Big Cherry Holler

by Adriana Trigiani

  “You’re not cold. You’ve just been hurt.” Jack gets up. And then he does the strangest thing. He kneels in front of me. “And I can’t believe I hurt you more.”

  My husband puts his head in my lap and cries. And I realize a very important thing about him, and maybe it’s the thing that will help us go forward: he never blames me for what I am; and he doesn’t judge me. He accepts me. And that’s the one thing I never gave him in return. This guy never had a chance with me; not really. He was never enough. But who could be? No man could measure up to my standards.

  “Jack, look at me.” He does. “I thought I had changed. I thought you changed me with your love, by giving me the kids, by sharing this life with me. I thought I let you in, but I never really did.”

  “I knew what you were when I fell in love with you. I knew it was going to be hard. I knew that when I signed on. Remember when you went into that Deep Sleep?”

  Of course I remember. Years ago, I collapsed and slept for one week straight. At the time, Doc Daugherty called it a nervous breakdown.

  “I almost decided not to go after you anymore. I thought, there’s something going on inside this woman that no one will ever know or understand. But I couldn’t give up. I couldn’t give you up. I had the out, I had the chance, but something made me stay. I think about that a lot. Why did I stay? Is it because I love you? Or is it more than that? I know you need me, and maybe that’s my purpose, to be needed. I don’t know.”

  “That’s not your purpose.”

  “What is, then?”

  “To be chosen.” Now it’s my turn to cry. “And I never chose you. But I do now. Today. If you’ll still have me.”

  My heart is breaking. This good and decent man has been dragged through my crazy life like a wagon. It wasn’t all terrible, and maybe there were times when he wasn’t dragged. We’ve had great times together. And tragedy. And routine. Great sex. No sex. But it has all been built upon sand. There is no foundation here because I never truly committed to this. I was thirty-six years old, and I thought it was time. That’s why I got married. Yes, I loved him, but I also knew that this was an opportunity that would not come again. I made myself walk into my fear and seize control. I wasn’t going to let anything hold me back anymore. I was going to live. I didn’t think about how I was going to live, only that I had a right to live. A right to a life with a good man who loved me.

  I thought I knew my issues. I thought it was my childhood, with the strange secrets hidden under the surface. I believed that once I found my real father, everything would fall into place. Mario da Schilpario would have all the answers. I was sure of it! But he was only part of the answer. When I made peace with Fred Mulligan, I felt release. When I accepted the lie my mother told to protect me, I felt galvanized. I knew all of these things, and I thought the knowledge of them, the recognition of them, had changed me. But just because I figured it out did not mean that I had fixed it. I am shocked that I know better and yet routinely fall back into my old patterns. I shut off. I shut down. I don’t feel. And I hold myself above everyone else as though I am better. I think my pain elevates me above everybody else. That weak people are destroyed by the bad things that happen to them. That weak people need sex to validate their egos. That weak people can’t follow the rules. I wasn’t weak! I was strong, so strong nothing could penetrate me. What a glorious prize you get for not needing people. You get to be safe and alone, even in your marriage! But all those people who live and let go and let life happen to them, good or bad, wild or serene, they aren’t weak—they’re human. Somewhere in my past, I learned that if you separate yourself, you don’t get hurt. Pain can be avoided. And if you stuff it down deep enough, you will forget it’s there. Do not acknowledge it, and it will not hurt you. Theodore is right. I do owe this man an apology. But what else do I owe him?

  “When will Etta be home?”

  “Iva Lou is picking her up and taking her over to her house after the slumber party. She said she’d keep her overnight.”

  “Good.” I stand up. “I don’t want to go back to what we were.”

  “We can’t.”

  “I want to begin again. With what I know now.”

  “I don’t know if you can change. Or if I can.”

  “It’s bigger than change, Jack. It’s reinventing the whole thing.”

  “Do you know how to do that?”

  “We’ll figure it out.”

  I lead my husband into the house. We go through the sun porch and the kitchen to our bedroom and the bed with no pillows. I will begin with how I make love to my husband. I will be present in his arms, every cell of my body in tune with his, I will listen and I will pay attention and I will treat him like the rare and precious treasure that he is. For this time and every time that will come hereafter, I choose him. My beautiful husband with the big shoulders (good thing, they carried two of us all this time) and the sweet hazel eyes. I won’t wait for him to kiss me; I kiss him.

  “This is new,” he says, and smiles.

  “Work with me,” I tell him, and he laughs.

  I take off his clothes slowly. First his work boots. Then his socks. I take his bare feet and rub each one tenderly. He begins to pull his shirt off over his head; I won’t let him. I work the shirt off of him and, for the first time, look at his neck and the way his shoulders connect to his upper arms, and the way the muscle twists from the top of his arm around the back and down the elbow. Would I know my husband’s body from any other man’s in the world? I will now, as I kiss each freckle on his strong brown arm, down to his wrist. His hand, the long fingers, the tiny cuts on his thumb from stacking the wood, his square pink fingernails. How strong his chest is; as I lie on top of him, I feel his breath rise and fall underneath me, as our skin touches and then fits together in the way only longtime couples know. All of this I took for granted. How did I let so much time pass? Why did I ever think that this was expendable, that I could cut this man out of my life? What was I thinking? That I could walk out of here and find someone else? Someone better? As I run my hands down his back, I know there is no one better. In the very moment that love is mundane, it can become new. Why didn’t my mother tell me that? I am able to see new things simply because I’m looking for them. How sad I am that they were here all along and I gave them away as though they had no value. Simple things: my husband’s love, his faith in me, and his steadfastness. All of those things I pretended did not matter. Love is so fragile. I kiss his eyes. I really want him to see me now.

  Monday brings a perfectly sunny, yet cool, first day of school. I am happy for Etta, who didn’t want to wear a rain slicker to her first day of fourth grade. She wanted to show off her striped Alpine sweater from her grandfather, and happily, the weather agreed. She kisses me and jumps out of the Jeep. I feel something gooey on my cheek. It’s Chiara’s peach lip gloss.

  I’m about to turn to drive back home (I thought I’d clean out a closet), but instead I head for the Cadet section of Big Stone Gap, in the western part of town, over the bridge and down by the Powell River. It’s changed a lot; I try to remember the last time I was here. Had to be over a year ago; I delivered some pills to Oneida Mitchell. As I follow the river road, I see that they’ve added a trailer park and a convenience market.

  There’s a pink house on the dead end of Morrissey Street. It’s been over thirty years since I’ve been here. Alice Lambert lives at Number 11. The simple ranch house has a deck on the front. The yard is overgrown; nestled in the brush are white concrete statuettes of a boy and girl who appear to be Dutch.

  You can hear the river rushing by; the brown water is visible through the mud trees that line the river side of the road. The mailbox is slung open and full of flyers and junk mail. I clean it out on my way to the front door.

  The old silver screen door has WELCOME written in cursive in the center panel, flanked by two rusted daisies. The plastic Greek urns that anchor either side of the door are full of weeds. A couple of wild yellow blooms choke through.
I knock on the door. I see the Lamberts’ old Cadillac in the carport, so I assume she’s home. I hear a shuffling from the back of the house. Finally, the door opens. I am shocked when I see Aunt Alice. I hardly recognize her. She might weigh one hundred pounds.

  “Aunt Alice?”

  “Hello,” she says through the screen door.

  “I wanted to stop by and say hello. I was thinking about you.”

  “You was?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Why is ’at?”

  “I was thinking about how you came to my son’s funeral so many years ago and how I never thanked you.”

  “It weren’t nothin’,” she says, looking away.

  “No, no, it was very kind of you. Thank you.” After I filled Alice’s prescription at the Pharmacy, I felt bad every day for not calling or stopping by.

  Aunt Alice stands there. She doesn’t move to close the door, but she doesn’t invite me in, either. This was always the way it was with my father’s side of the family. They never knew what to do to make people feel at home. Or at ease. Maybe they had good intentions underneath it all, but basically, they had no manners. My mother used to say that they didn’t have creanza, proper upbringing.

  “May I come in?” I ask her.

  “Sure,” she says, and shrugs.

  I push the door open. Her little house is neat as a pin, but it’s dirty. There is a layer of dust on everything, the windows are cloudy, and the rug needs sweeping. Poor thing. She is too weak to do the chores.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I ain’t got much in the house.”

  “I don’t need a thing.”

  We sit quietly until Alice blurts, “I got the cancer.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You know’d I lost Wayne.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “He had him the black lung. That’s worse than what I git. He couldn’t hardly breathe at the end; they put him on a tank. He done filled up with water and choked to death.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It were turr-ible. And Bobby ne’er did come home to see ’im. That were the greatest tragedy of all. I don’t got a son no more.”

  Wayne and Alice’s son, Bobby, was the light of their lives. I never liked him at all. He was several years older and a tease. I heard that he moved to Kingsport and took to drinking. He was on his fourth wife at last count.

  “Sure you still have a son. Bobby just gets sidetracked, that’s all.”

  Alice chuckles. “That there’s a good word fer it: sidetracked.”

  “So what does Doc Daugherty say?”

  “ ’Bout me? Not much.”

  “What kind of cancer do you have?”

  “It was breast. Then it done went to the bone. On account of I wouldn’t let ’em take my breast. No. I come in with ’em, and I’m a-gonna go out with ’em too.”

  “Do you have a lot of pain?”

  “I can’t hardly sleep a’tall it gits so bad of the night. I can’t find a good spot, you know.”

  “What do you eat?”

  “I ain’t hungry much. Once in a while I have me some Nabs. Coca-Cola.”

  “Aunt Alice?” My tone of voice causes Alice’s spine to stiffen.

  “Yes?”

  “I know we’ve had our problems—”

  “Nah, don’t dredge all that there up. It’s not nothin’ no more.”

  “I wasn’t very nice.”

  “You got a temper on ye, that’s all. You’re Eye-talian. They’s like ’at.” Her slur, instead of upsetting me, makes me smile. She’s right. Italians are like that.

  “I’d like to help you out. Can I come over once in a while?”

  I go to Buckles Supermarket and shop for Aunt Alice. I pick up easy things, like eggs and bread and cheese and cold cuts. Soup. Pasta. Pancakes. I pick up magazines and puzzle books. Nellie Goodloe is at the next register checking out.

  “Hello, Ave Maria. How was your summer?”

  “It was good.”

  “I see Jack Mac’s mighty busy.”

  “That’s for sure,” I say. “They have lots of work.”

  “Did they finish that rec center up in Coeburn, by the by?”

  Then the strangest thing happens. I feel surrounded. Maybe it’s because it’s Monday and folks go trading, but it’s also something else. I can’t put my finger on it. The Methodist Sewing Circle is ready to check out: Mrs. Shoop, Mrs. Quillen, Mrs. Grubb, Mrs. Zander, and Mrs. Messer, each has a shiny cart, and they’re lined up like train cars on a track. The smiles on their faces are so sweet, like they’re glad to see me. But why are they all listening?

  “It was a right long month with you gone. It was about a month, wasn’t it?” Mrs Quillen asks.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “That’s a long time to be gone from your husband,” Mrs. Shoop chimes in.

  “He thought so,” I say with a smile.

  “It-lee is mighty far. You know, if there was an emergency or something,” Mrs. Messer says in a sweet singsong voice, half chiding me.

  “I think my husband can handle anything.”

  “I’m sure he can,” Nellie chimes in. “And I’m sure he did.” She looks over her bifocals at the ladies.

  “Well, it’s sure good to see y’all again.” I grab my groceries and get the hell out of there. As I drive back to the Cadet section, I realize why: the ladies wanted to see how A-vuh Marie survived her husband’s affair. They smelled blood and they came to check out the casualty. I expect they thought I might just throw myself on the checkout and stab myself repeatedly with the outdoor barbecue tongs they had on sale.

  Alice is napping when I get there. I make up a tray of macaroni and cheese and boil up some broccoli. Before long, she joins me in the kitchen.

  “Smells good.”

  “You sit.” I help her to the table. She is so tiny, I can feel her ribs as I guide her to a chair. As soon as I put the plate of food in front of her, she eats. She gulps down the macaroni and cheese and mashes up the broccoli with her fork before eating it.

  “Thank ye for all this.” Alice pats my hand.

  “It’s my pleasure.” I give Alice a hug, something that I have never done. And I hold her for a good long time.

  Fleeta has a lot on her plate. She won’t give up cashiering, but she won’t take the Soda Fountain over, either. So she’s doing both, and she’s worn out. She insists upon fixing Iva Lou, Pearl, and me grilled-cheese sandwiches. It’s closing time, so we let her.

  “Guess who I went to visit?” I say.

  “Law me. You weren’t up in Coeburn, were ye?”

  “Fleeta. That is not nice!” Iva Lou admonishes her.

  “I ain’t nice.”

  “I think we should have a rule,” Pearl says. “No mention of Coeburn ever again.”

  “How’d you hear about Karen Bell?” I ask Pearl.

  “In Norton.”

  “Who cares in Norton?”

  “Whoever’s up there shopping from Big Stone Gap.”

  “Lord a-mighty.” I sit back on the bar stool.

  “I told you that this entire county is filled with vipers. And they’s got feet. ’cause everything that happens ’round here travels. So if you want to keep your husband’s cheatin’ under wraps, you got to kill him, kill her, then send them bodies north and let them Eye-talians take care of ’em.” Fleeta slides the golden-brown grilled-cheese sandwiches from her double-wide spatula onto our plates on the counter.

  “What? No garnish?” Pearl teases.

  “I went to see Alice Lambert.”

  “Why would you bother with her?” Iva Lou asks.

  “She’s dying.”

  Fleeta, Iva Lou, and Pearl sit with this new information for a moment.

  “Better send Reverend Bowers over there so she can repent, or she’ll be frying like hot lard in the outskirts of hell,” Fleeta says as she brushes potato-chip crumbs off of her smock. “I only say s
end him ’cause he’s known to make house calls.”

  “Fleeta, make her some fudge. And Iva Lou, she needs some books to read.”

  “I don’t believe my ears,” Iva Lou exclaims.

  “Me neither.” Fleeta shakes her head.

  “Find out what medicine she needs and give it to her for free,” Pearl says quietly.

  “I hope that when I’m sick and distended and bloated and full of the cancer, you send me some medicine for free. I work in this joint, and all I ever git is a ten percent discount.” Fleeta ashes her cigarette into the sink.

  “And all the Estée Lauder you can poach.” Pearl winks at her.

  Etta is in full swing with her schoolwork and her new social life, which includes gathering her girlfriends together to paint their nails and make crank calls to boys. It’s very annoying, but I try to be patient. I remind myself that this is just another phase of child rearing, no different from dealing with teething or mouth breathing. The entry into the Boy Years sure can get loud.

  Jack comes home from work in a great mood.

  “Let’s go to the Fold tonight,” he suggests.

  “I can’t. I have the Lip Gloss Girls in there for a slumber party.”

  “Is Fleeta around?” Jack asks.

  “I hate to ask her again.”

  “She loves Etta.” Jack picks me up and spins me around.

  “Is that your hand on my ass?” I ask my husband.

  “I think so. And I hate to tell you, but that situation is only gonna get worse.” He kisses me.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll call Fleeta.”

  I call Fleeta. Of course, she complains a little, she wants to see a story on 20/20 about granny dumping, but I promise her we get better cable reception up here in the holler.

  So she comes.

  The Carter Family Fold is overflowing with folks. It’s just the right time of year to gather up in the Carter family’s barn and listen to music and dance. Jack wanted to come because he heard on the job that one of the Stanley Brothers was showing up. And indeed he did, so the music is glorious. I never heard such fine fiddling. We dance so much and so hard, my denim shirt is soaked.