Big Stone Gap Part 2

Pearl blends off into the sea of students. Theodore takes my arm.

"I'll walk you to your car."

"Sure."

"What's new?"

"I'm a b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Theodore laughs, which gets me laughing too. "Did you bust a shoplifter or something?"

"No. I didn't behave like a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I mean the literal definition."

"What?"

"I settled Mama's will today. She left me a letter. Fred Mulligan wasn't my father." Theodore is surprised but remains cool for my benefit. He knows everything about Fred Mulligan and me. When I shared all those stories, Theodore always got a look like he'd kill anyone who hurt me. This new information surprises him.

Theodore leads me out the front entrance to the car. Spec sits behind the wheel.

"Get in, Ave," Spec grumbles, lighting a cigarette. "That was a waste of my time."

"See you tonight," Theodore says as he closes the door. He touches my cheek. I look up to the second-floor science lab. Pearl Grimes stands in the window, watching us. From here, in the mellow afternoon light, she has a regal countenance, like a queen looking down on her subjects. I give her a quick wave good-bye. She smiles.

CHAPTER TWO.

On top of everything else, my roof leaks. It needs to be patched, and fast. The town handymen are a pair of brothers, Otto and Worley Olinger. They drive an open flatbed truck around town and pick up people's discards. Some days you'll see them with a wringer washing machine strapped to the back of the truck; another day it'll be a couple of railroad ties and a stuffed bear head. In some parts they're known as the Are Y'all Using That? Brothers because that's how they greet you when they want something from your yard.

Otto appears to be the older of the two. He is short-legged and st.u.r.dy, with gray hair and a few teeth left on the bottom. He has a distinctive nose-it has a shelf on the upper bridge, which indicates he's good with money. Worley has thick red hair and is tall and lean. His long face matches his long body. n.o.body in town is exactly sure how old they are because they did not matriculate through the school system. But they seem to have been around forever.

I join them up on my roof. I manage a Thermos of coffee and a few fresh ham biscuits for the boys.

"Time for a break, gentlemen," I say as I crawl toward them.

"Miss Ave, you afraid of heights?"

"Uh-huh." I try not to look down as I answer.

Worley extends his hand to me. "Don't be. We won't let you fall. Anyhow, the ground is soft. I fell off the post office when we was fixin' an exhaust fan. Landed on my head. It weren't so bad."

"That's a lie," Otto says. "I caught you."

"How bad is my roof, boys?"

"I seen worse," Otto decides.

"I let everything around here go to h.e.l.l when Mama was sick."

"It happens." Worley shrugs.

"I should be able to keep y'all busy through the winter."

"We need the work. We'll do a good job for ye," Otto promises.

There is a long silence. I've never been on my roof. I can see pretty far. Fall has definitely moved in. The treetops look like orange and red feathers to the edge of town. I wish I had brought Mama out here. She would have loved being able to see so far. I check the pocket of my overalls for her letter. I manage to carry it everywhere with me, even though I don't need to. (I've read it so many times that I've memorized it.) I wish she had left instructions. Why did she tell me this story? Did she want me to try and find Mario da Schilpario? Or did she just want me to know so I would understand Fred Mulligan? So much to think about.

"If I had a roof like this, I'd set up here all the day," Worley announces.

"My brother don't like workin'."

"Naw, I don't. I like sleepin' and eatin'. Workin' wears me out. Wind up all tarred and ferget how I spent the day."

"That's how I feel after a day of counting pills."

"Ye ought to git murried, Miss Ave. Womens ain't supposed to work like 'at."

"Otto, I ain't husband hunting. And I like my job. Okay?" I say this flatly; inquiries regarding my marital status are an everyday thing for me. Folks always want to let me know-even though I'm not married-that I'm okay, certainly nice enough to have a husband.

"Ye oughtn't wait too long to git murried. Git set in your ways and then n.o.body'll want you."

"What if they like my set ways?"

"She's done got a point there, Otto," his brother says.

"You ever been in love, Worley?"

"No, ma'am."

"How about you, Otto?"

Otto doesn't answer.

"Otto was sweet on a girl once. You was, brother. You was!"

"Keeping secrets from me, Otto?"

"No, ma'am."

"Do tell, then."

"I done had me a true love, but it was many, many years ago. Well, it was summer. I was 'bout fifteen. Mama done made me go to town fer jars. She was canning her some chow chow. Walkin' down, I pa.s.sed a trailer. Lot of kids runnin' around. Their people, I could just tell, was Melungeon. They had that dark color, and that look of them. There was a girl there. She had her some black hair, shiny and straight in braids. I 'member thinkin' that the braids look like them garlands over the bank door. They was that long. And she had her some black eyes like coal. And she was small. Tiny, like a matchbox? Reminded me of that storybook about the fairy girl."

"Thumbelina?"

"Yeah. Thumbelina."

"What was your girl's name?"

"Destry." Otto looks away at the mention of her name. "Best name I ever heard," he says quietly.

"So what happened?"

"The summer pa.s.sed. And pert near every day she walked with me. I grew to like 'at and look forward to it. One day she couldn't go with me, and I missed her bad. I knew then that I loved her. Turned out her pappy moved their trailer over to Stonega. I walked over there about five miles. I done had something to give her. My mama had a little silver ring with a red stone in it. And I loved Destry so much, I stole it and give it to her."

"How do you like 'at!" Worley said, laughing.

"You must have loved her very much to steal for her."

"That I did, ma'am. That I did."

"Mama done whooped the tar out of Otto when she found out. Beat him with a switch till it snapped in two."

"Yup, and then Daddy done came home and beat me, too." Otto reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a wad of paper crumbles, nails, and a five-dollar bill. He sifts through the stuff and pulls out the tiny silver ring. He gives it to me.

"Go ahead. Try it on."

I put the ring on my finger.

"For a big girl, you got little fingers," Worley observes.

"What a beautiful ring."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Where is Destry now?"

"She died." Otto sighs.

"That's the sad part of the story," Worley says. He looks at his brother with great feeling.

"Yes, ma'am. She died. Melungeons git all sorts of things-they catch just about anything that's out there, and they're weak, so it tends to take 'em. She was sixteen when she died. I wanted to murry her, but she was too sick."

"Why do the Melungeons die like 'at?" Worley asks.

"Well, the theory is that there's a lot of inbreeding there. Up in the mountains, folks didn't mix with the general population. And that hurt them. Because the more of a mix you get, the stronger the blood. Or so the doctors believe."

"Where do they come from?"

"Melungeon comes from the French word melange. It means 'mixed.' "

"I thought the Melungeons were them folks from the Lost Colony down in North Carolina."

"That's another theory."

"What's the Lost Colony?" Worley asks.

"Ye tell him, Miss Ave," Otto says.

"I think the Lost Colony was more of a tale told in the hills rather than actual fact. But the story goes that settlers from England landed on the North Carolina coast near Virginia. The ship dropped them off with supplies, and they built a colony. There was a fort, gardens, little houses, a church-things were going well. But when the ships returned from England a year later, the colony was a ghost town. Beds were made. Books were on shelves. Clothes were hanging in the closets. But no people. The people had vanished. They looked for them but never found them. There was only one clue: the word Croatan was carved on a tree. Some believe that a settler carved that before he was kidnapped away by the Indians. It's just a guess, though. So, a Melungeon could be a person who descends from a mix of the settlers and Indians, who hid here in these hills and never left. Your Destry could have been a descendant of those people."

"Well, all I know is I never loved no other." Otto says this with such clarity, I know it is true.

The three of us sit and drink our coffee. We're all thinking about little Destry. Otto had the real thing and lost it. I hope someday my heart will open up and have a love like that.

The open-air amphitheater for The Trail of the Lonesome Pine Drama was built next door to the home of the only famous person to ever come from this town, the author John Fox, Jr., who wrote the book that inspired our play. Mr. Fox was a talented loner who lived with his mother and sister. His book of 1908, The Trail of the Lonesome Pine, was the best-selling novel in the United States prior to Gone with the Wind. It's the first fact you're told on the tour of the Fox home. The town turned their home into a gift shop, where you can buy key chains, postcards, and corn-husk dolls. Next to it is the theater, and next door to the theater is the original one-room schoolhouse from John Fox, Jr.'s childhood. The state funds to refurbish it haven't come through, so you can't go inside, just look through the window. The tour buses roll in to the cul-de-sac, and it sort of landlocks the audienceto spend money. Visitors peruse the gift shop and eat at the Kiwanis Club sloppy-joe stand during intermission.

I love the Drama because growing up I spent most of my summers backstage. Mama designed and sewed all the costumes for the show. There was always something needing mending or replacing, so Mama and I would walk over and tend to the problem. I always loved theater people, even though I was a little scared of them with their elaborate wigs, long black eyelashes, and bright red cheeks. The cast was always nice to me, and once they even let me come onstage with them in the finale. I never forgot the excitement of those footlights, the torches that lit the back wall and the cl.u.s.ter of musicians in the sawdust orchestra pit downstage. It only stood to reason that someday I would grow up and help out. Mazie Dinsmore, the grande dame director of the first season, a tugboat of a woman with the vision of Cecil B. DeMille, spotted me early on and taught me how to direct. I served as her prompter (the girl who crouches offstage and feeds lines to the actors who forget where they are or what to say). This was an important job because more than one of our lead actors was known to hit the Old Grand-Dad before and during a performance. One night I fed a tipsy Cory Tress his line and he looked at me in the wings and said, "What?" He got a huge laugh. But those sorts of flubs are rare. We're amateurs, but we do take the Drama seriously. There was another night when a flat of scenery painted to indicate a drawing room in a Kentucky Bluegra.s.s mansion started to teeter and was about to fall. I slipped onto the stage and grabbed it before it crushed the actors. Mazie never forgot that. She felt I had the stomach for directing. I never panicked. She thought that was one of the most important attributes in a director.

Backstage at the Drama there is always a disorganized cacophony of kids running around, musical-instrument warm-ups, dancers doing their stretches, and actors running their lines. Tonight is closing night, the last show of our season. It's a free performance for the families and friends of the cast and crew, so it's standing room only. Nerves run high when we're putting on the show for the town; somehow, performing for strangers is easier.

The play is about a mountain girl named June Tolliver who falls in love with John Hale, a coal inspector from Kentucky. He takes this wildcat girl and sends her to the Bluegra.s.s to be refined and educated by his aristocratic sister, Helen. When she returns to her mountains after having the Pygmalion pulled on her, she doesn't fit in. In fact, she is too cultured for John Hale, who cannot believe what a lady she has become. They get past all that, though, and admit they've loved each other all along. It's a cla.s.sic story, and it gets the audience every single time. My favorite moment in the play is in the first act, when June's father, Devil Judd Tolliver, finds out that John Hale is in love with his fifteen-year-old daughter. He tries to blow the coal inspector's head off. The lines go: DEVIL JUDD: My Juney is too young for ye.

JOHN HALE: She won't always be fifteen, sir. I'll wait.

The actual blocking has been handed down for years, so all I do is say, "You go here," "You stand there," "Look surprised when the gun goes off," and "No chewing gum." I just follow the instructions from Mazie's promptbook. (When she died she willed it to the John Fox, Jr., Museum.) Any of the special touches we owe to Mazie Dinsmore and her theatrical vision. She put actual gunfire into the show and added the preshow of roving bluegra.s.s musicians and singers to entertain the audience before curtain. The preshow has set us apart from all the other outdoor dramas on the circuit. Audiences love the traditional bluegra.s.s music, and of course, they can't wait to see our world-famous backdrop: a painting, the size of half a football field, that is an exact replica of the mountain view you see behind it. It's a dazzler at twilight, when you're sitting in the audience and you see a painting of the actual vista from your seat.

The hardest part of directing is the scheduling. Because we are not professionals, everybody has a job or two outside of the Drama. I've got musicians who are coal miners and work the hoot-owl shift (midnight to lunch), teachers who are busy all day, farmers who work weekends. It's a juggling act, but it is the most fun I've ever had. I love mountain music-the Celtic Scotch-Irish sound of regret, low wailing tunes like "Barbara Allen" and "Poor Wayfaring Stranger." I always thought I loved that music because of Fred Mulligan. He was Scotch-Irish. The music was our one connection, the only mutual thing we loved. Now I must let go of that, too.

Theodore enters from stage right in full costume and beard. He crosses downstage, jumps off the lip, and comes toward me with a look of concern on his face. We have a powwow about the gizmo that leaks fake blood from his chest (he gets shot at the end of the play). Pearl Grimes is my props department, so she listens in.

My stage manager waves a clipboard in my face. "Miss Mulligan, we're ready to open the house." He calls off, "Dancers! Positions, please." The dancers take the stage. By day they are majorettes with the high school marching band, under Theodore's capable direction. Majorettes are the prettiest girls in school, even ahead of cheerleaders. Let's face it: Twirling takes skill; cheering only takes volume. By night, they're my dancers, providing storytelling through movement.

I have no twirling in the Drama, although the majorette captain, Tayloe Slagle, lobbied hard to incorporate it. I explained that historical accuracy is the entire point of doing the Drama. I don't see a bunch of mountain folk from 1895 twirling batons in the middle of a hoedown.

Tayloe enters from the stage-right wings. She takes her mark at center stage, owning it like it's the only pin dot in the universe. Bo Caudill, the follow-spot operator, widens the beam of light from her perfect face to include her body-shapely, bursting in ripe perfection in a simple red dress with a scoop neck and ruffles.

Tayloe is compact but leggy, like all the great movie stars. She has a well-formed, large head with a clear, high forehead set off by smooth, small features: a prominent but straight nose (like Miriam Hopkins), blond hair (like Veronica Lake), and wet eyes (like Bette Davis). Her right eyebrow is always slightly raised in a delicate swirl, giving me the impression she is skeptical of anything she is told.

Tayloe plays June Tolliver, the ingenue lead, the coa.r.s.e mountain girl who transforms into a Kentucky lady. Tayloe won the role because she has true star quality. It cannot be invented. But it sure doesn't keep every other girl in town from trying to develop That Certain Something. We have girls who practice their footwork, suffer hours of vocal coaching, and diet down to pool-cue thin, but what they don't understand is that this luminescence is inborn and unteachable, and Tayloe's got it. All any good director has to do is exploit the obvious, so we incorporated a dream ballet into the second act, featuring Tayloe in a pale pink leotard and a wee chiffon skirt. Tickets flew out of the box office.

She's our starlet, so all the girls seek her approval and imitate her. Tayloe gives them a standard, a marker by which to judge themselves. Other skills and attributes can be appreciated and duly noted, but beauty is instantly obvious to all. I have never met a girl (including myself) who did not long to be beautiful, who did not pray for her own potential to reveal itself. When a girl is beautiful, she gets to pick-she never has to wait for someone to choose her. There is so much power in doing the choosing.

Pearl Grimes touches my arm. "I think I got a better way for the blood to spurt. I'm gonna rig a tube down Mr. Tipton's pant leg so he can step hard when he's shot."

The summer of 1978 will forever be remembered as the summer of wily stagecraft. No matter what technique we've tried-and we even called the folks up in New York City to find out how they do it-we have not been able to get Theodore shot on cue. Either the blood spurts too soon or too late. Either way, it destroys the authenticity of the moment.

"Did Mr. Tipton like your idea?"

"He's mighty impatient."

"Most great artists are, you know. Michelangelo said, 'Genius is eternal patience.' "

"Do you think Mr. Tipton's a genius?"