Nellie gives me the letter. “Fantastic,” I tell her as I scan the page and wonder if we can import Mr. Chapin to direct the dang thing. Nellie has precast the musical, so directing this show is like being the general of an all-volunteer army without guns.
Nellie has a flair for lots of things—her talents range from horticulture to home decorating. She is forever coming up with ideas to turn Big Stone Gap from a coal mining town into an elegant tourist attraction for those who might want to experience the natural beauty of our mountains. She was in charge of the refurbishment of the downtown area. It was her idea to place hanging baskets of blooming flowers on the streetlights and electrical poles down Main Street. I wish she had the same vision when it comes to casting. Alas, she mistakes exuberance for skill. She says yes to everyone who wants to be in a play, instead of finding the right person for the role. Our chorus of Mame was so enormous, we could have restaged Ben-Hur, and we almost did during the fox-hunt scene.
The surplus of bodies begins with my chorus. I have an overstock of nuns (members of the Lonesome Pine Hospital Auxiliary, the Methodist Sewing Circle, the Dogwood, Intermont, and Green Thumb garden clubs, and Jean Hendrick’s bridge club all thought it would be “fun” to be in the production, so I’ve got the nuns outnumbering the bad guys two to one), age-inappropriate children (my Gretl is thirteen, with a figure like Ava Gardner’s, when in reality she should be five), and my Captain Von Trapp (Gregory Kress), while attractive and a terrific baritone (thank you, Free Will Baptist Church Revival Choir), is on the sunny side of seventy.
Maria will be played by Tayloe Slagle Lassiter, who we are convinced, without her teenage marriage and responsibilities at home, could have made it on the Great White Way, outdazzling any New York klieg lights with her beauty and talent. Tayloe is thirty-six years old, but her figure is better than ever, and her face is as porcelain-perfect as the day she debuted in the Outdoor Drama as June Tolliver at the age of sixteen. Still, we are asking a lot of our audience to accept an over-thirty novice in a convent. After all, Tayloe is no Dolores Hart. As I survey the cast gathered onstage, I realize this is surely the least of my problems.
Tayloe’s daughter, Misty, who is around Etta’s age, moved to Kingsport and became a roving reporter for WCYB-TV while attending East Tennessee State. She’s got her mother’s beauty and her father’s brains, which makes for good camera work and short interviews.
“Where’s my script?” Iva Lou enters from stage right. With one hand, she unbuttons her black velvet trench coat with leopard trim, and with the other, she pulls her leopard reading glasses out of her décolletage. “I watched the movie about seven times,” she admits. “I think I got the Baroness down.”
“Take your seat, please, Iva Lou,” I tell her. “Welcome to our first rehearsal. I think it would be in our best interest not to watch the movie; rather, let’s focus on our own interpretation of the story. The music rehearsals will be conducted by Virginia Meador, and I’m asking—let me say, begging—you all to be on time and take your work seriously.”
Virginia, petite in plaid, waves from the piano in the pit. She’s been a steady force in all our productions since 1970, even though she was heard telling folks at the Post Office that she didn’t have platinum streaks in her chestnut-brown hair until she started accompanying our musicals on the piano. Let’s face it, it’s stressful.
Iva Lou pulls a thermos of hot coffee out of her tote bag. “I’ll tell you one thing. We need to rewrite the ending of this old chestnut right here and now. Tayloe, you might be a singer and a dancer and a nun, but make no mistake, I’m the femme fatale of this here piece, and I want the Captain. You need to know that I’m not going down without a fight.”
“Now, ladies.” Greg rises from his seat and holds his arms out as if to stop a fistfight between the two women.
Tayloe laughs. “See you in the Abbey.”
Louise Camblos raises her hand. “Hey, Madame Director, when do we get fitted for our costumes? I’ve waited my whole life to be a nun. None in the morning and none at night.” The cast chuckles.
“Carolyn Beech is in charge of costumes again this year.” I motion for Carolyn to stand.
Cranky Carolyn stands up and raises a finger of warning. Her slender pointer finger is as bony as her body. She’s had the same Dorothy Hamill wedge haircut since 1976, but it’s a good choice because it balances her pronounced chin. Carolyn is good-looking but has the sloped shoulders of a woman who has spent most of her life bent over a Singer sewing machine and isn’t one bit happy about it. “I want to ask everybody to stay within a two-to-five-pound weight range after measurements. I didn’t appreciate it last year when the chorus of Annie Get Your Gun decided to go on Jenny Craig after I measured them. I had to pull all-nighters for a week, taking in those sundresses. My fingers ain’t been right since. In fact, there’s days when I have no feeling at all in my right pinky. Please be aware that we are not creating the town musical in a vacuum. Unless you get a bad disease and can’t help it, I don’t want to see a substantial weight loss before opening night. Thank you.”
Iva Lou raises her hand. “As a cancer survivor, I don’t need to hear that.”
Carolyn stands. “Sorry, but you know what I mean.” She sits.
“Anyone else?” I ask.
“Eddie Shankle can’t play Rolfe,” Nellie pipes up. “He was called in for weekend duty in Knoxville with the National Guard.” She bites her lip nervously.
“So who have we got?”
Ravi Balu raises his hand. “Me, ma’am.” Ravi is the twenty-year-old son of one of our doctors at Lonesome Pine Hospital. He is handsome, with jet-black hair and luminous coffee-colored skin. His family moved to Southwest Virginia from India when Ravi was a boy.
“How on earth can Ravi play Rolfe? Rolfe is supposed to be a blond,” Joyce Page, who with her sexy long legs and platinum hair is hardly appropriate casting for the matronly Frau Schmidt, wonders aloud. “And German.”
“Let me know now if you want me to wig him,” Carolyn barks.
“I don’t know about a wig,” I tell her diplomatically.
“Whew.” Ravi dramatically wipes his brow. The cast cracks up.
“Well, just let me know one way or the other. I don’t need to be tracking down special hairpieces and all kinds of makeup at the last minute,” Carolyn says.
“I think we’ll skip the wig,” I tell her. “And the makeup.”
“Fine.” Carolyn waves me off like she’s cheating a hot flash. I wonder if she’s even read the play.
The cast begins to read the script aloud, and waves of futility peel through me as they struggle with the words. I’m not the only one who’s nervous. The smell of Greg Kress’s Wild Country cologne wafts over us as he sweats (I recognize the Avon aftershave because Worley Olinger wears it, or it wears him, however you want to look at it). This is Greg’s first leading role, and he’s feeling the pressure. It’s a long way from the choir loft of the Free Will Baptist Church to the bright lights of the Powell Valley High School auditorium.
As we read, some actors actually attempt Austrian accents; they fail miserably, falling into the Vivien Leigh Four-Door Ford problem. The story goes that when England’s Vivien Leigh auditioned for the role of Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind, they brought in a dialogue coach to help take her accent from British highbrow to Southern fried. She’d say “four-door Ford” as “fo-ah do-ah fo-ah,” over and over again, hoping to capture our twang. Evidently, I’m not the only one familiar with the GWTW dialogue-coach story. Iva Lou is playing the Baroness like Belle Watling. She goes up on the ends of sentences as though all the lines are written with a question mark (they’re not).
The only thing European about this production will be the German chocolate cake Fleeta makes for the opening-night party. Ravi Balu as Rolfe? Local newsman Bill Hendrick as Uncle Max? We’ll just have to take that leap of faith and hope the audience goes along for the ride.
“‘Oh, George…’” Iva Lou rea
ds from the script.
I can’t take it another second, so I correct her. “It’s GAY-org. GAY-org.”
“Honey, I don’t care if he’s gay or hetero, I’m the Baroness Von Love Interest, and the Captain’s gonna know it before the final curtain.”
Slick patches of gray ice cover the curves of the road as I drive up to church. I slip the Jeep into a low gear to keep from sliding. My mind keeps wandering back to the disastrous read-through. I will light every candle in the sacristy this morning in hopes that some showmanship will grip my motley cast as rehearsals continue.
Sacred Heart Church sits on top of the hill in the southern section of Big Stone Gap, above the train tracks (“the southern line”; hence the name) and the WLSD radio station. WLSD doesn’t stand for dropping acid; rather, the letters represent the counties (Wise, Lee, Scott, and Dickenson) that can hear the programming from the radio tower that blinks above Big Stone Gap like the Eiffel Tower.
I’ve bought radio ads for the Mutual Pharmacy since I can remember. They run them during the afternoon music-marathon programs, which are called Pop Corn, since the DJs play pop and country music.
There was a little bit of controversy when Sacred Heart Catholic Church moved from Appalachia to Big Stone Gap. The church in Appalachia was a small, sweet blue clapboard building next to the railroad tracks on the edge of the Powell River. Roman Catholics in these parts have always been a very small but diverse group. You had sons and daughters of immigrant coal miners who came to make their living: Polish, Czech, Italians (who returned to Italy as soon as they saved enough money), and then the converts who, for whatever reason, decided to become Catholic despite the low cachet of such a move in these mountains. You could count the converts on one hand. When our ranks grew to a hundred or so in the 1970s, the church hierarchy decided to build a mod new church and rectory in Big Stone Gap (respectful of their Appalachian roots, they saved the bell tower, which now adorns the roof ). Today the bells are ringing for a memorial mass held in honor of Nonna.
There are lots of cars parked outside Sacred Heart. I’m surprised, but Fleeta reminded me that lots of folks remember my grandmother from her visit to Big Stone Gap. The cars of some prominent Protestants are parked alongside those of our members. There was a time when a God-fearing Baptist wouldn’t set foot in a Catholic church. Those days are over. People around here are generally happy if anyone goes to church regularly at all—wherever you go is fine with them.
I pull in to a parking space. My husband is waiting for me outside the church. I left home early this morning to make an emergency delivery up on Skeen’s Ridge. Jack waves to me. Once again he’s wearing a suit—this is a world record. It’s the fourth time this year, and I’m counting because I like it.
Papa is having a memorial mass said in Italy today, so Nonna will get a double boost on her journey to heaven (not that she’ll need it—but to be on the safe side, it’s better to have two masses than one or none). The one thing the Catholics get right is praying for the dead. When we pray for them, we honor their lives while helping them move up the afterlife’s angelic food chain. For example, if loved ones are stuck in purgatory, a few prayers may give them the pass out of there and into heaven.
Father Drake, our serene pastor who delivers meaningful homilies with a gentle countenance, has placed a picture of Nonna on the lectern (Jack must have brought it—I didn’t think of it). As we begin the mass, I am swept into the words and ritual that have meant so much to me through the years. I would never say I’m a religious person, but I am a person of tradition and habit. So when I hear prayers I learned in childhood, I am still moved by them.
Jack gets up and reads the story of Ruth from the Old Testament, which always gets to me because it’s about a woman who leads her family, which is what Nonna did for us. Iva Lou reads the second scripture and cries all the way through it. It’s the passage about Mary the mother giving her son over to die. (Father Drake must have chosen the weepies for this service.) Nellie Goodloe, a Presbyterian, muffles her sobs with a handkerchief, though I can’t be sure if she’s missing my grandmother or crying about the disastrous first reading of The Sound of Music. We’ll never know.
Father Drake keeps the mass mercifully short—the less kneeling/standing/sitting combos the Protestants have to endure, the better. Father says the final prayer and recesses, stopping to embrace Jack and me. The congregation follows him out. They make their way downstairs to the meeting room, where we said mass for years before the top of the building was added to form an actual church.
I take a moment alone at the altar with Nonna’s picture. There’s a bouquet of flowers: delicate white roses and yellow daisies in a crystal vase. The card says, “All our love and sympathy, the Bakagese family.” Pearl Grimes was just a girl when she met Nonna twenty years ago, but she didn’t forget Nonna, and she never forgets me, and that makes me cry a few more tears.
“Come on, honey,” Jack says from the back of the church. He holds my hand as we go downstairs. The meeting room is fragrant with rich coffee and sweet butterscotch pie. Our friends gather around us and express their sympathies.
FLEETA’S BUTTERSCOTCH PIE
Makes 8 servings
CRUST
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon salt
6–7 tablespoons cold water
2/3 cup Crisco
PIE FILLING AND MERINGUE
½ to ¾ cup brown sugar
2½ tablespoons cornstarch
a pinch of salt
1 cup milk
1 cup cream
3 egg yolks (save egg whites for meringue)
2 tablespoons butter or margarine
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/3 cup sugar
For crust: Sift together flour and salt, then stir in the water. Cut in Crisco with a pastry blender or blending fork until pieces are the size of small peas. To make pastry extra tender and flaky, divide Crisco in half. Cut in first half until mixture looks like cornmeal. Then cut in remaining half until pieces are the size of peas.
OR
Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Put all crust ingredients in a food processor and blend until mixed. Roll out the dough into a circle big enough to line a 9-inch pie pan. Place dough in pan and bake for 12–15 minutes. Makes 2 pie crusts and can be frozen (unbaked) for later use.
For the filling and meringue: In a bowl, mix brown sugar, cornstarch, and salt together until well blended. Transfer to a saucepan. Add milk and cream, stirring constantly over medium heat. Add egg yolks and cook until thickened. Add butter and vanilla, stir in, and pour into baked pie crust. Beat egg whites until almost stiff. Add 1/3 cup sugar and beat until stiff. Spread on pie and place in oven preheated to 325 degrees. Bake for 10–15 minutes until meringue is browned.
The buffet is loaded with more of Fleeta’s blue-ribbon dishes. There are trays of delicate “ham and biscuits” (tiny sandwiches made with thin-sliced ham, mustard, and flaky, fresh biscuits), hot serving dishes of scalloped-potato squares, crystal bowls of fresh fruit salad, individual Jell-O molds with whipped cream, peanut-butter cookies, and a wire basket overflowing with Catherine Rumschlag’s butter rolls from the Bread and Chicken House. I don’t know how Fleeta does it—when it comes to events, she has almost a psychic ability about how much food to make and who to call to fill in the holes. Jack and I get in line for the buffet behind Father Drake.
“Here.” Fleeta gives me a cup of hot coffee in a Styrofoam cup. “That there was a sad service, and we didn’t even have the body here.”
“What can you do?”
“Not a goddamn thing.” Fleeta shakes her head. “Can I get you a cup of coffee, Father?”
“You don’t have to wait on me, Fleeta.”
“You got that right, Padre. Self-serve is easier on everybody.”
Father Drake smiles. Fleeta goes back into the service kitchen, where she barks orders at Otto and Worley, who are prepping more platters.
“Sorry about Fleeta’s cursin
g,” I say.
Father shrugs. “What can you do?”
Iva Lou has her coat and sunglasses on and her car keys in hand. She gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Honey-o, I gotta get to work. We’re doing our annual inventory. Last time I missed, the volunteers took all my Jackie Collins books and put them in the discard bin. It was traumatic.”
“You like Jackie Collins?” Father Drake asks.
“Love her. She’s my hero. She has her finger on the pulse and her thighs in fishnet. You can’t beat that. Do you read her?”
“Dangerous Kiss was my favorite.”
“Father!” Iva Lou covers her mouth. “I swan!”
Father winks. “The Old Testament gets a little dry sometimes.”
“I’ll say.” Iva Lou gives Father a thumbs-up and goes.
My time is stretched to the limit with work and The Sound of Music rehearsals. I want to have the house ready for Theodore’s arrival. I convinced him to come down for a couple of weeks and have a nice, long visit. This is our first Christmas without Etta, and I need total diversion. Jack doesn’t say it, but I know he’s also sad that she won’t be here. But I guess he still feels he needs to be totally supportive of Etta and Stefano’s marriage, because I wasn’t.
Theodore is not one to sit around by the fire, so we plan to go spelunking in the sand caves (just like the old days!), to the Southwest Virginia Museum for the Dogwood Garden Club Christmas show (the festival of trees is not to be missed), and to catch the Big Stone and Appalachia holiday parades. Theodore is used to those glamorous Fifth Avenue parades now, but there’s nothing like our hometown ones, complete with Santa throwing candy into the crowd.
I still haven’t said a word to Jack about the list I found when he was in the hospital. Neither of us keeps a diary, but I’m sure if we did, we wouldn’t want each other to read it. So, unless he brings it up, I’ll keep mum on the subject. He has rebounded from his surgery beautifully, and every day I thank God that it wasn’t worse. There won’t be a day when I don’t worry about his heart, but at least I didn’t lose him. I’ll never forget what it felt like when I didn’t know.
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