”

  I pull on my red velvet swing coat and stop by the lipstick display, quickly applying a coat of Revlon’s Burgundy Mocha from the sample tubes. Fleeta leans in and looks at the mirror. “That’s a good color on you.”

  “You think so?”

  “Take the tube. What the hell.”

  I put the tube in my pocket. The idea that I’m shoplifting from my own pharmacy makes me smile.

  Every parking spot is filled to the edge of town, including our lot. Bullitt Park is just a few blocks from the Pharmacy, so we hoof it quickly. Fleeta is serious about her high school football, and the long-standing rivalry between the hometown Powell Valley Vikings and the Appalachia Bulldogs is the game of the year. She won’t miss a single play, and she’ll stay to the final whistle.

  As we turn the corner on to Gilley Avenue, we hear the kids cheering in the stands. We quicken our pace and follow the line through the ticket booth. Fleeta and I hand the ticket-taker (Mr. Bates, the biology teacher) our five-dollar bills. The stands are full to overflowing, home and visitors. “Everybody in the damn county turned out,” Fleeta grouses. We make our way to the field, pushing through the crowd. “Otto said he’d be in the end zone with your husband,” Fleeta shouts over the din.

  This is Jack’s first night out since his surgery. It’s been two months, and the doctor said it would be a good idea for him to “take a field trip.” I’m having my doubts as I scan the standing-room-only stadium. What if something happened? How would we get him out of here? And there’s a real chill in the air; this can’t be good for him.

  “There they is!” Fleeta points to Jack, Otto, Worley, Mousey, Rick, and a group of guys standing in the end zone. Jack looks robust—thinner, but his color is good. I’m so happy to see him out with his friends; instantly, my worries lift like the red streamers unfurled by the Booster Club in the student section. It’s like old times, old times with new hope.

  The teams aren’t on the field yet. The cheerleaders are doing a pyramid formation on the fifty-yard line. They look like an upside-down red, white, and Carolina-blue ice-cream cone. The Viking band’s rhythm section provides an up-tempo beat. The student section claps along. The highest cheerleader dives off the top and is caught by two girls at the base. The crowd cheers.

  I lose Fleeta in the sea of fans, but knowing her, she went for a chili dog and a Coke. I am shoved and push back as I make my way through. I hear the sound of my husband’s laughter and follow it. Finally, I wedge through a group of onlookers to join Jack. I can see his face, so I move toward him. The crowd pushes me, and I almost topple someone. I look to apologize to the person I’ve landed on, and it’s a woman. I pull back. My heart races when I look at her bronzed face, kohl-rimmed eyes, and coral lip gloss. Nothing understated in the details. It’s Karen Bell.

  “Excuse me,” I say loudly, forcing a smile.

  “Oh, hi,” she says. She wears a blue baseball cap over her blond shoulder-length hair, and she’s as tanned as she would be in July. She’s dressed in a white windbreaker and jeans.

  Jack looks away from me quickly. “Honey, you remember Karen.”

  “I do.”

  “Well, Jack—fellas—I’ll see you around.” She disappears into the crowd.

  Rick and Mousey look away. Those two. They’re just scared of me right now. Otto chatters nervously about the odds of the game. Jack puts his arm around me. I’m not so sure I want his arm around me. I bury my hands in my pockets as kickoff is announced, and feel the tube of Burgundy Mocha. At least I met the enemy wearing a new lipstick.

  The next day, the Big Stone Gap Post has a picture of Fleeta and Otto and an announcement of their open church wedding. The headline reads: MULLINS AND OLINGER BANNS OF MARRIAGE. In the picture, they’re standing in front of the Ruby Falls (one of the Seven Wonders of the World) sign on the road to Gatlinburg. Otto has his arm around her shoulder. They’re wearing matching Vikings State Champ football jerseys. It’s the only smiling photo of Fleeta I have ever seen. Otto is beaming.

  Fleeta Mullins and Otto Olinger

  invite you to an open church wedding

  on November 30, 1998, at the United Methodist

  Church. Friends and family are welcome. Reception

  to follow in the Fellowship Hall. No gifts—

  your presence is our present.

  “What do you think?” Fleeta folds the paper neatly in half. “Classy?”

  “Oh, yes,” I tell her.

  “Look at us. They stuck us next to the Coughlins’ announcement. They’s celebrating forty-five years of marriage, and they’s younger than we are. It’s awful.”

  “Who cares what other people think?”

  “I do. ’Cause I care what other people do.”

  “Your relationship is nothing to be ashamed of,” I remind her.

  “You know, it just ain’t fittin’…”

  “What?”

  “You know.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I don’t like public displays and feelings. You know what I mean. Hand-holding, eye-rolling, and squeeze-as-you-please antics in public. Makes me feel cheap.”

  Nevertheless, Fleeta takes the picture and puts it on the community announcement board next to the cash register. It’s a big move for Fleeta—it’s the first sign that she’s genuinely happy about getting married. “You know, you roll the dice when you have an open church wedding. You can’t control the riffraff. Some of my second cousins from Scott County, those carpetbaggers, the bunch of ’em, are sure to show up just for the free eats. And when they see they don’t have to give no gift, hell, they’ll load up a bus of folks and bring ’em.”

  “You can’t blame them. The eats are gonna be magnificent.” I get on the computer and e-mail Theodore the picture from the online edition of our hometown paper. He loves the stories of local politics (VOTERS BRIBED WITH PROMISE OF PORK RINDS), beauty and diet tips (JELL-O CAN WHITTLE YOUR WAISTLINE), and crime (MAMAW, AGE 90, PRINTS MONEY IN KEOKEE BASEMENT). An instant message pops up from Theodore: “I’m calling you right now.”

  Within seconds, the phone rings.

  “Hello, Theodore.”

  “How are you?”

  “I’m holding up. I have a nervous bride-to-be here.”

  “I ain’t nervous!” Fleeta hollers from the café.

  “She’s a wreck.”

  Theodore laughs. “How’s your husband?”

  “He’s getting better all the time. Slowly, slowly, he’s getting his strength back.”

  “Good. And how about you?”

  “I stay overwhelmed. I’m having a hard time adjusting to Etta being gone. I’m almost ashamed, it’s so hard for me.”

  “When can you go and see her?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to be a nuisance. Besides, I’m trying to get Jack to Scotland.”

  “What for?”

  “He’s always wanted to go. He made a list in the hospital of things he wanted to do before he died, and that was on it. By the way, he doesn’t know I found the list, so don’t say anything.”

  “Up to your old sneaky ways.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I have news. They’ve asked me to be on the board of UVA-Wise.”

  “Congratulations! That means you’ll visit more often.” I’m so happy to hear this news. The University of Virginia at Wise is our local arm of the Charlottesville main campus. It’s a good college in our county seat. Many proud sons and daughters of coal miners have graduated from there.

  “I said I’d do it. They’re trying to get the arts department up and running. You know, they have a private jet.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, and it comes to New York City on a regular basis, when it’s not hauling death-row inmates to your prison from out of state. I said I’d take the position if they could fly me in and out. Get your spare room rea
dy.”

  “I really need you here.”

  “I miss you too, Ave.”

  “How’s Max?”

  “Well, everything my mother taught me about relationships has come to pass. Especially her final warning before she went to meet her maker. She looked at me and said, ‘Familiarity breeds contempt.’ Max and I are on the outs. Evidently, I have bred some contempt.”

  “I’m sorry. He’s such a great guy. And he can cook.”

  “I know. On a gastronomic level, he is irreplaceable. But on an emotional level, he is distant and reserved and in need of counseling.”

  “I know all about that.”

  “Still prying feelings out of Jack Mac?”

  “With tongs.”

  “That must make for some scintillating conversation.”

  “Oh, you have no idea. I’m longing for connection so badly, I told Nellie Goodloe I’d direct The Sound of Music. We open Christmas week.”

  “A genuine holiday treat. Who’s in it?”

  “The casting is multicultural. I have a Baptist Melungeon from Esserville playing Mother Superior, an Indian playing Rolfe, and several Filipinos in the chorus. Should be interesting.”

  “I’d love to see it.”

  “Why don’t you come for Christmas?”

  “I thought you’d never ask!”

  “Are you serious? You’re really going to come?”

  “Max kicked me to the curb for Hanukkah, so I’m all yours.”

  I hang up the phone and immediately start making a holiday to-do list. I hadn’t been planning to put up a tree this year—what’s the point, Etta’s not going to be home—but now I’m going to drag every plastic elf and string of lights and glass ball out of the attic and do up the house like the main floor of Belk’s.

  Fleeta puts a slice of pie down on my counter. “What are you so happy about?”

  “Theodore’s coming for Christmas.”

  “He’s gonna miss my wedding, but he’s got the ducats to fly down here for Christmas? Where are the man’s priorities?”

  “Fleeta, you didn’t even want me at your wedding.”

  “I know. But I’m getting the fever now. I can’t hardly help it. It’s the biggest party I’ll ever be at, thanks to you and Iva Lou.”