Big Cherry Holler

by Adriana Trigiani

  Lew Eisenberg has turned out to be the best clogger in Southwest Virginia. He shows me a two-step that reminds him of the hora he did at his bar mitzvah many years ago. We have a good laugh over that one.

  “Honey, you need to towel off,” Iva Lou says to me as I collapse on the bleachers.

  “I’m having a ball,” I tell her.

  “How’s it going with your husband?”

  “Very well, thank you. It’s good to have him back.”

  “Are you kidding? It’s great. It’s the best of all things. It’s the triumph of true love over base lust. It’s a story of forgiveness and redemption, honey. You want me to go on?”

  “No.”

  “Then I won’t. I’m doin’ my own brand of celebratin’ tonight. Lyle stopped drinkin’ again and we are flush solid, honey.”

  “Good for him and good for you.”

  “Maybe there is something to astrology. You know, maybe the planets do line up and everybody has good vibes at the same time.”

  “That’s totally possible.”

  The Methodist Sewing Circle is gathered by the door, chatting furiously.

  “Jesus Christmas, what has got them so agitated?” Iva Lou wonders.

  “Somebody probably came up with a better apple-butter recipe.”

  The Sewing Circle stops chattering. Their little circle widens and fans out.

  “Or not,” Iva Lou says in a tone that forces me to look up. “Oh my,” she says quietly.

  Karen Bell stands in the doorway wearing black leather pants, a white blouse, a chain belt, and a white cowboy hat cocked on the back of her head. She rolls her pink lips together as though she’s trying to bite off a bit of chapped lip. She looks worried, and the groove between her eyes is deep. Of course she’s worried. I’m here, aren’t I? I look around the room for my husband; he’s not here, but he said he was going for a chili dog. I wonder if she’s looking for him. I can see from one look at the Methodist Sewing Circle that they have the same idea. Their heads are swiveling around on their necks like geese looking to land.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell Iva Lou.

  I ignore her call of “Where are you going?” as I walk away. The Other Woman, the Girl on the Side, the Strumpet from Coeburn, is unaware that I am walking toward her, but she is the only woman in the room unaware of me. All eyes are on the battle-ax, the wife who hung in there till her dang knuckles bled; the poor little ole thing, me. Joe Smiddy’s Reedy Creek Band plays an old ballad that underscores my steps; I feel the layers of onlookers fall away as I pass. The Sewing Circle turns into a nervous Greek Chorus as they whisper what gore may ensue if Ave Maria gets mad enough. I can feel the nervous tension as it flows through the crowd and makes a path to the Other Woman. I follow that path to its bitter end.

  “Karen?”

  She turns to me. When she connects me, the real person, to her life, she has a moment of surreal disbelief. I am someone whose face she tried hard to remember, having met me only once. Maybe if she could find some flaw in me, it would make her plan to steal my husband all right. But all that stands before her is a sweaty Eye-talian wearing good lipstick. She can’t quite make the connection, so I will do it for her.

  “I’m Ave Maria. I don’t know if you remember me.”

  She looks at me oddly, and at first her little chin juts out as though she’s looking to fight. I’ve confused her, so the thought crease between her eyes deepens even more.

  “We met at the Methodist Church,” I remind her.

  “Yeah. A while back.” She looks away. I guess she’s had enough eye contact.

  “I’d like to thank you for being such a good friend to my husband this summer.”

  She doesn’t know what to say. She’s so nervous, the cowboy hat slides off the back of her head and down her back. The chin string catches on her throat. “You’re welcome,” she stammers.

  I turn and walk back to the bleachers, past the whispers of the well-meaning Christian ladies and to my spot next to Iva Lou.

  “Girl, where on God’s green did you get the courage?”

  “Bette Davis. There’s that scene in Jezebel where she wears the red dress to the ball where all the nice girls are supposed to wear white. I imagined myself in the red dress, walking across that dance floor, defying all of society. Nobody ever messed with Bette Davis, and by God, nobody is ever gonna mess with me.”

  “Did you tell her you’d whoop her ass if she took off after your husband agin?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “That’s my girl,” Iva Lou says as she cocks her head back and takes a gulp from her beer. “In all my years and all my married men, I only had one confrontation.”

  “Only one?”

  “Yeah. Billie Jean Scott met me up at Skeen’s Ridge one night, right after I’d been with her husband. And she looked me in the eye, after she’d blocked the road and stopped my car, of course, and said, ‘Iva Lou Wade, were you with my Hank?’ I was caught and I knew it, so I ’fessed up. I told her, ‘Yes ma’am.’ And she said, ‘Thank you, kindly. I’ve been trying to get rid of that son of a bitch for forty-one years. And you just give me the perfect excuse to give him the old heave-ho.’ ”

  Iva Lou and I laugh so hard, the Methodist Sewing Circle looks at us as though we’re crazy. And I think we just might be.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  When folks say that Big Stone Gap is for the newlywed and the nearly dead, they ain’t kidding. Alice Lambert is getting a send-off worthy of a statesman. The women in town have come down and taken over her little pink house by the brown river. They’ve scrubbed the windows, vacuumed, and waxed the kitchen floor; they wash her clothes, they bathe her; and the delectable food dropped off in shifts is not to be believed. Ethel Bartee even came over and did Alice’s hair. And folks can’t help but comment that “Alice Lambert is as sweet as pie.” And she is.

  Doc Daugherty told me that it’s a matter of days for Alice. He can’t say how many, and in a way, I don’t want to know. I go and see her every day (as do the other ladies), and it’s strange to say this, but I think these are the happiest days of her life.

  I am sitting in the living room with Aunt Alice. Ethel gave her an upsweep with tendrils worthy of the great Loretta Lynn at the Grand Old Opry. She even wears a little lipstick. There’s a rap on the door; it’s Spec.

  “My wife done made you a cobbler, Alice. How do you like rhubarb?” he asks.

  “Thank ’er for me. I love it,” Alice says.

  “So how are we doin’, girls?” Spec says as he sits down.

  “Fine,” I tell him.

  “Alice, I done want to run somethin’ by ye.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Bobby’s outside.”

  “My Bobby?”

  “Yes ma’am. Yer son. I went over to Kingsport and fetched him. Now, number one: he’s sober. Number two: he feels like a shit-heel for not gittin’ over here sooner. Number three: I don’t have a number three. He just wants to talk to ye. Are ye up fer it?”

  Alice nods that she is.

  Spec doesn’t move from his seat, he simply shouts. “Bobby, git in here.”

  Bobby Lambert, forty-six years old, comes in the door. He is short like Alice but has his father’s face, long and hangdog, with eyes that droop in the corners, a wide mouth, low ears, and a shock of thick hair that hangs down the center of his forehead in one curl. He is thin and has the purple-veined nose of a drinker. He’s very nervous and shifts from one foot to the other. He is wearing his best clothes, but the cotton button-down shirt is yellowed, and the hems of his pants are frayed where they rest against the top of his shoes. His fourth wife must have left him.

  “Hey, Mama,” he says, holding on to either side of the doorframe.

  “Git over here and hug yer mama’s neck!” she says with a bass tone to her voice I’ve never heard before.

  Then Bobby starts talking so fast it’s as though he’s conducting an auction. He’s dazzling his mother with information, about this deal
and that deal and this new car he got and how the transmission’s the best and what kind of leather seats take the heat and which ones don’t, and I look at Spec and he looks at me and we’re thinking the same thing: this guy is a first-class huckster.

  But Aunt Alice loves it. And him. This is her only son, and she loves everything about him. Her eyes travel over his face as though she has found a precious jewel that throws back her own reflection. She doesn’t let go of his face, she is so madly in love with it. And she just nods as he drones on. Soon he’s kneeling, and the picture of that, of a son at the feet of his mother, begging for her forgiveness without asking for it, is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. No matter what Bobby would ever do, she would forgive him. No matter what, he would always have a place here, and the only reason he didn’t was his own shame. Now that he sees that his mother still loves him and always will, he can stay. And he will, until the very end.

  In just three days, Alice Lambert goes to bed for good. Fleeta helps me get her to the bed. She thinks Alice didn’t digest Annie Hunter’s apple dumplings too well and that’s why she’s taken the turn. I tell Fleeta that it isn’t anything that Alice has eaten, it’s the cancer. Cancer is very strange; it grips a patient, and then it seems to go, then it can rage back like a fever and take you. This is what has happened to Alice. Bobby helps with the sheets, smoothing them under Alice as we turn her. I tell Fleeta to run and call Doc Daugherty.

  Bobby sits on the corner of the bed and holds his mother’s hand. I see in his face all the things I went through when my mother passed. The great sorrow of being separated from the one who brought you, the guilt at not doing enough for her (there is never enough we can do for our mothers), and the desperate hope that the pain will be minimal. He is trying not to cry, for her sake.

  “Bobby, hon, I need me a minute with Ava.” I decide to let it go. She has always mispronounced my name and that’s that. Bobby looks at me kindly and leaves the room.

  “Yes, Aunt Alice?”

  “Do you know why I came to your boy’s funeral?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “ ’Cause I lost a son too.”

  I’m confused, and I look at Alice quizzically.

  “Not Bobby. Calvin. Calvin died at four months.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “You wouldn’t. He was born right around the time you was. I never got over it. Some folks think it turned me bitter. I don’t know about that.”

  “Aunt Alice, will you do me a favor?”

  She nods.

  “When you get there, will you—could you—look out for my Joe?”

  “Yes ma’am, I will.”

  I hear the screen door slam. Doc Daugherty must be here. I kiss Alice on the forehead. What happens next is all a haze; Doc comes in with Bobby; and Spec takes his place by the door. I feel myself leave my body as I watch this scene with me in it. And I see something that I could not have known before this moment; I watch Alice let go. She lets go of her life, of her problems, her pain, and her secrets. A burden lifts off of her as she lays dying. A smile crosses her face, one of peace and duly earned solitude.

  In her final moments, her thoughts were of her sons, Bobby and Calvin. Isn’t this the truth of any good mother? That in all of our lives, we worry only about those we brought into this world, regardless of whether they loved us back or treated us fairly or understood our shortcomings. As Alice lets go, so do I. I let go of my mistakes, the unattainable standards I have for my husband, my daughter, and myself, and my bitterness toward those who hurt me; mostly, I let go of my pride, which I thought had kept me whole but in reality almost ruined me. I was holding on so tightly to being right, to being perfect. There is only one lesson in all of this: let go. And when you think you’ve let go completely, let go again. Aunt Alice sailed out of here with such grace. She really did it right.

  “She’s gone.” Bobby weeps and holds his mother. Doc Daugherty turns to me. But I already knew. I close my eyes and smile; Aunt Alice will find my son. She will make sure he’s all right.

  Johnny Teglas over at The Post asked me to write Alice Mulligan Lambert’s obituary. And in so doing, I learned many things about her. She was a WAC in World War II; she took enough courses at Mountain Empire Community College to earn an associate’s degree in business (who knew?); and those weren’t her real teeth (I won’t put that part in the paper). But I do mention baby Calvin, and Bobby, of course. I type up the story of her life and seal it in an envelope. I holler to Fleeta back in the Soda Fountain that I’m leaving and will see her tomorrow. When I get outside, I feel the first cool breeze of autumn as it blows through. Monday is Labor Day.

  I put the obit in the slot of the newspaper office. I think old Johnny’s in for a surprise when he reads about Alice Lambert.

  When I get home, I smell fresh butter and garlic simmering; I follow the delicious aroma into the kitchen. Jack is barefoot, in his jeans and an old sweatshirt, making us dinner.

  “Hi.” He looks up and smiles at me.

  “What are you cooking? It smells divine!”

  One of the bonuses of marrying Jack is that he is attentive in the kitchen. He’s a better Italian cook than I am now. I give him a big kiss.

  “Linguini carbonara, with Virginia ham. Who’s Pete?” he asks casually.

  “Pete who?” I try not to choke on the name.

  “Pete Rutledge.”

  “Oh, him. We met him in Italy.”

  “Oh, the guy Etta talks about. The marble guy.”

  “Really. She told you about him?” I say casually but my vocal tone gives me away: I squeak. That kid. Does she have to tell her father everything?

  “Yeah.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “He called.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “He’s in town.”

  “What?”

  “He’s here.”

  I don’t know what to say. I figured the guy had a crush, we kissed, and that was it. What is he doing here?

  “Ave, honey, tell me what’s going on.”

  “Nothing’s going on. I love you.” Man, if blurting “I love you” isn’t a dead giveaway for guilt developed after an Alpine make-out session, I don’t know what is.

  “Here’s his number. He’s at the Trail.”

  Jack puts the number on the table, as though I should call Pete Rutledge right here on our phone in this house, this house where we, a newly devoted married couple, live. I do not want to make this call.

  “I’ll call tomorrow.”

  “Call him now. Invite him to dinner. I’m making plenty.”

  Jack stirs the garlic in the pan. My eyes bulge out of my head like rockets. Is he serious? Have him to dinner? He’s the enemy, you idiot. He wanted me to stay in Italy with him for all eternity. Tear up that number if you know what’s good for you.

  “Go on. Call him.”

  I drag myself to the phone and dial. It rings a billion times. Conley Barker, the night receptionist (as well as the airport cab driver), finally answers the phone and puts me through.

  “Hello?” The sound of Pete’s voice makes me happy, but just for a second.

  “Hi. This is Ave Maria.”

  “Oh, hey, thanks for calling me back.”

  “What are you doing here?” I say gaily.

  “Hiking the Appalachian Trail. Remember? I told you I was coming through in the fall. Well, guess what? It’s fall.”

  “Isn’t that great?”

  “Yeah. I’d like to see you.”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “Great. Where do you live?”

  I decide that it’s easier for me to ride down into town and pick him up rather than give him the complicated directions to get here. When I get to the Trail, Pete is waiting for me out front. He leans up against one of the entry columns, reading the town paper. He looks like he belongs here. And he looks every bit as good in southwestern Virginia twilight as he did in the dusk of northern Italy.

&
nbsp; “Hi!” I say too loudly and too long, with about eighteen overenthusiastic syllables.

  “How are you, babe?” Pete gives me a big kiss on the cheek. “What a place you live in. It’s amazing. So beautiful.”

  “Thank you. Can’t take any credit for it. These mountains were here long before I was.”

  I point out a few sights on the way back to Cracker’s Neck. I am determined to be a tour guide, and determined that there will be no talk of Alpine kissing or dancing. Pete seems respectful, and I’m relieved. When we climb out of the Jeep, Etta is waiting for us on the porch.

  “Pete!” she squeals, and runs down the field to meet us. She throws herself into his arms.

  “Chiara’s not here. She’s in Italy. It’s only me here.”

  And what is that on Etta’s mouth? Oh dear God, it’s my Gina Lollobrigida magenta lipstick from the Moderna beauty shop in Piccolo Lago. My daughter looks like a hooker.

  Jack greets us at the door. I love how warm and gracious he is to Pete. Shoo the Cat runs out from under a chair, sinks his teeth into Pete’s ankle, and sprints off. We check Pete’s ankle, but there’s barely any blood. Between the attack cat and my trampy daughter, this is going to be a long night.

  Jack takes Pete (and Etta, of course, who follows) into the kitchen. Pete and Jack will have a beer, and the way this night is going, Etta may have her first Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. The phone rings; Etta rushes to answer it.

  “She never used to run for the phone.” Jack Mac shrugs. “Now she’s either running to it or she’s on it.”

  “It’s called being a girl, honey.”

  “Ma, it’s Uncle Theodore.”

  I excuse myself. I am relieved to be out of the hot kitchen. I close the bedroom door, pull the phone off the nightstand, and sit on the floor, so no one can hear me.

  “Thank God it’s you.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “He’s here.”

  “Who?”

  “Pete.”

  Theodore laughs. “The inamorata? No way.”

  “It’s not funny! He’s hiking around here and he stopped and called and Jack invited him to dinner. I’d like to die.”