Big Stone Gap Part 18

"How are you?"

"Better." Lew beams like a man who is getting regular attention from his wife. "And how are you?"

"I'm just great."

"You look it."

Pearl comes in, having forgotten to take off her Mulligan's Mutual smock. We hear an engine blast, followed by a fan-belt hum, and then silence, signaling Iva Lou's arrival in the Bookmobile. Then the office fills with the smell of gardenia, and we know Nellie Goodloe must be in the waiting area. Lew hollers to Nellie to come on in, as I set up the lunch.

Iva Lou breezes in and kisses everyone, but I can tell she is nervous. The girls have no idea why I have gathered them here, and let's face it, it's never pleasant when you have to make a trip to a law office. I make it as friendly and casual as I can, but food can only do so much to comfort people.

"I guess you all wonder why I have gathered you here today."

Nellie and Iva Lou nod; Pearl takes a cue from them and nods too. I find it endearing that she is acting so mature.

"Girls, I'm leaving you."

"You aren't sick or anything, are you?" Iva Lou asks worriedly.

"No, no. I'm not dying." They look relieved.

"You all know I believe in Chinese face-reading. Well, maybe Nellie, you never heard of it." She shakes her head slightly; she doesn't know what has gotten into me.

"Every face is a map. Mine tells the story of a woman who changes the course of her life the year she turns thirty-five. Now, you know, I've had quite a few whammies over the course of the last several months. It was fate at work. After much contemplation, I decided that it was time to take control of my destiny and figure out why I was put on this earth. I don't want to let life happen to me anymore; I want to choose my future."

"I did the exact same thing right around thirty-five," Iva Lou interjects. "That's when I got my two-year degree from Mountain Empire Community College and got on the Bookmobile!"

"Good. Right. See there? Iva Lou gets what I'm talking about. Sooner or later everybody has to ask the big questions of themselves. Some of us ignore the truth, and some of us gut the interior of our lives and attempt to reinvent it. I am doing the latter."

"Good for you," Nellie says because she thinks she needs to say something.

"Thank you. Now, a few months back I made Pearl Grimes here my ward. I signed over Mulligan's Mutual to her." I look at Pearl. "To you. But what I didn't tell you at the time was that I also gave you my house in the deal."

"You gave me your house?"

"Yes, Pearl. It's yours." Pearl looks at Lew, who nods in confirmation and smiles at her.

"But . . . why?"

"I'm leaving town and I thought you'd like to have it."

Pearl is overwhelmed. I know what this means to her, to live in town. To be close to the school. To have a phone. To be able to have her friends over. This is the best thing that could happen, better than owning Mutual Pharmacy. I look at Nellie and Iva Lou, who are equally stunned.

"Pearl just turned sixteen, and until the age of eighteen, she cannot fully own the properties and their a.s.sets in her own name. That's where you two come in. I would like you to be her legal overseers. Lew came up with an angle I like. You two will look over this youngun and guide her decisions regarding the business. And you will be paid for your services."

"I've never run a business," Iva Lou offers.

"You're a librarian. You're organized. You work within a system. Pearl needs a system. You can guide her."

"What about me?" Nellie says. "I'm just a housewife."

"Nellie, I picked you because you have good taste. And Pearl needs exposure to the finer things in life. You'll show her how to make a pretty store window, teach her the proper manners for business lunches, show her how to deal with all sorts of people."

Nellie's back straightens. She never realized that her skills were marketable. Now she knows.

"What about my mama?" Pearl asks.

"She is a great mother. She loves you and takes excellent care of you, and she always will. I've talked this over with her, and she's comfortable with Iva Lou and Nellie handling this stuff. When I met with her, all she kept saying is that she wants you to be happy." Pearl's eyes fill with tears.

"Yes, ma'am. That's all any good mother wants," Nellie says, backing me up.

"She's very excited about moving to town with you. You'll be closer to things that will help you develop into a self-sufficient person. She is totally in favor of my"-I look at Lew and share the credit-"our plan."

"You're moving away, Ave Maria?" Iva Lou asks pitifully.

"Girls, this isn't a sad thing. I've lived here all of my life, and it's been wonderful. But it's time to see what's out there, test my mettle, see what I'm made of. You understand."

"When do we start?" Nellie asks.

"Monday."

"Monday? Cripes, why don't you just give me a heart attack right here, Ave?" Iva Lou slumps back in her chair.

"Are you ever coming back?" Pearl asks.

"I'm sure I'll visit. I won't make like a ghost, like old Liz Taylor. I'll be back."

I motion to the lunch set up on Lew's worktable.

"Let's eat," Lew says as he stands. "We can sign the papers later."

We gather around the table. n.o.body says much. We eat. Delphine can make a sub sandwich, that's for sure. Nellie unfolds a paper napkin and places it gently in her lap. She turns to Pearl, who is picking the turkey out of her sub, and gives her a napkin. Pearl unfolds the napkin and places it gently in her lap, just like Nellie.

The hardest part about packing up my house is deciding what to do with Mama's sewing supplies. The only thing I know for sure that I will keep is her b.u.t.ton box. I used to play in it when I was little, pretending the b.u.t.tons were stones when I played explorer, or crown jewels when I played princess. I've sorted out most of the plastic ones, keeping the antique and cloth b.u.t.tons. b.u.t.tons are light; I can always tuck them in a corner of my suitcase, and they are very symbolic to me. When Mama made something, the last thing she did was to sew on the b.u.t.tons. They were the finishing touch, the end of a creation. I just can't throw them away.

I know this should be easy. Why should any normal person be attached to bolts of fabric: sc.r.a.ps, ends, and odd yardage? But I am. Each piece reminds me of something she made. There's a yard of purple satin that she used to make my shepherd robe for the kindergarten Nativity. A mint-green dotted Swiss remnant that she used to make my dress for the May Day court when I was in seventh grade. A bolt of Carolina-blue wool for cheerleading skirts and a bolt of ruby-red wool that she used in the pleats of those same skirts. Red cording and frogs that she used when she made Bobby Necessary's band uniform. Back in 1969 Bobby's mama came over all hush-hush and begged Mama to make Bobby a band uniform. He was so heavyset, they couldn't order one in his size. Mama toiled over that one. But when Bobby marched out with his clarinet during halftime, you couldn't tell that his uniform wasn't from the factory. It was a perfect match.

There are several bolts of cotton velvet in deep shades of red, blue, and gold. Mama was a big fan of velvet; she thought it was st.u.r.dy and elegant and that it "wore" in an interesting way. She used to crumple it and let it fall, pointing out how the light played on the folds, giving it a sheen and dimension. She made me so many things of velvet! Skirts, pants, coats, even a bedspread. I always had a poufy bed, with beautiful linens. Mama grew up with that over in Italy, and she wanted me to have it, too. In later years, when we went shopping for sheets, she would sniff them. She could tell the grade of cotton, the thread count, from the smell. She said she would rather have one set of sheets that were four hundred count than ten sets that were two hundred count. I've slept on the cheap stuff away from home; believe me, there is a difference.

Even my favorite bedtime story was about fabric! Mama told me the story of the Fortuny family in Italy who made their own fabrics and became world-famous for it. She told me how they invented double-sided velvet (her favorite to work with), and how they experimented with design, embroidering it, watermarking it, even burning it! I used to imagine the Fortuny factory and its workers. I pictured the men and women standing around coc.o.o.ns as the silk was spun; the raw silk draped on the cutting table; the processes of soaking, stretching, pressing, and cutting. Mama told me that if you made fabric correctly and took care of it, it could last until the end of time. I guess she was right. Think of those medieval tapestries and even the Shroud of Turin. Good fabric, good care-eternity.

I know a couple of quilters up in the hollers, but I really want to bequeath this material to someone who is expert at quilting and would appreciate it. I settle on Nan Bluebell Gilliam MacChesney. She's one of the best quilters around. I wrap the fabric in burlap casings. Mama never used plastic because the fabric could not breathe. She would be proud that I remembered this. I load up the Jeep. There is barely room for me in the driver's seat once I fill it.

It's around suppertime. I don't know where the day went; I started this project at breakfast, and it seems just moments ago. The ride up to Cracker's Neck is smooth; everything is green. The MacChesney house looks so much larger in the twilight; it's a warm way station in the mountain, not just a simple stone house with four chimneys as it appears by day. Light pours out of every window, and all four chimneys puff smoke. It is very inviting.

I pull up and park. I don't see any stray dogs around; of course, it's spring and there's been plenty of rain, so the creeks up in the mountains are full. I balance one bolt of velvet on each shoulder. Jack Mac's truck is gone. Good. I can drop these off and scram.

I can see into the house through the screen door. The main door is propped open behind it. I hear talking and laughing. Mrs. Mac must have company. At first I think to throw the bolts back into the Jeep and come back another time, but it is too late. The dog stands in the doorway of the kitchen, barking like mad. Mrs. Mac pokes her head out of the kitchen door.

"Who's there? Speak up or I'll shoot!" There is a wave of loud, rolling laughter from the kitchen.

"Hold your fire, ma'am. It's just me, Ave Maria." There is dead silence. "Uh, I can come back another time. Good night." The weight of the bolts is starting to press me into the ground like a nail, so I turn to go down the porch steps, juggling the bolts. I almost push in the mesh of the screen door.

"Whoa. Hold up," Jack Mac says. "Wait a minute."

d.a.m.n, he is here. He must have parked in the back; it's dark and I couldn't see.

"I was just dropping off some fabric for your mother.It was my mother's and I didn't want to just throw it out,so I thought I'd bring it up here because she's such a good quilter." My voice broke. I hate that. Why am I overexplaining? I just want to go home. By now Jack Mac is on the porch steps, lifting the bolts off of my shoulders and setting them down on the porch gently.

"There's a lot more in the Jeep."

"I can help," a familiar voice says from inside the house. It's Theodore. What in G.o.d's name is he doing up here? I want to ask him, of course, as he is my best friend in the entire world, but I cannot, because I have chosen to project this calm, casual thing to Jack Mac, and to change course in the middle of my performance would be death.

"Hi, Theodore," I say as though it's an everyday occurrence to find him up in Cracker's Neck Holler with the MacChesney family.

"There's a lot more in the Jeep," Jack Mac tells Theodore. They follow me to the Jeep.

"You loaded all this yourself? Why didn't you call me?" Theodore wants to know. I think he's got a lot of crust. I should be the one asking questions. Like, What are you doing here?

"You guys need any help?" It's a woman's voice, but it isn't Mrs. Mac. I am not going to ask who she is, so I wait.

"I think we got it, Sarah," Jack Mac hollers off. Who is Sarah? What is going on here?

"It got chilly," another voice says. I look up at the porch; there, in the light, is another woman. Are they breeding slim, pretty women inside the MacChesney house? Or is this a double date? I am mortified. Theodore has a date and Jack Mac has a date, and Mrs. Mac is making them roast pork chops and potatoes, and they're all in the kitchen, laughing and talking and making plans to go on excursions together to Cudjo's Caverns or maybe to North Carolina, to Biltmore House and Gardens. Theodore is in charge of the guidebook, and Jack Mac is in charge of the parking. The girls, in their halter tops and short shorts, are in charge of nothing. They are there to enjoy. Boy, these girls are fun and ever so game! Easy to be with! Undemanding! And witty and sweet, too! And they have nice figures from my vantage point, and long hair, parted down the middle, silky and straight with no clips. These are girls who can get their hair wet and have it dry with no frizz. They're spontaneous. They don't need any time for advance planning; no, they are just ready to jump in the car, powdered and fresh, anytime, day or night, ready to just hit the open road and have some laughs. They're breezy and no-ha.s.sle and chatty and s.e.xy and unserious, and they've probably never been depressed or suffered the humiliation of a Deep Sleep or had rattlesnake blood splattered all over them at a revival. No, these girls are the ice cream after the steak. All sweetness and light, an excellent finish to an evening.

"You got a lot here," Jack Mac says as he hauls remnants on his third trip up to the house. I lift the last heavy bolt myself, stretching it across my shoulders horizontally, yoke-style, like the Israelite slaves in Ben-Hur. It is the last bolt, and I don't care if it weighs two thousand pounds; I want to get this up to the house so I can get the h.e.l.l out of here. Jack Mac and Theodore have different ideas, though. They run into the yard to help me with the last one.

"Let me get this," Jack Mac orders.

"Sure. Sure." I hand it over to him and Theodore. It takes both of them to carry it; that's how heavy it is. I'll bet Sarah and her slim buddy can't lift a bolt of wool.

Mrs. Mac is on the porch. The tsetse-fly twins are helping her transport the fabric in small loads into the house. I wave to her from the middle yard.

"Well, thanks, everybody. Good night," I shout gaily. I turn to get into my Jeep. I'm glad it's dark, because I think I'll start crying the second my key hits the ignition.

"No, no," chimes the Greek chorus in hot pants. "Stay."

"I can't. Sorry. I have to go."

Theodore crosses down into the yard. He says to me under his breath and firmly, "Don't be rude."

This is the kryptonite of nice girls: We don't ever want to be rude. And even though I am leaving town, I would like to be perceived as the good person I've been all these years, and not a rude lout who doesn't say good-bye properly. Besides, the Jeep is empty, and there's nothing more to do; how long can this humiliation last? I walk up to the house with Theodore.

He says: "Ave Maria, I'd like you to meet Sarah." Sarah shakes my hand. Her hand is soft and her nails are painted ballet-slipper pink. They are hands that have never lifted a four-hundred-pound man onto a gurney or patched a roof. I put my ragged nails in my coat pockets.

"h.e.l.lo, Sarah."

"And this is Gail." Gail says h.e.l.lo. She's even tinier than Sarah, if that's possible. I feel very large, like I'm three heads taller than either of them, and two planks wider.

"Ave Maria is a very interesting name," Sarah offers.

"It means 'Hail Mary,' " Theodore, Jack Mac, and I say in unison.

"That's a Catholic prayer, right?" Gail asks, hoping it's an intelligent question.

"Yes, ma'am," I reply. I hope I make her feel good and old.

"Would you like to stay for dinner?" Mrs. Mac asks.

"I couldn't possibly. Pearl Grimes has a teacher's conference tonight, and I'm subbing for her mother, who is getting some new teeth." Nice, Ave Maria. Could you stretch the truth a little more, please? The conference, the teeth-why don't you make up a boyfriend who's waiting for you back at the house with beer and pretzels?

Theodore and Sarah look at each other confused. Oh G.o.d, no. Theodore is a teacher. He knows there is no conference.

"I'm the new English teacher at Powell Valley," Sarah says. "I wasn't aware of a conference tonight."

Sarah, the new English teacher. How literary. Does she wear short shorts to cla.s.s? I wonder.

"Ave probably has a private meeting with Mr. Cantrell." Theodore comes in for the save. Just like old times.

"That's exactly right," I concur. I look at poor Gail, who is standing there, shivering. "What do you do, Gail?"

"I'm Sarah's sister. I came for the weekend to help her get settled into her new place."

"That's great." Sure, it's great. Two piranha sisters chomp their way into town and instantly find the only two eligible bachelors with a pulse and make a snack out of them. Couldn't their dates, both of them standing with their hands in their pockets staring at me like two sick fish, have waited until I left town to carry on with these girls? What am I thinking? I turned both of these men down; now I am very glad I did.

"I really need to be on my way." I check the time on my wrist. Nice. I forgot to put my watch on this morning. Maybe no one noticed.

"Thank you for the quilt pieces, honey," Mrs. Mac says sincerely.

"You enjoy them." Then I turn to the girls. "You'd better get inside. It's gotten real chilly." Wouldn't want you two tasty nuggets to catch your death and die long, hideous deaths on a respirator, would we?

Sarah and Gail smile at me and follow Mrs. Mac into the house. Jack Mac and Theodore offer to walk me to my Jeep. I thank them, but no, I don't need anybody walking me anywhere. In fact, I don't need anybody. I am Maureen O'Hara in Buffalo Bill; I can take anything you throw at me.

I climb into the driver's seat, shove the key in the ignition, and turn her over. I back out of the drive and off of this mountain, and I don't even check the rearview mirror. I don't cry. I don't even come close. The s.e.xy sisters are just the goose I need to leave town. Life will go on quite nicely without me in Big Stone Gap.

CHAPTER NINE.

There is something thrilling about an almost empty house. When you crave the comfort of things, as I have for much of my life, unloading them is a very freeing experience. I was always so careful in Fred Mulligan's easy chair, not to spill on it or sit on the arms or flip the footrest up and down too much. I wanted it to last. So when it is carried out of my house, I am relieved. I won't have that to worry about anymore. Lyle Makin can bathe it in beer and onion dip forever. Enjoy it. Use it. And when you're through with it, leave it in the street for Otto and Worley. Pearl and Leah will purchase all new things for this house-their new home-when I'm gone. I figure it's a bad idea for them to move in here with my old stuff. They need a fresh start; they should never feel like renters in a home of their own.

I can see the architectural bones of this house in a way I couldn't before. The floorboards are handsome and simple. The arches in the doorways are whimsical, with funny curves along the edges. The windows are very wide and eye level. It is a romantic cottage; how funny I never thought of it that way! Shorn of heavy drapes, just the rolling shades remain; I am reminded how important it is to let light play through rooms. I will remember this rule wherever I go.

I am lying on my back in the empty living room, looking up at the ceiling, a vast expanse of pure white-it seems to be a painting. My mind clears as I stare into it. I feel a moment of deep contentment, similar to what nuns and monks must feel when they pray. Being quiet is a very soothing experience.