Big Stone Gap Part 17

Then he laughs again, this time even louder.

"Are you drunk, Jack?"

"I haven't had a drop since the wedding punch. And you know how cheap Nellie is with the spirits." Okay. This is really bad. He isn't drunk. So he means everything he's saying. Now what do I do?

"Come with me."

He gets a grip on my elbow and won't let go. He guides me through the crowd in the trailer and out to the parking field. He moves fast, and I have to skip to keep up with him. It's dark, but I'm not afraid.

Jack finds his truck and reaches into the front seat. He gives me a brown paper bag. I move to the streetlight so I can see the contents. It's a book. A shiny, new copy of Schilpario: A Life in the Mountains, the very book I saw on the front seat of his truck a few months ago.

"Is this for me?"

"It better be. I can't even p.r.o.nounce it." Jack Mac smiles at me as I open the book. "I had to special-order it out of Charlottesville. It's out of print, so they had to do a search. I thought it would be of some help to you, since you were trying to find your daddy."

I'm having a very strange sensation inside my body right now. I feel compelled to embrace him, to thank him for his kindness. But there are so many questions. When I told him about trying to find my father, he was at the Sub Sandwich Carry-Out with Sweet Sue. We didn't talk about it for very long, and why should he take such an interest in it? Why does he care? I look at his face. He cares. I have this feeling that he knows more about me than I have told him. I hug the book to my chest; the paper smells so good, and the cover is cool and shiny. And then he pulls me close and holds me. The sandalwood and lime is so familiar, and so sweet, that I breathe deeply to take it in, and also to steady my racing heart, which is in desperate need of oxygen. My heart is not palpitating; that condition seemed to correct itself during the Deep Sleep. This is a different kind of thumping, a kind I haven't felt before.

I bury my face in his chest; it seems as though there is a place carved out for me there. I can hear the Statler Brothers as they sail out of Iva Lou's trailer and into the woods; laughter and chatting underscore it; I am very comfortable right here in this moment.

A few minutes pa.s.s, and Jack Mac lifts my head with his hands. I am sleepy now; every muscle in me is relaxed.

"May I kiss you?" he asks.

I search my brain for a witty comeback, but I can't think of any. He senses I'm searching for one, and he's determined to nip it in the bud. Sometimes humor has no place in life, and this is one of those times. He traces his lips from the top of my head and down my nose until he finds my lips. Then he kisses me.

The ground under my feet is soft, and I am sinking into it. I am like a stick in a sandy creek, going deeper and farther down into the dirt, meeting no resistance but the lack of my own will.

"I think we should get back to the party."

"Why?" He kisses me again. I stop him, remembering Iva Lou, the party, and my responsibilities.

"Thank you for the book."

He looks at me, a little confused.

"Let's go back," I say quietly. We walk back to the trailer in silence.

Misty Dawn Slagle La.s.siter, six pounds, seven ounces, was born at 12:03 A.M. on March 17, 1979, at Saint Agnes Hospital, Norton, Virginia. Her mama, Tayloe, is doing fine; she had an easy labor, and now she can plan her wedding. Betty came to the Pharmacy with pictures of the little one, and she looks to be a stunner just like her mother. Fleeta is concerned that Misty may develop the La.s.siter underbite, but it doesn't appear to be so in the pictures.

Since I sold the Pharmacy to Pearl, I've had a different att.i.tude about it. I don't take business problems so seriously; markups on medications don't irritate me as much; and to h.e.l.l with the dusting. Fleeta and Pearl take good care of the place, but something inside me has shifted.

I am teaching Pearl the log-in procedure on medication when Nan MacChesney comes into the store. She's using a cane. Her white hair is pulled back in a tight braid. Her eyes search the store for me.

"I know you're in here somewhere, Ave Maria. I done saw your Jeep out front."

"I'm back here, Mrs. Mac. In the pharmacy."

"Oh." She comes over to the pharmacy counter. She barely reaches the top of it.

"How are you?" I ask.

"I'm all right. Can you come out of there and talk to me, please?"

"Sure." I come out from behind the counter and stand in front of her.

"Is there somewhere we could talk?" she asks me.

"There's the back room," Fleeta offers. Does Fleeta eavesdrop on every exchange that takes place in this store? I give her a look and take Mrs. Mac to the back room. I pull out a chair, but she declines, so I sit. Otherwise, I tower over her.

"Now, I know this ain't none of my business, but I got a son to worry about. I just want you to know that he is a fine gentleman and a faithful son. They don't make 'em no better than my boy. Now, I know he likes you. He thinks you're a fine woman. And I encouraged him in that, 'cause I done think you made all the right decisions in your life. You've been loyal and you've been good, and that ought to be rewarded. I know you don't see yourself as n.o.body's wife or mother, 'cause you've said so from time to time to me. I'm not here to repeat hearsay and gossip, I'm only going on what I know directly from your lips to my ears. But I think you need to take some time and reflect on yourself. I'm not telling you what to do, but if you let my son slip through your fingers, you'll be the sorriest gal in the world. I know what he's made of, and it's choice. He's a man of quality. So you go ahead and do whatever it is you're gonna do, but I just wanted somebody to tell you the real story about my son. You couldn't do no better."

She raps her cane on the floor and looks at me.

"Thank you for your thoughts. I know you mean well, and I intend no disrespect. I agree with you. You've raised a fine son. But I have other plans. I want to travel, see things. Try new things. Alone. Can you understand that?"

Mrs. Mac shrugs, unconvinced. "I just had to speak my mind," she says as I lead her out of the back room. She goes out the front through the jingling doors.

"What the h.e.l.l did she want?" Fleeta wants to know.

"Like you don't know."

"I don't. Tell me."

"Fleeta. Come on. You're both in the DAR. That's the front burner of hot gossip in Big Stone Gap."

"Well, I have heard that somebody saw you swapping s...o...b..rs with her son at Iva Lou's trailer park and it done got around." Fleeta shrugs.

"I hate this town!"

"What do you want from me? I can't help I heard it." Fleeta dismisses me with a wave of her feather duster and goes back to work.

"Don't you think Jack MacChesney is cute?" Pearl asks from behind the counter.

"Pearl. That's enough." G.o.d knows what she'll ask me next. It's none of her business if he's a good kisser. What is wrong with these people? Do they expect me to magically transform after one kiss? Am I supposed to drop everything for Jack Mac? What about my plans? What about what I want?

Pearl smiles and concentrates on her work. I am trying to figure out which building in the Gap is the tallest, so I can jump off of it.

Iva Lou returns from her honeymoon all refreshed. There's a wedding card from the staff of the Wise County Library on the dashboard of the Bookmobile, the only sign of change since she got married. I listen to her recount the awesome beauty of Gatlinburg and Ruby Falls (one of the three natural wonders in Tennessee), and then I ask to see The New York Times.

"What d'you need that for?" Iva Lou wants to know.

"The travel section."

"Well, they only got that on Sundays. I could score you last week's edition. Is that okay?"

"Whatever you've got is fine." I wish Iva Lou would go and get it. She never makes a fuss when I want something. Why now?

"You going somewhere?" She sounds worried.

"I don't know yet."

"Well, don't go springing surprises on me. I'm an old married lady now, and I can't take much."

"You'll be the first to know my plans when I make them," I promise her. She looks relieved.

"I got it below, in the storage bin. I'll fetch it."

What Iva Lou doesn't know is that I am leaving Big Stone Gap. I've spent my whole life here, and it is time for a change. I want to challenge myself. I want to see what people are like from other places and get to know them. I want adventure. Yes, I would even like to fall in love. I think I should start at the beginning, in the place where my people are from. I am going to Italy. Maybe I'll like it so much I will stay there forever. I am in the last minutes of my youth; I don't want to wait any longer to be young.

I take a good long look at the Bookmobile. This may be the last time I'm ever on it, and I want to remember every detail. (Now that I want to leave, tomorrow would not be soon enough.) I want to remember the shelves made of pink Formica trimmed in green; the snap elastics that hold them in place while the vehicle is in motion; the three Murphy stools that pop up against the books when they're not being used; the Styrofoam cups; the Sanka packets; the checkout stamp; the rearview mirror Iva Lou uses to apply makeup; and especially, most especially, the smell of it.

"Here you go, Ave." Iva Lou hands me the travel section in pristine condition. She really is the best librarian there ever was. She respects library materials.

"Ave, I owe you an apology."

"For what?"

"Well, I sort of sprung old Jack Mac on you at my wedding. I never liked n.o.body force-feeding me when I was a baby, and I sure as h.e.l.l wouldn't like it now. I should've mentioned it to you. But I guess I got caught up in all of it and just forgot."

"It was fine. Don't worry about it." What is everybody getting so worked up about? I'm not going with Jack Mac. So I walked down Iva Lou's aisle with him. So what? He kissed me once. Twice. At a party. Big deal! Women get kissed at parties all the time. I've hardly given it a second thought since then.

I get comfortable on my stool and begin to read.

"So, where you going?" Iva Lou asks.

"Italy."

"Italy? That far?" Iva Lou's eyes widen. "When?"

"As soon as I can book it."

She points out travel advertis.e.m.e.nts she thinks are effective. One catches my eye. The caption reads: "New Jersey's own: GALA NUCCIO TOURS: YOU WON'T MISS THE BOAT. Join Gala, she makes every tour a party!" There's a big photo of Gala, who looks to be about my age. She is a very dramatic Italian woman with an elaborate hairdo, a pile of braids that curve artfully all over her head like snakes; she has big brown Sophia Loren eyes and an hourgla.s.s shape. She stands in the middle of a gondola in a Venetian ca.n.a.l with her arms in the air. In a flag on the gondola the tour prices are listed. They are very reasonable. I have found my travel agent and tour guide in one stop! Iva Lou is thrilled for me. She wishes she could go too, but for now she must put her dreams of Europe on hold and concentrate on her new husband.

I return home, get comfortable in Fred Mulligan's chair, and dial Gala Nuccio. The phone rings twice, then: "Frank, you son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h b.a.s.t.a.r.d, stop calling me. I am done with you! Finished! It's over!"

"I must have dialed the wrong number," I whisper.

"Who is this? No, no. Dammit. I thought this was my personal line. I have two phones over here, and I get 'em confused from time to time."

"Are you Gala Nuccio?"

"Yes. I apologize for my outburst. I never use that kind of language. But if you had been f.u.c.ked over by that goomba the way I have, you'd pick up the phone ready to bite off somebody's head too." Gala sighs. I can hear her take a long deep drag off of a cigarette. Her accent reminds me of all the hard-boiled New York blondes in the detective movies of the 1930s.

"Are you all right?" I ask very earnestly.

This makes her laugh loudly. "Men. You're a woman, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then you know what I'm talking about."

"Say no more," I reply pleasantly. What I really want to talk about is planning my trip. I begin to ask questions about her tour packages, but Gala needs to talk about Frank.

"I've been with Frank on and off for about four years. He's divorced, he's got three kids-they're brats of course. And I don't see him enough. He says it's work and the kids, but I don't buy that line of bull for a second. 'Lipstick on His Collar' is sort of my theme song. You know the song?" She inhales again. I can hear her exhale the smoke all the way from New Jersey.

"I do. It's an oldie."

"Yeah. Well. It still applies. What can I do for you?"

"I'd like to go to Italy. I speak Italian." I sound like a backwoods b.u.mpkin. What does she care if I speak Italian? Is there a test you have to pa.s.s to buy a tour ticket?

"I have several tours coming up. You wanna do the Greek Isles, too?"

"No, just Italy. Northern Italy."

"Uh-huh. Venice, Milan, and up. I do that. And a side trip to Santa Margherita on the coast. You don't want to miss that. It's scrumptious."

"Great. Maybe you can send me some brochures."

"Love to." Gala continues to puff as I give her my address and information. She is surprised that I am Italian, too, and live in the mountains of Virginia. She has never heard of that before. I say that I'll tell her my story on the long plane ride to Italy. She sounds genuinely interested.

"Hey, Ave Maria. This could be your lucky day." Gala puffs.

"Why?"

"I got a seat on my Northern Italy tour in three weeks. Think you can pull it together by then and join us?"

I panic. There's so much to do. It's not like it's just a vacation, it's a reroute-the-rest-of-my-life trip. There's so much to settle up around here: the house, the business, and everything else. But maybe this is a sign to do it quick and clean. Maybe if I don't have much time to think, I won't ponder details. Maybe for once in my life I should just throw myself headlong into opportunity and see what happens.

"I can make it."

"Great. You're booked."

I've gone about my business quietly. I find I can get a lot done if I get up early in the morning. I've managed to pack up the house, shop for the trip, and check in on the Pharmacy without tipping anyone off. I don't want anyone else's opinion about this decision; I want it to be mine and mine alone. I wrote to Mario asking him if he would like to meet me. If so, I wanted to know a convenient time to come and visit Schilpario. I have not heard back from him. I wrote to my mother's family as well, and they are thrilled that I'll be visiting. I still haven't sent a picture. The photos that came back after Iva Lou's wedding were horrible, and I'm not showing them to anybody. The hat and the dress were a disaster, and I will never wear either one again.

I haven't told anyone that I'm leaving. I may tell Theodore in advance, but only if the time is right. My plan is to go on the trip, meet my family, and consider all my options. The only thing I am certain of is that I will never return to Big Stone Gap. This is not my world anymore. My mother is gone. The Pharmacy and now my home are in Pearl's capable hands. Spec has chosen a new captain for the Rescue Squad. Anybody can direct the Outdoor Drama. There is nothing holding me here. It's time to move on.

The front page of the Post has a bold headline: MOVIE STAR GIVES CHUNK O' CHANGE TO LPH. It turns out that Elizabeth Taylor was so grateful to the staff of Lonesome Pine Hospital for yanking that bone that she made a five-thousand-dollar donation to its emergency fund. I flip through the paper to the want ads. I placed one this week; I'm selling my mother's Oldsmobile Cutla.s.s. It's amazing how much I've gotten done since I put my mind to it. I've made a list of my a.s.sets, and I plan to sell off whatever I don't need. There is only the matter of Pearl to address.

I've called a meeting with Iva Lou, Nellie, and Pearl over at Lew's office. I stop by the Sub Sandwich Carry-Out and pick up a few sandwiches and bottles of pop; we're having a working lunch. Delphine Moses throws in extra chips (she always does) and comments on how impressed she is with Elizabeth Taylor's generosity. "You just don't expect that kind of caring from a movie star," she says.

Inez looks slimmer. Pearl convinced her to join Weight Watchers, and the results are impressive.

"Inez, you look fantastic."

"Thank you, Ave. You know, I haven't felt this good in years. And I love all the little pamphlets, recipes, and helpful hints they give us at Weight Watchers. Our group leader, Pam Sumpter, is from Norton, and she lost one hundred pounds herself, so she knows how hard it is. Every week she shows us her 'before' picture. She had it blowed up large and sets it on an easel at the beginning of every meeting. I keep it fixed in my mind, and it helps me stay on program. Losing weight has made such a difference in me. I think he notices it too." Inez points to her husband's inner sanctum.

"Good for you!" As I enter Lew's office, I realize that this is probably the longest conversation I've had with Inez. She does seem like a different person. And Lew is smiling. Why shouldn't he be? He's got his tight little race car back in running order.