Dr. Smiddy looks down at the chart. “Like emphysema.”
“Yes, like that,” I say.
“We don’t see a progression. Of course, it’s new. We’ll keep an eye on it.” He asks Jack, “Have you had any trouble breathing?”
“Nope.”
“Pain?”
“None.”
“You want to avoid any allergens. I would stop clearing asbestos pipes when you do construction, and you need to stay away from anything involving small particles.”
“My wood shop?”
“Wear a mask.”
“Okay, Doc.”
Dr. Smiddy wishes us a merry Christmas and then goes. Jack and I look at each other. We were not expecting to hear this news.
“I have to die of something someday, Ave.”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“My daddy lived with black lung for twenty years.”
“I know.”
“And in the end, he had a heart attack and died in his sleep. I’d take that.” Jack jumps off the table and goes behind the screen to dress.
“You’re going to be fine,” I tell him. I want to reassure my husband, but saying it aloud helps me believe it too.
In tan lederhosen and a green felt alpine hat, Theodore Tipton strides downstage for the finale of The Sound of Music. He removes the hat and launches into “Climb Every Mountain.” The years fall away from Theodore as he sings. Even I, who know him in real life as well as anyone, see the utter and complete transformation from the man I know into Captain Von Trapp. Theodore is so gifted, you believe him. Yes, he’s standing on a stage floor dusted in Ivory Snow soap flakes, and yes, those are fake trees on the backs of the Shawnee Avenue Bridge Club, but it doesn’t matter. When he speaks, you listen, and when he sings, you soar. He loves Maria, and their marriage will last forever. As the Von Trapp children encircle him, Tayloe does her best Julie Andrews and looks up at her Theodore with a combination of admiration and lust. (I have to say, as much as Tayloe avoided love scenes with Greg Kress, she’s thrown herself into them with Theodore.)
The children sing in perfect harmony. Otto, one hand steady on the follow spot, uses the other to wipe away a tear. The orb of white light quivers a bit, and Otto quickly puts both hands back on the levers. There is not a dry eye in the house. The audience rises to its feet as Otto hits the spotlight to black. The upstage lights silhouette the Von Trapp family. Curtain.
For the curtain call, Virginia Meador and her orchestra launch into a high-spirited rendition of “How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?” As the layered drapery of red velvet pulls away, the cast locks arms upstage, then they walk downstage. They take a group bow, and each of the major characters steps forward to take a separate bow.
Iva Lou gets the most applause as she does a deep curtsy without faltering. For curtain call, she changed into a completely new ensemble not seen in the show. She wears a winter-white floor-length satin slip gown and matching marabou high-heeled slides. (I guess the Baroness will go on to new and greater heights once the Nazis are defeated.)
I get a twinge in my gut as the crowd cheers for her.
The Fox house, the historic landmark home of Big Stone Gap, is a rambling clapboard house with many rooms and a wrap-around porch on a grassy plot right off of Main Street. Whenever people in town need a nice catered dinner or a party, this is where they are likely to end up. This was the home of the famous author John Fox, Jr., who wrote The Trail of the Lonesome Pine. His office and study are intact in a sweet little room off the garden. There is a red leather wing chair where he did his reading; a turn-of-the-twentieth-century oak desk with a swivel seat where he did his writing; and the jewel of his study, a typewriter, a glorious old-fashioned black enamel box with bright white letter keys.
The large kitchen is in the grand old Southern style, with walk-in pantries, a cooling porch, and a fireplace. Many of us have tried to copy the layout in our own homes: it features counter space in a full rectangle around the room. In the center, a long old farm table with benches is perfect for any job that requires an assembly line.
For the closing-night party, Nellie Goodloe has seen to it that the house is decorated in an Austrian theme with a little Christmas thrown in. There are paper edelweiss flowers everywhere, and small votive candles that look like they belong in a Catholic church. Evidently, Patsy Arnold attempted to make Wiener schnitzel for the party, but it didn’t turn out too well, so she quickly substituted her famous fried chicken instead.
Theodore grabs my arm as I make my way to the bar. I laugh.
“Do me a favor,” Theodore whispers in my ear. “When you see me swallowed up in a gaggle of chorus girls, rescue me.”
“You’ve got a deal.”
“Beth Hagan had such a grip on my forearm, she left a hematoma.”
“Sorry.” I pull Theodore into an alcove between the living room and hallway.
“You offer absolutely no protection between me and the general public. You’re a bad date.”
“I always was.”
“Hey, you two.” Jack pokes his head into the alcove. “They want to give you a toast.”
“Him or me?”
“Both of you. Get on out there.”
Even at this stage in our lives, Theodore and I are still a couple of people pleasers who want everybody to like us. Therefore, we do as we are told and take our places near the mantel. George Polly, the town manager—a dead ringer for young Arnold Palmer in his navy Shetland sweater—raises a glass to us. “We’d like to thank Ave Maria for a fine production. We’d also like to thank our old friend Theodore Tipton, who rode back into town like Gene Autry and saved our asses by steppin’ in for Greg Kress and his blowed-out knee. We thank you, and God speed.”
“Hear, hear!” Greg raises his glass from his wheelchair.
We clink our glasses. I smile and look out over the cast and their guests. When I turn to look up at Theodore, I catch Iva Lou’s face in the antique mirror over the upright piano. She stands on the far side of the room in deep conversation. I turn to see who she’s talking to, and I’m stunned when I catch a glimpse of Lovely Carter.
“Have you spoken to Iva Lou?” I ask Theodore.
“A little here and there. It was tough during those crash rehearsals. There wasn’t much time to talk.”
“We’re like strangers now.” I can’t hide my sadness.
“I think you’ll have to make the first move.”
“I tried. I went into the dressing room before our first run-through, and she was cold. I don’t know what to do.”
“You’re not trying hard enough.”
“You’re gonna make this my fault?”
“There’s something else going on here.”
“I wish you’d tell me.” I’m annoyed with Theodore; he’s being indirect. I need him to shoot straight. “Please.”
“You’re angry at her,” he says.
“I am not. I understand how hard it must have been for her in her situation. I have a lot of compassion for her.”
“No, you don’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t understand it at all. You’ve always played it very safe when it came to men. You don’t relate to women who fall in love, lose their minds—sometimes more than their minds—then are hurt and disappointed and move on. That’s out of your orbit entirely.”
“Oh, I’m unsophisticated?” I sound defensive.
“You used to be. Now you’re more of a snob. You carry around that imperious morality of your dear mother’s like a shield.”
“I do not.”
“You don’t like anything unsavory.”
“Having a baby out of wedlock is not unsavory.”
“Well, it’s not admirable. And you don’t like it. Why don’t you just admit it?”
Just then Theodore is pulled into the kitchen by Arline Sharpe and Billie Jean Scott, who want to tell him all about their trip to Knoxville to see the national touring company of Cabaret.
“Excuse me, Mrs. MacChesney?”
I turn. Lovely Carter smiles kindly at me. Her blue eyes have the same intensity as her mother’s. I wonder if people look at Etta and see me in her eyes in the same way. “Hi. How nice of you to come to the party,” I tell her.
Lovely runs her fingers over the beads on her evening bag and takes a breath. “I saw the show tonight—Iva Lou invited me. You did a great job. It was wonderful. I loved it.”
“It was the best cast we ever had.”
“I wanted to thank you. Whatever you said to Iva Lou made a difference. We’re talking. She’s going to drive me up to Ohio to meet my birth father.”
“Really?”
“After the holidays. It’s a terrible time of year to drive north, but it’s been a mild winter, so we shouldn’t have any problems. Anyhow, I wanted you to know that you really helped me. I hope someday I can do something to repay you.”
“I didn’t do a thing.”
Lovely gives my hand a squeeze and goes to the entrance. She gives Iva Lou and Lyle a hug good-bye, then Lyle helps Iva Lou into her coat.
“You aren’t leaving?” I say to Iva Lou.
“I’m tarred. And so is Lyle. You stay and have fun!” Iva Lou says with a big smile.
“I remember when you’d stay till the last drop of punch was gone.”
“Not anymore. Tell Theodore to stop by and see us before he heads back up to the big city.”
“I will,” I promise, even though the invitation excludes me.
“Good night.” Iva Lou turns and goes out the door.
I look around the party. Theodore is still in the kitchen with the girls, and Jack is having a deep conversation with Scott Hatcher about some heavy mining equipment. In an instant I am overwhelmed by Iva Lou’s dismissive treatment of me, and I run to the bathroom. I bolt the door shut. I sit down on the edge of the claw-footed tub and have a good cry.
The Gap Corporation (our local chamber of commerce of sorts) can’t believe the money they made on ticket sales for The Sound of Music starring Theodore Tipton. Three nights of packed houses, plus a final Sunday matinee, put them in the black. The coffers are full for the coming fiscal year, which means new streetlights, a bigger and better Christmas parade, and new teeter-totters and slides for the kiddie playground at Bullitt Park. Merry Christmas to us!
At first we couldn’t figure out where all the people came from. Then we realized that when word got out that Theodore was the Captain, every University of Tennessee fan in the area showed up to support him. His days as band director there are legendary, and they figured this was a way to pay homage to a great visionary. It was wonderful to watch Theodore sign autographs after every performance, as though he were John Raitt from Broadway. The goodwill didn’t stop with Theodore; his participation helped our other actors. The Kingsport Renaissance Players, a small theater group, asked Tayloe to play the lead in The Pajama Game for their dinner theater. Not bad for a girl in a Julie Andrews wig.
I have much to be grateful for this Christmas Eve as I make the rounds in our house, dimming the lights and checking the fires. The living room is so cozy. I picked up a fresh cranberry wreath at the Kiwanis Club tree sale. It looks festive on the mantel, with our stockings hung below.
There’s a full moon over Cracker’s Neck Holler that throws a silver veil across the valley. From our front porch, the lights in the far houses tucked up in the hills look like pearls on blue satin. I flip on the Christmas-tree lights. We loaded it with ornaments, down to the paper chain Etta and Joe made when they were little. I try not to cry. After all, my husband tells me to remember what I have, not what I don’t have: “Count who’s here, not who’s missing.” Good advice, if I could follow it. Is it too much to wish my daughter were home for the holidays? Etta said Christmas wasn’t a big deal in Italy; why can’t I be a little more Italian this year and put it all in perspective?
“Honey, Theodore’s doing the dishes!” Jack shouts from the kitchen. I go back to the kitchen, where Jack is stoking the fire and Theodore is clearing the dishes from the table.
“Stop right there. You’re company,” I say.
“Back off. I love scullery duty.” Theodore plunges his hands into the suds. “Good for the cuticles. That was delicious.” He runs more water in the sink. “I’ve never had better fettuccine. Jack, you’ve become an Eye-talian.”
“Live with anybody long enough, and you start looking like them and, eventually, cooking like them.”
“Is that a good thing?” I ask.
My husband smiles at me. “What do you think?”
“I talked to Etta. She’s going to my dad’s house for Christmas. They’re driving up there today.”
“She’s going to have a great holiday,” Jack assures me.
“I don’t know how you do it.”
“Do what?”
“How do you accept things? You handle whatever life throws you, and you don’t agonize.” I put my arms around my husband.
Theodore interrupts before Jack can answer. “Let me shed some light on this for you, Mrs. MacChesney. May I, Jack?”
“Go right ahead,” Jack tells him.
“First of all, Jack’s not Catholic. We invented agony. And secondly, your husband is able to cope with life because he’s a man.” Theodore rinses the dishes and looks out on the field. “A man is a simple creature. He deals with what’s in front of him and not what might be.”
“Sometimes all I think about is what might be,” I admit.
“Is it really so bad to know your daughter is happy in another part of the world?” Jack asks.
“When you put it that way…”
“She’s happy. That’s all we want for her.”
Jack and Theodore decide to play poker while I get ready for Midnight Mass. I hear them laughing and talking as I draw a bath upstairs. It really is an okay Christmas; after all, Jack is doing better, and Theodore, my best friend, somehow knew I needed him and showed up to lend his support. I have nothing to complain about.
The steam from the bath fills the room quickly, so I open the window. I lean out and breathe in the cold night air. Jack hung a string of lights on his new bridge in the woods; through the bare branches, I see the soft pink lights twinkling like a bracelet. I study the woods for a while, looking carefully from tree to tree. The wide trunks are covered in frost, and their tangled black arms look like ink scrawls in the white moonlight. I guess I’m looking for someone, or maybe just a clue. Some sign of the morning when I saw the young man. “I wish you were here, Joe,” I say aloud to the black sky. “I hope you know I miss you every day.”
I hear the escape drain gurgle on the tub, which tells me it’s full. I turn off the water, then light an elegant freesia candle Iva Lou gave me for my last birthday. This may be the final gift I ever receive from her, I think. But then I put the sad thoughts out of my mind. I climb into the tub, and as I sink down into the suds, the cold outside air makes a mist. I feel the warmth all around me. I float in the tub like a rose petal. A few moments pass, and then suddenly, an odd feeling goes through my body. It’s the very same feeling I had the night before Joe died. I felt him leaving me.
I climb out of the tub and throw on my robe. I go into our bedroom and find Jack’s cell phone and press Etta on direct dial. The phone rings on the other end.
“Hello? Dad?”
“No, honey, it’s Mom.”
“Mom, why are you calling?”
“I don’t know. I had a feeling.”
“A bad feeling?”
“Yes, I got really scared. Are you okay over there?”
“Mom, we’re fine. Isn’t Uncle Theodore there?”
“He’s playing cards with Dad.”
“Well, don’t talk to me. Go and have fun with them,” she says.
I hang up the phone, feeling like a fool. This is so typical of me, to mistake my hunches for something real, to give in to doom when there is none and to panic when I can’t control things. Ever since J
oe died, I have overreacted to the slightest waves of intuition. Sometimes I’m right, though. How many times have I replayed my son’s death, hoping for a different outcome? I remember kneeling next to Joe’s bed in the hospital. Etta was lying next to him on the bed, and Jack knelt on the floor on the other side. We made a canopy over him with our bodies. It was as if we were hiding him so the angels wouldn’t find him and take him away. I was watching Joe breathe, and in an instant, everything changed. He was still alive, but it didn’t seem like he was there anymore. I sensed him going away before he was gone. My mother radar had always stood me in good stead; now I knew of the doom and could do nothing to stop it. Mothers know the comings and goings of our children on an instinctive level, but this was different, deeper.
After hanging up with Etta, I go back into the bathroom. The hot water and the glorious suds have been sucked down the drain. I must’ve kicked the stopper out when I went to use the phone. I’m too weary to draw another bath, so I dry off and do my hair.
My husband whistles when I enter the kitchen. (Anytime I wear a dress and high heels, I get a whistle.)
“Double or nothing,” Theodore says to Jack.
“Is it appropriate to gamble on Christmas Eve?”
“Probably not.” Theodore smiles. “By the way, I agree with your husband. You look pretty.”
“Thanks. Anyone want to go to Midnight Mass with me?”
“Sure.” Theodore puts down his cards.
“I’ll go too, honey.”
While Jack and Theodore get their coats, I turn off the lights and blow out the candles on the fireplace. I’m instantly sorry not to have left a light on for Joe.
Midnight Mass is my favorite gathering of the year at Sacred Heart Church. For the most part, Big Stone Gap shuts down around seven P.M., unless there’s a sporting event. On Christmas Eve, you would swear that the population picked up and left, it’s so quiet. Except for the sound of an occasional decorative bell or the winter wind, there’s pure silence. Only the twinkle of the lights, draped and roped throughout our trees and on our windows, reminds us that there are still folks here.
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