Big Cherry Holler

by Adriana Trigiani

  “What do you do?” I ask him a bit too chirpily.

  “I’m a marble guy.”

  “Game marbles?”

  “No.” He laughs. He has a good laugh—it’s right up there with his smile. “Marble for houses. Mantels. Walkways. Tabletops.”

  “Interesting. Is there a lot of call for marble in New Jersey?”

  “Are you kidding? It’s the goomba capital of the world.”

  “Hey. I’m a goomba,” I tell him.

  “Me too. Half.”

  Half Italian. Okay. That explains the dark hair and the good nose and the hitting on married women.

  “My mother was Italian,” he explains. “Her people were from Calabria. They’re very passionate.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “You don’t like small talk, do you?” he says.

  We sit quietly for a moment, and I consider this stranger as he gazes into the fire and sips his coffee. Who is this guy anyway? What kind of man uses words like “passionate” and persists with a woman whether she’s wearing her wedding ring or not? He eases his long legs out and rests his feet against the wall. I feel dwarfed sitting here next to him, but I shouldn’t—I’m far from tiny. But there is something about this man that fills up a room. The size of him makes me want to take him on and set him straight: no, I don’t like small talk. In fact, I don’t like anything frivolous. I would prefer it if folks just got to the point. I learned the value of time the hard way. It’s a sin to squander it.

  “Maybe I don’t like small talk because you’re not very good at it,” I tell him.

  I catch him off guard and he laughs. Is there anything sexier than a man who laughs at your jokes? I don’t think so. I take a sip of the coffee. I’ve never had a cup of coffee so good.

  “Have you read Browning’s Italy?” he asks.

  “By Helen Clarke? I love that book!”

  “I don’t know how anyone can come to Italy without reading it.”

  “That’s my favorite love story.”

  “Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett?” he says.

  “Who did you think I meant?”

  “Maybe you and me.” He smiles. “I’m kidding around.”

  “Good.” Boy, this guy is bold. “It’s awfully hot in here.” Let me get back to the Brownings before he says something else that makes me sweat. I push my chair away from the fire.

  “Why is it your favorite love story?” he asks.

  “Because it was an impossible situation. Elizabeth Barrett was living a terrible life; she was sick and housebound, writing poetry. Oppressed by a cruel father. And then Robert Browning sent her his poetry, and they began to correspond and fell in love through their words.”

  Pete picks up the story. “And then Browning proposed, and Elizabeth was afraid to tell her father, so they eloped and moved to Rome.” The man is finishing my sentences. “You know, you can rent their apartment in Florence.”

  “Really?”

  “I’ve been in it.”

  “You have?”

  “A friend of mine rented it last summer, and I went over and checked it out.”

  “Did you know they had a son?”

  “Penn.”

  “Right. And she defied the doctors; they told her that the trip to Italy from England would kill her. And that she would never have a child.”

  “So she followed her heart, and everything worked out. That’s very reassuring, isn’t it?” Pete looks at me.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Have you read Casa Guidi Windows?”

  “My mother had the poem in Italian.”

  “It’s a beaut. I think it’s Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s best poem,” he says, then looks back into the fire. I can’t believe I’m talking poetry with a man. When was the last time I did that? When did I ever do that?

  “So … what’s your story, Pete?” I ask him, feeling a jolt from the caffeine.

  “You want the whole thing?”

  “Sure.”

  “I grew up in New Jersey. I went to Rutgers. Studied theater. Set design. Graduated. Worked in not-for-profit theater in New York. Got sick of that. Hooked up with an old buddy of mine; we started this marble thing. Now I live in Hoboken. And once a year, I come over here for a couple of weeks to buy marble.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  I don’t know why his answer makes me smile, but it does.

  “What’s funny?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re glad I’m not married?”

  “No.”

  “It would be nice if you weren’t,” he says, tapping my leg with the toe of his shoe. I move my leg.

  “Why?” I’m only asking because I’m dying to hear what he’ll come up with.

  “Well, for starters, if you weren’t married, we wouldn’t be sitting down here having coffee.” Pete’s eyes travel from me to the sign that says ROOMS, with an arrow pointing up the stairs.

  I don’t move a muscle. I can’t. Between the bad springs in this chair and my nerves shutting down one synapse at a time, I can’t trust my body. “Boy, this is some haircut.”

  “What?”

  “I never got this kind of attention with my old hair.”

  “It’s not the hair.”

  “Come on. You don’t even know me.”

  “I like what I see so far.”

  “Pete, let me tell you about the part you don’t see.”

  “Please do. That’s the good stuff.”

  “I don’t know how good this stuff is. I was the Big Stone Gap Town Spinster for fifteen years.”

  “You called yourself that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I waited a long time to fall in love. And then I married him.”

  “So how’s it going?”

  “What?”

  “Your marriage?”

  I take a deep breath. “Not so great.”

  “Why not?”

  “We’re very different.”

  “That can be a good thing.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What did you think it was going to be like?”

  “Being married?”

  “No. Loving someone. When you were a spinster—your word—did you imagine what love would be like?”

  I sit back. No one has ever asked me this before. Not even Theodore. That’s the sort of thing we might have talked about, but we were so busy making each other feel safe in our roles that we didn’t talk about the murky, deep stuff that a potential lover might unearth. And Jack Mac doesn’t talk about these things at all.

  “I thought that love made everything better. I thought that it was a state of happiness and security. Yeah, that’s it. And serenity. I thought love made a person whole.”

  “How would it do that?” Pete asks.

  I think about this for moment. “It can’t.” Saying that almost makes me cry. I rub my eyes. I hope that Pete thinks I’m tired.

  “I’ve upset you.”

  “No, no. I should think about these things more.” I mean that. “You must think I’m crazy.”

  “I think you’re fascinating.”

  “Me? Come on.” I shift in the chair. Another spring stabs me, this time near my ribs.

  “So what’s the problem with your husband?”

  I won’t answer that because I have no answer. Instead I state the facts. “My husband was supposed to come on this vacation, and at the last minute he told me he wasn’t coming because he thinks I need time to think, and he told me that I need to decide if I want to stay married.”

  “Do you?”

  I should say yes, but I don’t. “He may not want me at the end of this vacation.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better if you decided what you wanted?”

  “That’s what he says.”

  “He’s right.”

  I watch Pete drink his coffee by the light of the fire. I imagine him leaning across the chair and kissing m
e. I shake my head. The picture goes.

  “Well, this is going to be an interesting month for you, isn’t it?” He smiles at me. I wish he didn’t have such great teeth.

  “And busy,” I tweet. Where did that sound come from? I breathe. “There’s a big calendar at the house filled with stuff to do. Giacomina, my dad’s girlfriend, came up with a month of activities. And I like a plan.”

  “The first thing you need to do is …” Pete leans toward me and puts his hand on the arm of my chair. “Throw out that calendar.”

  Pete walks me home in the rain. Giacomina and Papa are back from the ski shop, and it’s suppertime. Where did the time go? That cup of coffee lasted for hours! Mafalda invites Pete to stay, and he graciously accepts. He instantly charms my family; he is so easygoing and fun, it’s as though he’s been around for years. As I watch him keep the conversation going, I think about my husband, who, in the same situation, would rather listen than talk. I like to sit back and listen, but when you’re married to a quiet man, you have to do the talking most of the time. I relax back into the chair and let Pete do the entertaining.

  Chiara and Etta tell Pete all about the jellyfish in the ocean at Sestri Levante. He tells them about the jellyfish on the Jersey shore. As we eat a hearty lamb stew (what does Mafalda do to the meat to make it so tender?) and bread, both of the girls develop wild crushes on him. He pays close attention to every word they say, the girls, vying to impress him, transform from kids to coquettes before our eyes. Papa asks Pete about stonework for a wall behind the house; Pete gives him helpful tips. Papa has an easy rapport with Pete, much like he has with Jack Mac. This Marble Man is just a big old American charmer. He’s got everyone in this house under his spell. Everyone except me. I am not falling for him. No way. There is no way a guy this smooth can be genuine. I’m going to enjoy him and, for security purposes, I will wear my wedding band at all times. This tingling I feel in Pete’s presence just reminds me that I’m alive; it doesn’t mean I could fall for him; he’s not a threat.

  By the time I put the girls to bed, Mafalda has done the dishes, straightened the kitchen, and set the table for breakfast. (That’s a good time-saver. I’ll remember it once I’m home.)

  Papa and Giacomina sit on the couch in the living room, cuddling and reading the paper. I sit down at the kitchen table, in Pete Rutledge’s chair; okay, now I’m naming chairs after him, what is that all about? He left nearly an hour ago, though the girls begged him not to.

  “How about a cup of coffee?” Giacomina says, touching my shoulder in a way that reminds me of my mother.

  “Mafalda prepared the pot for breakfast already.”

  “I will put it back the way I found it. Don’t worry.” Giacomina smiles and turns on the stove. The clean mountain water makes a hissing sound in the blue-and-white-enameled pot.

  “So, you met Pete at the disco last night?”

  “Yeah. He asked me to dance. I wish I wouldn’t have.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m married.” Saying this aloud absolutely kills the temptation. (I must remember that.)

  “Dancing with a man isn’t a bad thing.”

  I look at Giacomina. Is she kidding? The thought of falling into the arms of another man on an Alpine cliff while music plays through the trees is a terrible thing. Giacomina doesn’t know me very well. I am an all-or-nothing woman. I married Jack MacChesney the first night I made love to him. Not on paper, but in my mind, the commitment began right there. Later, when we went to the priest and said our vows, it was just a validation of what I already knew. I can’t have a tall American man with a killer smile and great legs pull me away from the promises I made. What am I saying? What am I thinking? In twenty-four hours, I’m imagining a romance with someone besides my husband? Italy is a dangerous place.

  “It’s very complicated, no?” she says.

  “What?”

  “Men and women.”

  “No, not really. It’s easy. You make promises and you keep them. That’s all.”

  “Easy to say.”

  “No, it’s easy to do,” I insist. “I can appreciate a nice-looking man who—” why am I struggling to describe Pete? “—reads poetry and tells funny stories. But that doesn’t mean anything. It’s just admiration of some sort or another, I guess.” I never admired any man, really and truly, until Jack MacChesney. So why I am using that word now to describe Pete Rutledge from New Jersey? “Well, I don’t mean admiration. I don’t know him well enough, nor will I, to use such a strong word. Let’s just say I get a kick out of him.”

  “Who?”

  “Pete.”

  “Oh, I thought you might be talking about your husband.”

  “No, I meant Pete.”

  As Giacomina pours our coffee, the way she holds the pot with the yellow-and-white-striped pot holder, and how her simple gold wristwatch twists down to the inside of her wrist and dangles there, face out, and how she moves the cup toward me—scooting it on the table, not lifting it, just like Mama used to do—all make me want to confide in her. I could never lie to my mother. She would ask me questions, like Giacomina just did, and lead me gently toward the truth, so I would never have to lie. I could admit the worst things about myself to my mother, and she would never judge me.

  “Okay. All right. Okay. I’m a little attracted to him,” I confess out loud.

  Giacomina smiles. “We all were. You can’t be a woman and not be attracted to him. Did you see the girls?” I nod. “There are men like that out there. They sparkle. Your father is one.”

  I look into the living room. Papa has fallen asleep, his head lying against the back of the couch like a throw pillow. For the first time, he looks older to me. But there is an ease to his aging; a natural grace. It doesn’t look like the loss of something. It’s like he traded in excitement for comfort. The hair, almost completely silver now, the softer jawline, and the padding around the middle have turned him into a grandfather. And he’s letting it happen. Happily.

  “I have this under control, Giacomina.” I reassure myself, saying it aloud.

  As I lie in bed, unable to sleep because I’m wired from the caffeine (I should never have a cup of strong coffee late at night, what was I thinking?), I review my actions of the past day. This is a habit I’ve had since I was a child. I want to nod off with a clean slate, in case I die in my sleep. I apologize to God for my shortcomings, and while I’m at it, beg him for insight into my problems. A lot happened today. I imagined kissing a man whose attraction to me has been made abundantly clear. Bad. I opened up to him about the problems in my marriage. Bad. I allowed him to stay for dinner. Bad. I agreed to see him again. Worse. Now Pete Rutledge has a fan club at 108 Via Scalina. Now they’re invested in him. Now he’s a part of things! Am I falling for him? God, this is sick! What was Giacomina getting at tonight? Does she want me to leave Jack Mac and move to Schilpario and marry Pete Rutledge and start a new life? Of course not. But why do I think that’s what she means?

  I sit up in bed.

  I realize something that makes me queasy at first, then rings through my head like a proclamation. I am still repressed! That’s my problem! I hold my face in my hands. I can feel the heat rising off of my face. I thought I no longer buried my feelings and made decisions about my body and my life out of fear, but in fact, I do. Pete Rutledge unglues me, and I can’t handle it! I’m afraid he’s going to stir me up and then I’ll really have a problem. I was so smug, so shielded from temptation, in Big Stone Gap. I was proud that I didn’t want any man but my husband. That I had never wanted any man but my husband. Now I can’t say that. I can’t even think it, because it’s not true anymore. I want Pete Rutledge. Never mind I must not have him, I want him. Why can’t I tell Pete to go away? Is this retaliation for Karen Bell? No, I’m not one of those tit-for-tat people. Maybe this is what Jack Mac was talking about. Maybe he thinks I didn’t live enough before we married. I got married, but I didn’t leave the spinster behind: I moved her from Poplar Hill to Cra
cker’s Neck, and now I’ve dragged her across the Atlantic Ocean to northern Italy! But I’m still the same woman, and Jack MacChesney is right—I am not being honest about my feelings.

  Pete promised the girls a trip up into the Dolomites, a mountain range that touches the Italian Alps. (I know, I know, don’t get me started on how I got myself into this one; Pete came back to the house with some slate to make the girls a chalkboard, and before we knew it, we were planning a day trip.) It’s a fifty-mile ride, one way, so we plan on a very early departure. He wants to show them the marble quarry. At first I think to bring Papa and Giacomina with us, but I decide against it. Etta has been spending time with everyone but me. And Pete is fun. I am doing nothing wrong (I keep reminding myself), and there’s no need to avoid our new friend. He makes us all laugh. Besides, I want to see the marble quarry.

  As Pete drives, the girls jockey for position next to him. We finally decide that Chiara can sit next to him on the way over and Etta on the way home. I wasn’t planning on dealing with adolescent hormones for another five years, but here they are, in all their raging glory. I sit by the passenger window as they chat and giggle. Pete and I speak occasionally, to ask and answer questions about the directions and how far we have to go, but mostly I sit with my own thoughts as we speed and swerve through the mountains.

  The marble quarry is an enormous pit dug in the side of Assunta Mountain, named for a woman two brothers loved and fought over. She died, and neither of them ever loved another woman again. As Pete explains this to the girls, they nod, their eyes wide with understanding. As we walk toward the marble pit, Chiara gives Etta a tiny pot of peach lip gloss; Etta dips her pinky into it and applies it carefully to her lips. Where did she learn how to do that?

  The marble pit is so deep and wide and black, it looks like the pit of hell in the catechism book Mama bought me for my confirmation so many years ago. I take a step back.

  “Are you all right?” Pete asks.