Excerpt
from CHAPTER ONE
The
rain is coming down on this old stone house so hard, it
seems there are a hundred tap dancers on the roof. When
Etta left for school this morning, it was drizzling, and
now, at two o'clock, it's a storm. I can barely see Powell
Mountain out my kitchen window; just yesterday it was
a shimmering gold pyramid of autumn leaves at their peak.
I hope the downpour won't beat the color off the trees
too soon. We have all winter for Cracker's Neck Holler
to wear gray. How I love these mountains in October: the
leaves are turning--layers of burgundy and yellow crinolines
that change color in the light--the apples are in, the
air smells like sweet smoke, and
I get to build big fires in Mrs. Mac's deep hearths. As
I kneel and slip a log into the stove, I think of my mother-in-law,
who had fires going after the first chill in the air.
"I love me a farr," she'd say.
There's a note
on the blackboard over the sink in Jack Mac's handwriting:
Red pepper sandwiches? The message is at least three months
old; no one should have to wait that long for their favorite
sandwich, least of all my husband. Why does it take me so
long to fulfill a simple request? There was a time when
he came first, when I would drop everything and invent ways
to make my husband happy. I wonder if he notices that life
has put him in second place. If he doesn't, my magazine
subscriptions sure do. Redbook came with a cover exploding
in hot pink letters: put the sizzle back in your marriage!
we show you how! Step #4 is Make His Favorite Food. (Don't
ask about the other nine steps.) So, with equal measures
of guilt and determination to do better, I'm roasting peppers
in the oven, turning them while they char as dark as the
sky.
I baked the bread for the
sandwiches this morning. I pull the cookie sheet off the
deep windowsill, brush the squares of puffy dough with
olive oil, and put them aside. Then I take the tray out
of the oven and commence peeling the peppers. (This is
a sit-down job.) My mother used to lift off the charred
part in one piece; I've yet to master her technique. The
vivid red pepper underneath is smooth as the velvet lining
of an old jewelry box. I lay the thin red strips on the
soft bread. The mix of olive oil and sweet hot bread smells
fresh and buttery. I sprinkle coarse salt on the open
sandwiches; the faceted crystals glisten on the red peppers.
I'm glad I made a huge batch. There will be lots of us
in the van tonight.
There's big news around
here. Etta is going to be on television. She and two of
her classmates are going on Kiddie Kollege, the WCYB quiz
show for third-graders. Etta, who loves to read, has been
chosen for her general knowledge. Her fellow teammates
are Jane Herd and Billy Skeens. Jane, a math whiz who
has the round cheeks of a monarch, has been selected for
her keen ability to divide in her head. Billy, a small
but mighty Melungeon boy, was chosen for his bravery.
He recently helped evacuate the Big Stone Gap Elementary
School cafeteria when one of the steam tables caught fire.
No one could come up with a prize big enough to honor
him (an assembly and a medal seemed silly), so the school
decided to put him on the show. I guess the teachers feel
that fame is its own reward.
Jack Mac borrowed the van
from Sacred Heart Church because we're transporting the
team and I've promised rides to our friends. The television
studio is about an hour and a half from the Gap, right
past Kingsport over in Bristol, Tennessee. The show is
live at six p.m. sharp, so we'll leave right after school.
Etta planned her outfit carefully: a navy blue skirt and
pink sweater (her grandfather Mario sent it to her from
Italy, so Etta thinks it's the best sweater she owns,
if not the luckiest). She is wearing her black patent-leather
Mary Janes, though I pointed out that you rarely see anyone's
shoes on TV.
I make one
final pass through the downstairs, locking up as I go. With
its simple, square rooms and lots of floor space, this old
house is perfect for raising kids. Of course, when Mrs.
Mac was alive, I never dreamed I'd live here. For a few
years, this was just another delivery stop for me in the
Medicine Dropper. I remember how I loved to drive up the
bumpy dirt road and see this stone house sitting in a clearing
against the mountain like a painting. If I had known that
Mrs. Mac would one day be my mother-in-law, I might have
tried to impress her. But I didn't. I'd drop off her pills,
have a cup of coffee, and go. I never thought I would fall
in love with her only son. And I never thought I would be
looking at my face in these mottled antique mirrors, or
building fires for heat, or raising her granddaughter in
these rooms. If you had told me that I would make my home
in this holler on this mountain, I would have laughed. I
grew up down in town; no one ever moves out of Big Stone
Gap and up into the hills. How strange life is.
I check myself in the mirror.
Etta is forever begging me to wear more makeup. She wants
me to be a young mom, like her friends have; in these
parts, the women my age are grandmothers! So I stop in
the hallway for a moment and dig for the lipstick in the
bottom of my purse. My youthful appeal will have to come
from a tube. You would think that someone who has worked
in a pharmacy all her life would have one of those snazzy
makeup bags. We have a whole spin rack of them at the
Mutual's. Maybe Etta's right, I should pay more attention
to the way I look. (Covering up my undereye circles is
just not a priority.) Folks tell me that I haven't changed
since I was a girl. Is that a good thing? I lean into
the tea-stained glass and take a closer look. Eight years
with Jack MacChesney have comeand gone. It seems once
I fell in love with him, time began flying.
Someone is banging on the
front door. The thunder is so loud, I didn't hear a car
come up the road. With one hand, Doris Bentrup from the
flower shop juggles an umbrella in the wind and with the
other, a stack of white boxes festooned with lavender
ribbons. Two pairs of reading glasses dangle from her
neck. Beads of rain cover the clear plastic cap she wears
on her head.
"Come
on in!"
"Can't. Got a wagon
full of flowers. Got a funeral over in Pound. I'm gonna
kill myself if this rain done ruined my hair."
"It looks
good." I'm about a foot taller than Doris, so I look
down on her tiny curls, each one a perfect rosette of blue
icing under a saran-wrap tent.
"It'd better. I suffered
for this look. I sat under that dryer over to Ethel's
for two hours on Saturdee 'cause of the humidity. She
sprayed my head so bad these curls is like tee-niney rocks.
Feel."
"They're
perfect," I tell Doris without touching her head.
"Etta all ready for
the big show?"
"We hope they win this
year, on account of no one from Big Stone ever wins."
"Didn't the Dogwood
Garden Club win on Club Quiz?"
"Yes'm. But that was
a good ten year' ago. And they was grown-ups, so I don't
think you can count 'at. Wait till you see who these is
from. I nearly done dropped my teeth, and you know that
ain't easy, 'cause I glue 'em in good."
I pull the tiny white card
bordered in crisp pink daisies out of the envelope. It
reads: Knock 'em dead, Etta. And remember, the cardinal
is the state bird of Virginia. Love, Uncle Theodore.
"That there Tipton
is a class act. He ain't never gonna be replaced in these
parts," Doris announces as she tips her head back
to let the rain drain off her cap. "Sometimes we
git a ferriner in here that makes us set up and take notice.
How's he doin' at U.T.?"
"He says he's got the
best marching band in the nation."
"Now if
they'd only start winning them some ball games."
As Doris makes a break for
her station wagon, I open a box. There, crisp and perfect,
is a wrist corsage of white carnations. Nestled in the
cold petals are three small gold-foil letters: win. I
inhale the fresh, cold flowers. The letters tickle my
nose and remind me of the homecoming mums that Theodore
bought me every year during football season. For nearly
ten years, Theodore was band director and Junior Class
Sponsor at Powell Valley High School. He chaperoned every
dance, and I was always his date. (Parents appreciated
that an experienced member of the Rescue Squad chaperoned
school dances.) Theodore always made a big deal of slipping
the corsage onto my wrist before the game. Win or lose,
the dance was a celebration because Theodore's halftime
shows were always spectacular. Besides his unforgettable
salute to Elizabeth Taylor prior to her choking on the
chicken bone, my favorite was his salute to the Great
American Musical, honoring the creations of Rodgers and
Hammerstein. Each of the majorettes was dressed as a different
lead character, including Maria from The Sound of Music
and Julie Jordan from Carousel.
Romalinda Miranda, daughter
of the Filipino Doctor Wh Was on the Team That Saved Liz
Taylor, was the ingenue from Flower Drum Song.
Theodore pulled her from
the Flag Girls; there was a bit of a drama around that,
as folks didn't think that a majorette should be drafted
out of thin air for one show just because she looked like
she was from the original cast. Once the controversy died
down, the Miranda family basked in the glory of the celebration
of their Asian heritage. (Extra points for my fellow ferriners.)
From the Trade Paperback edition.
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