Milk Glass Moon

by Adriana Trigiani

  “What’d he say to her?” Iva Lou wants to know.

  “He laughed.”

  “See there, he likes her. She was flirting with him. I’ve yet to meet the person on the face of this earth who doesn’t need a little sex.”

  “I haven’t noticed that it’s helped Fleeta’s mood any.”

  “Well, there are those people, few and far between, who indulge in sexual relations, and instead of calming them down, it serves as an agitator. Fleeta might fall into that category.” Iva Lou shrugs.

  Iva Lou and I have been coming to the Barter for years. It’s been the state theater of Virginia since the Great Depression, but it is most famous for being the oldest regional theater in the United States and the launchpad of many great actors, including Ernest Borgnine. We always enjoy the opening-night speeches by the artistic director, Robert Porterfield, and the prize drawings in which the winner gets a Virginia ham. In its early days, lots of folks couldn’t afford tickets, so they bartered goods or services instead (hence the theater’s name). There is a long history here, inside the pristine white walls with wedding-cake trim around the ceiling, a grand crystal chandelier, and a balcony that swoops over the orchestra seats and wraps around to the downstage area. The seats are ruby-red velvet, and Iva Lou thinks they look like roses when they’re not filled.

  “You want something?” Iva Lou asks as we stand in line at the refreshment counter during intermission. “I’m having myself a white wine. Stop looking around. They’re not here. Fleeta doesn’t like plays, only wrestling shows.”

  “You’re right.” I don’t think Otto and Fleeta are theater people. “How do you like the play?”

  “It’s about time they put Lee Smith’s words to music. ‘Fair and Tender Ladies.’ That about describes us, doesn’t it?” Iva Lou laughs.

  “On a good night.”

  “Well, Ave, I done made my mind up.” Iva Lou gives me a glass of white wine.

  “About what?”

  “I saw Dr. Phillips over at the hospital.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He laid out all of my options, and he recommended a lumpectomy—that’s where they take part of the breast—and then chemotherapy and radiation. He said there was a bit of a spread to the lymph nodes, but not to worry, the radiation would zap it. Now some of them nodes is on the other breast but he said he could git them too.”

  “So when do they operate?”

  “Soon. But I’m not going with that plan exactly.”

  My heart sinks. I went through this with my mother. She had her own ideas about how to deal with her cancer, and no doctor was going to tell her how to handle it. “Oh, Iva Lou, listen to the doctors, they know best. If he tells you this will work, it will work.”

  “You’re probably right. But I’m a hundred-percent girl.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I want a one-hundred-percent guarantee that I am cured. I want to come out of this thing knowing that I won’t git it again. I don’t want to go through all this and then five, seven years down the line find out I have to go through it all over again. And with maybe even less chance of success. I want it done with.”

  “So what do you want to do?”

  “I told him to take them.”

  “Take them?”

  “Both. I want a double mastectomy.”

  “Iva Lou, why don’t you think about this a while longer? This has happened so fast. There’s so much research going on, and the drugs are better, and chemotherapy gets results—”

  She cuts me off. “No, I decided. And I sat down with Lyle, and he’s with me on this. My doctor said to get a second opinion. He understands how I feel, but he thinks he can help me with the other line of treatment, and I’m sure he could. But he cannot guarantee that I’m cured. Remission, yes, but not a cure. I want a cure.”

  “Oh God. I don’t know, Iva Lou. In a strange way, I understand. You know, I learned a lot from my mother. I learned that every person handles this sort of thing in her own way. I might even do what you’re doing in the same situation. I don’t know. Now, Mama, she was ready to go. She had done her job raising me, and I don’t think she saw a bright future for herself. But you’re different. You want to live, and live a long time.”

  “That’s right!” Iva Lou looks so relieved. For the first time in weeks, that little crease between her eyes is gone. She is done thinking about it. “Look, this ain’t easy. I love my breasts. I have loved them and celebrated them from one end of Wise County to the other for most of my life. I was always so proud of my figure. I had it all. Honey, I worked it, I knew I had something special, and I’m, well, I’m the age I am now, and I’ve had a nice amount of years to enjoy them. And now they gotta go, because they have ceased to serve their purpose, and now they’re just gonna cause me problems. I am grateful that I had ’em. It’s been tremendously fun. But now I want something more. I want a guarantee that I’m gonna wake up every morning and live.”

  I can’t argue with Iva Lou. She is going to do this, second, third, fourth opinions notwithstanding. She has made up her mind.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Iva Lou gives me a poke. I must be frowning.

  “I just wish you didn’t have to go through this at all.”

  “Honey, that ain’t on the list of options. There’s so much I want to do with my life. I’m not gonna let this get me down. I got plans. I think of all the places in this world that I want to see, and how happy I’ll be when I get there. I’ve never looked at my life like it would end. But now I have proof that the clock is ticking. And by God, I’m not leavin’ until I’ve seen and done everything I’ve always wanted to do.” Iva Lou’s words tumble out of her. She’s resolute and relieved, has made her decision, and is clearly at peace with it.

  Iva Lou and I go back to our seats, and as beautiful as the music and words are, I don’t hear them. I’m thinking about my friend the “one-hundred-percent” girl.

  The doctors weren’t kidding when they told Iva Lou they were going to schedule her surgery quickly. They wanted to get her in before Thanksgiving, and they have. I worked today, but it was a blur, knowing that Iva Lou would be operated on tonight. I picked up Etta after school, came home, and took a long, hot bath, and now I’m getting ready to drive over to Kingsport. Iva Lou didn’t want a crowd there, just Lyle and me. I’m putting on my makeup in the bathroom. Etta comes in and sits on the edge of the tub.

  “Ma, can I go to the skate rink with Tara?”

  “Is Dad going?” I ask, applying lipstick.

  “He said he would.”

  “Then you can go.”

  Etta stays and watches me, as she has done so many times since she was little. I remember when I used to do the very same thing with my mother. I was fascinated by the way she powdered her perfect skin and drew her lips red with precision. She used to run a little water on her hands and then smooth her hair down. I imagine Etta with a daughter someday enacting the same rituals. I put on my perfume and then give Etta a quick dab (our little addition to Mama’s routine).

  “Is Aunt Iva Lou gonna die?” Etta asks quietly.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But your mama died from cancer, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “Were you scared?”

  I sit down on the tub ledge next to Etta. “Terrified.”

  “How did it feel when she died?”

  Most people focus on the grief that follows a death, or the process that comes before it, but no one, until now, has ever asked me about the day she died. “I thought it was the worst day of my life. And it was, until your brother died. But I could sort of understand when my mother passed away; she was sick a long time, and toward the end I begged God to take her. She was so thin, and she was in a lot of pain. They always tell you that they can give you something for the pain, but they really can’t. I don’t think it’s just physical pain either, it’s the sadness at leaving the world and the people you love.”


  “Were you with her when she died?”

  “No.” I breathe deeply.

  “Why?”

  “I went to work. Mama insisted. She felt okay, and I had been home for a few days tending to her. She was never bedridden. She could always walk around and do a few things, and then she would just get weak and tired and have to sit in her chair. I didn’t want to argue with her, so I went to work. I remember Nellie Goodloe brought me a sack of Red Delicious apples that day, and I knew Mama would love a baked apple, so I was looking forward to getting home and making her one.” We sit quietly for a few moments. I would like to end the story here, but Etta wants to know more.

  “Then what happened?”

  “I got home and I went into the house, and I called to her, and she didn’t answer. It was so quiet, it scared me. I dropped the apples, and they scattered across the floor. It seemed to happen in slow motion, with no sound. I knew something was terribly wrong, but I couldn’t seem to move my feet to go to her. Then I sort of came to and ran into her bedroom, and she was in her chair. She was gone.”

  “Do you think when I die that your mama will recognize me?” Etta wonders aloud.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “And Joe, will he know us?”

  “I hope so.”

  “He was so little, maybe he wouldn’t,” Etta says quietly.

  I don’t know how to answer Etta. No matter how long you’ve been a mother, sometimes your children ask you things for which there are no answers. The pat descriptions of an eternal life, of pearly gates and angels on clouds and God in a white beard, seem as removed from reality as Santa Claus at the North Pole. Etta is too big for the pretty stories, because she’s asking the deeper questions.

  “I hope he’ll know us.” I sit down next to her.

  “You’re not sure, are you, Ma?”

  “No, I’m not.” Maybe I shouldn’t be honest; I should reassure her. “I know it helps me a lot to think that I will see my mother and Joe again.”

  “Then you will.” Etta smiles and gets up. “Might as well believe in something, Ma. It can’t hurt.”

  Holston Valley Hospital sits above Kingsport, Tennessee, like a castle. As I pull into the parking lot, the sun disappears behind the brown mountain in streaks of orange and gold like a tiger’s-eye agate. I’m not afraid as I walk into the hospital, I’m confident for Iva Lou. I don’t know where this optimism is coming from, but it feels real.

  “Now, Lyle Emmett Makin, don’t talk Ave’s ear off.” Iva Lou is lying on a gurney in the preop hallway with an unattractive paper shower cap on her head. The nurse tucks a blanket around her. Even without makeup, Iva Lou looks luminous. She has the unlined face of a woman at peace with her decision. Judging from the look in her husband’s eyes, he is thinking the same thing. Lyle kisses his wife’s forehead as she is wheeled into the elevator for her surgery. I blow her a kiss, and she smiles as the doors close. “I’m gonna git a face-lift while I’m in here, y’all!” she shouts from behind the doors. I hear the nurse laugh as the elevator pulls up and away.

  “How about coffee, Lyle?”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Lyle Makin has been Iva Lou’s husband for thirteen years, and I can honestly say I know him as well today as the first day I met him. He never says a lot (though he’s mannerly), and I haven’t heard much about his past (he’s from Roseville, down in Lee County) or his work (he repairs heavy mining equipment), but I never needed to—he’s Iva Lou’s husband, and I love him because she does.

  Lyle is over six feet tall. He, like Iva Lou, has kept his shape trim over their years together. His salt-and-pepper hair has turned to white, and he’s grown a beard now, so he looks like one of the old guitar pickers at the Carter Fold. He has deep-set dark blue eyes (sign of a private person; boy, is that accurate) and a tawny complexion. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was part Melungeon. Melungeons, our local mountain folk, once scorned, have become popular lately, and their exotic looks have been celebrated in books and plays. Lyle has their bronze coloring, which indicates a mix of Cherokee, Turkish, French, African, and English.

  “How you holding up, Lyle?”

  “I’m all right. How about you?”

  “I’m okay.”

  We walk the long hallway in silence, and when we get in the line in the cafeteria, I’m surprised to see Lyle load up a tray. He has baked cod, a side of creamed spinach, two dinner rolls, black coffee, a small container of orange juice, and a slice of coconut cream pie. “Iva told me to eat,” he says, and shrugs.

  “She told me you’ve been very supportive.”

  Lyle doesn’t say anything for a minute, then takes a deep breath. “She’s my girl.”

  “I know.”

  “I was in Vietnam. Did you know that?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Yep. I volunteered late. I’d served in the Korean conflict, and then when Vietnam came around, I felt I needed to go. So I volunteered.”

  “There weren’t many people who felt that way.”

  “The army was the best thing that ever happened to me. I dropped out of high school in 1951, and they took me, so I felt like I owed ’em something.” Lyle shakes his container of orange juice before he opens it. “I was in active duty over there, and it was a sight. I lost a few of my buddies, saw several more of ’em injured bad, and one night, we was settin’ around and I told ’em that if I ever got wounded and was paralyzed that I wanted one of ’em to promise he’d finish me off right there. I told ’em I didn’t want to live like ’at. So one of my buddies, a guy named Bill Kelly out of Lansing, Michigan, promised me that he’d carry out my wishes should the time come. ’Bout a month later, I got hit. I told Bill, ‘Scratch what I told you, buddy. I want to live.’ And he looked at my leg and said, ‘It’s a good thing. They just got your thighbone. But I’m gonna shoot you anyway, ’cause you said I could have your watch.’ We had us a good laugh, and he carried me out of there and got me to the doctor, and sure enough, it wasn’t the end of my road, and they saved my leg. I tole Iva Lou this story last night, hoping it would make her feel better; like I understood, as much as a man can, what she was goin’ through. And she looked at me the way she does, and she said, ‘For Godsakes, Lyle, I can’t walk on my boobs.’ ” Lyle laughs. “She missed the point.” He stirs his coffee and looks at me. “You know, she’s all I got.” He pushes the tray away without having touched his food. “My kin is gone.”

  “She’s gonna be fine, Lyle.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know it. She could whup anything or anybody that comes in her path.”

  “That’s for true.”

  I’m sure this is the longest conversation I will ever have with Lyle Makin, but it certainly gave me insight into why Iva Lou gave up years of Happy Swinglehood for him. Lyle loves her in that everlasting way, and Iva Lou sensed that somewhere down the line this would be exactly what she needed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The ride home from the hospital flies by (it helps that I’m going eighty miles an hour and that there are no trucks on the road between Gate City and Big Stone Gap). The doctors met with us after Iva Lou’s surgery and told us they thought they “got it all.” Iva Lou was still under anesthesia when I left; the doctors hoped she would sleep until morning. The staff was nice enough to provide Lyle with a cot so he could sleep in the room with his wife.

  By the time I get home, Jack and Etta have had dinner, and he’s now in our room watching TV. I give him a report on Iva Lou, then go upstairs and check on Etta, whose bed is covered with open schoolbooks, notebooks, and pencils.

  “Looks like you got a lot of work ahead of you.”

  “I do. How’s Aunt Iva Lou?”

  “She’s okay. She’s gonna be fine.”

  “When can I go see her?”

  “Saturday,” I tell her.

  “Good. Dad left you some pizza in the kitchen.”

  Etta goes back to her homework. Instead of heading into the kitchen, I go out the f
ront door and sit on the steps. I’m not hungry, I need air, lots of air. I roll my head in circles slowly, as Theodore taught me to do years ago, in order to relieve an oncoming headache. It works. I can hear my neck bones crack at first, and then, after a few rotations, nothing. I walk around the house to the backyard. I think about going into the woods but decide I’m too tired, so I lie down on the ground and cross my arms under my head. I feel spent. I’ve been worried about Iva Lou and burying it, afraid to show my feelings to her or my family, and now it’s all catching up with me. I feel a cold teardrop at the corner of my eye.

  The sky is a strange color tonight, gunmetal gray, and the texture of the clouds makes it look like a skein of old wool. It reminds me of storms in adventure movies where all is calm but the sky, which churns overhead in anticipation. Maybe that’s why it’s warm; any minute the sky, like a ceiling soaked through by a broken pipe, will come crashing down and with it the cold rains of winter.

  “Here, Mama.” Etta joins me and gives me my jacket. “Don’t get up.” She lies down on the ground next to me and looks up. “Those clouds are creepy.”

  “Aren’t they?”

  “Have you ever seen them that color before?” she asks.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Isn’t it weird that it’s not cold? It’s almost Thanksgiving, and it hasn’t been cold yet.”

  “It’s very weird,” I agree.

  We lie there for a while until Etta asks, “If you got cancer, what would you do?”

  “I guess I’d find the best doctors. Then I’d listen to what they had to say. After that, I’d come home and talk to you and Daddy. Why do you ask?”

  Etta does not answer. The sound of the old coil on the screen door interrupts us. Jack stands on the porch. “What are my girls doing out here?”

  “Talkin’.” Etta shrugs.

  “No moon tonight,” Jack says, and sits down next to me.

  “Oh, it’s there,” Etta promises.

  “Where?” her father wants to know.

  “Northeast.” Etta points.

  “How do you know?” I ask her.