Big Stone Gap Part 12

"I just do."

"You shouldn't never give up."

Poor Pearl. She's a romantic. She doesn't understand what really goes on between adults. At fifteen, she could never comprehend the depth of the relations.h.i.+p I have with Theodore. Bells, whistles, gold bands, and a gown are not my idea of meaningful. I don't need to get married to feel whole.

"You really never tried to get murried?"

"No, ma'am, I didn't." I'm sure she heard the rumors of Theodore's car at my house all night last weekend. She's fis.h.i.+ng. My personal life has gone beyond gossip, and now the rumor mill wants to b.u.mp me to next level: marriage. Two grown adults cannot carry on a romance in this town without a marriage license.

"I thought everyone wanted to get murried." Pearl shrugs.

"What makes you think I do?"

"You got rid of all the junk."

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, you cleaned up the back. When I first worked here, it was a mess. Now it's empty. You've been fixing things up. Otto and Worley fixed your roof. Now you're paying them to repoint the bricks on this building. You're working less. You hired me to work here, even though Fleeta can handle it alone."

"What are you saying?"

"You even gave me your business. Don't you see? Folks lighten up their lives when they're about to make a move."

"Maybe I just got tired of having junk all over the place."

"I don't think so. I think you're making s.p.a.ce in your life to squeeze a man in."

Pearl looks at me. I don't say anything, which she takes as a sign to shut up. She wheels the vacuum cleaner to the back storage closet.

"We'll be needing a new sweeper directly," she says as she goes.

Sometimes I think Pearl Grimes is a very strange girl.

October 23 arrives gloriously without a cloud in the sky. The mountains are in the final stage of autumn, and the leaves have faded to a dull gold-the perfect backdrop for a woman who played the queen of Egypt. How I wish my mother had lived to see an actual movie star! My mother loved Elizabeth Taylor. She would go on and on about her perfect features: those eyes, that straight nose, the just-full-enough lips, that strong chin. Elizabeth Taylor is Dresden china, the finest white porcelain set off by that midnight-black hair.

Everyone is excited, and the nervousness is bringing out odd behavior in some of our townspeople, particularly the men. Ballard Littrell, our town drunk, has sobered up. He only has one ear-no one knows how he lost the other one-so he never gets his hair cut off on the left side. But he was seen at the barber, gussying up for the evening, trying to even out the sides. Otto and Worley were seen at Zackie's store buying new s.h.i.+rts. They never buy anything new, so this is an important event for them. The women in town who are around Elizabeth's age, forty-five and up, took this milestone visit as a cue to upgrade their looks. Pearl noted that we have completely sold out of Black Sable hair dye and blue eye shadow.

I thought about closing the Pharmacy today, but I couldn't. I need to keep my mind busy. I am so nervous for Theodore; I want everything to be perfect for him tonight. He has worked so hard. I hope the kids don't crack under the pressure. There would be nothing worse than a fire baton going up in the air and landing on the visitors' bench instead of in the waiting hands of Tayloe Slagle. I can't imagine she'll choke, but you never know.

I decide to lock up early. Pearl is counting on it; she brought a new outfit with her to work this afternoon, and she plans to change in our powder room, then head off to the park to help Theodore set up the pyramids for the halftime show. I recruited her to work on Theodore's field crew. If there's one person who can handle a lot of pressure, it's Pearl. Just having her around is soothing.

The door bells jingle merrily. I look out the window and see a few folks milling on Main Street, staking out their spots for the parade. Two little boys stand in front of the register. They argue about whether to use their candy allowance for Good 'n Plenty or Hot Tamales. One look at their blond heads tells me they could only be Sweet Sue's boys.

"Are you the Tinsley boys?" I ask.

"I'm Jared and he's Chris," says the older of the two.

"How much money have you got?"

"Two dimes, one nickel, and one penny."

"You're in luck! It's two-for-one day. You get two boxes of candy for exactly twenty-six cents." The boys jump up and down as the bells on the door ring again. I look up and see Jack MacChesney standing before me.

"What's taking you boys so long?"

"Jared couldn't pick fast," Chris says.

"Well, go on now. Get in the truck."

"We won't get no stickies on your seat, Uncle Jack," Jared promises.

"Hey, how'd you get two boxes?"

"The lady give them to us." Jared points to me.

"Did you thank her?"

"Thank you, ma'am," they chorus, and run out. There's that word ma'am again. It really and truly bugs me. I must remember, these are little boys; to them, everyone is old, even their thirty-five-year-old mother.

Pearl comes out of the powder room in her new two-piece plaid suit. She looks like she's lost almost twenty pounds. She stops to check her makeup at her station but thinks better of it when she sees Jack MacChesney at my counter.

"That was mighty nice of you, Ave Maria," Jack Mac says.

"They're cute kids."

"Yes, ma'am, they are."

I straighten the folds on my prescription clipboard, flattening the creases with one of the nickels Jared gave me. I can't look at Jack Mac, not because I'm embarra.s.sed but because I don't have anything to say. What can I say to a man whose proposal I turned down? I wrack my brain, but small talk seems teeny tiny. Jack Mac just stands there, with his hands in his pockets, jiggling coins and keys. He takes the change out of his pocket and begins sorting it. I'm glad he looks down; it gives me a chance to fix my hair. I inhale. Why does he always smell so good?

"Oh no, the Hot Tamales were on the house. They couldn't decide between Hot Tamales and Good 'n Plenty." Jack Mac looks at me, confused.

"The kids, they only had-" Shut up, Ave Maria. The guy doesn't care what their favorite candy is; he's not their father, you idiot. He's Uncle Jack, the nice man who takes them for rides in his truck and plays catch with them. Uncle Jack, who will someday be their stepdaddy.

"You going to the dinner tomorrow night?"

"Yes." Is he a loon or what? Asking me if I'm going to the dinner. He should hate me. I was so rude to him. And now he's standing here putting change in every single fund-raising jar on my counter. The coins drop into the jars, one clink, two clink, three clink; and it's a good thing, they fill up the silence.

"Well, I guess I better be going," he says, and turns and walks out.

"He likes you," Pearl announces as she rolls her lips with Bonne Bell strawberry gloss.

If only she knew. But I can't tell her.

"He looks at you like you're the most beautiful woman he ever saw. He'd dump Sweet Sue for you in a second."

"He'd be a fool if he did that."

"No, he wouldn't." Pearl can be very stubborn. "You know something, Miss Ave? If I was him, and I had to pick between Sweet Sue and any other woman in town and you, I'd pick you."

"You're very nice to say that." I wish she would stop.

"I'd pick you because there's just something about you. You're sparkly. Yeah. That's it. Sparkly." Pearl grabs her purse and goes to the door. "See you on the field."

I wear my very best coat-a red velvet swing coat-so Theodore can single me out from the announcer's booth. As I look out over the crowd in the stands, I realize that pretty much everyone in town had the same idea. We look like a hunter's convention, splashes of red and bright orange throughout the stands. Everyone wore their loudest and brightest clothing; perhaps subconsciously we are hoping Elizabeth Taylor will see us in the crowd and single us out with a smile or a wink. Fleeta flags me down from the top of the stands with a purple light wand she got at a University of Tennessee football game. She elbows Portly to wave at me; he does.

The crowd in the visitors' section is filled with overflow from our stands. Rye Cove is a small village, much smaller than Big Stone Gap. When we play them, it seems pathetic to even cheer against them since they have no manpower at all in their stands and just as little on the field. We'll beat them decisively tonight, and we should; after all, we're the side that's got the movie star.

The teams aren't on the field yet. They're lined up around the track to wave to Elizabeth Taylor. I look all around the park, and everyone is standing. There's a buzz, but it is definitely reverential. The band curves off the parking lot and onto the track, a long Carolina-blue snake, precise and pliable. And then there she is! The convertible! With her! The car harrumphs over the parking-lot median and bounces onto the track; for a moment I worry Elizabeth and her husband will be thrown off of their backseat perch. But they hang on to each other and laugh. I'm in a perfect spot to get a real good look at her.

I haven't heard this much cheering since we won the state champions.h.i.+p in 1972. The stadium fills with sound that echoes into the black mountains behind us. The chanting: "Liz! Liz! Liz!" The occasional gut holler: "I love you!" cuts through the din, all of us, yelling, whistling, applauding, thrilled! Notice us! Over here! See me, Elizabeth! We've sure been watching you all these many years! Watch us!

The convertible rolls around the track slowly. On the front grid of the car is a sign from the Nabisco distributor that reads, DON'T GO 'ROUND HUNGRY. HAVE YOUR NABS-short for Nabisco crackers around these parts. Cas Walker must have cut a deal with his distributors. I hope somebody explained to Elizabeth what Nabs are.

The convertible gingerly inches up to the fifty-yard line, where I am standing. Spec is behind the wheel. He sees me, and he knows I love old movies, so he practically slows to a stop so I can get a close-up look.

Elizabeth Taylor is exquisite. She is wearing a flowing emerald-green silk tunic and matching pants. The neckline is an off-center V, which is quite becoming. Her shoulder-length hair is pulled back into a low chignon, and she has a large yellow flower tucked over one ear. I am close enough to see into the car. She has kicked off a very pretty pair of matching green pumps. Her feet are bare, and her toenails are painted hot pink. But it is her expression, the sweet smile-not forced, genuine-that gets me. She is so happy to see us! Her eyes are violet! I look over at Nellie Goodloe, who seems relieved. The theme colors are a real homage now. There is something peculiar about Nellie; now I see what. She has rinsed her hair coal black. Poor old Nellie; be a leader, I want to tell her, not a follower.

Elizabeth is tiny, with delicate hands and feet, like a child's. She is a little chubby, but on her-it just softens her, so it's as though she's a little blurry, not a hard angle on her. Three of the ladies from the Methodist sewing circle stand behind me. Their comments are not as generous. Joella Reasor, who has always battled a weight problem, comments to her friends, "All my life I wanted to look like her, and now I do."

I see Theodore up in the announcer's booth, which angles out over the home section. He is in the window, examining the field from on high. I give him a thumbs-up, and he waves to me. Then I look back to the convertible. Candidate Warner gives me a thumbs-up; I guess he thought I was signaling to him. I feel a little guilty. I'd never vote for him, since I'm a Democrat. But you know what? It doesn't hurt anything to let him think I might. He smiles a big, beamy, vote-for-me smile, and I give him a thumbs-up too.

A team of folks helps Elizabeth and the candidate up to their seats. The football players take the field, but no one even notices the game. l.u.s.ter Camp, a sweet soul of a man with a feeble mind, is our unofficial high school mascot. He takes his usual cheering spot in front of the home stands-tonight he's in direct view of Elizabeth Taylor's perch. l.u.s.ter loves our team and leads very amusing cheers, but he isn't exactly the amba.s.sador we want to flaunt in front of a visiting movie star. l.u.s.ter, however, is undeterred. It's just another game night to him, and he's got a job to do. The crowd looks down at him as a mother does to a child who is about to embarra.s.s her deeply in public. Please don't, they seem to be pleading with their eyes.

"Y'all. Y'all," l.u.s.ter shouts, "it's time for a cheer!"

The kids in the stands usually cheer loudly for him, but tonight their silence sends a strong message: l.u.s.ter, sit down. Please don't humiliate us in front of Virginia Woolf.

"Beans and corn bread got in a fight! Beans knocked the corn bread outta sight. That's what Powell Valley is gonna do tonight!"

Elizabeth Taylor laughs and applauds as though the cheer is the funniest she has ever heard.

"One more!" l.u.s.ter shouts. "Two bits, four bits, six bits, a dollah. All for the Vikings, stand up and hollah!"

Elizabeth applauds again. The crowd, taking their cue from her, stands and cheers. l.u.s.ter bows deeply, then disappears into the crowd in his torn raincoat and porkpie hat. I doubt he knew Elizabeth Taylor was in the crowd.

I watch every moment of the second quarter tick off, hoping it will end and afraid for it to end. How on earth is Theodore handling this pressure? I want his show to be magnificent. We just can't make any mistakes. The band empties out onto the track silently as the final seconds of the quarter pa.s.s. The teams run off the field. The band files past the home section and across to the goal line, one by one.

The announcer in the booth, who calls the game for local radio, blows into the microphone as we all look toward him.

"Ladies and gents. We got a show fer you tonight. Now we got the prettiest gal in Hollywood here, and this here show is full of all the stuff from her movies. So sit back and relax, spit out your tobacky, and let's get happy! Here we go, folks, the Powell Valley Viking marching band!"

The crowd leaps to their feet, applauding and cheering. The pyramids are ready to roll. I see the s.h.i.+mmer of Tayloe's Cleopatra costume from her hiding place under the visitors' bleachers. She's right where she should be. Then something very odd happens. The drum majorette blows her whistle. Not once, not twice, but four times. And then she waits and blows it again. She isn't blowing it at the band-they are frozen in position waiting to begin. Their eyes are wide and full of horror. There on the twenty-yard line, several feet from where the band is to make its first formation, are King and Cora, the town strays, two large mutts, fed by all and adopted by no one. King has mounted Cora. Cora either senses the crowd or is through with King; either way, she does not want to be doing this right now. I can't help but think that the dogs took on all of the nervous energy in our town and now have to release it. The urgent humping is rhythmic, almost saying, Please let this be over. Let this show be over. Let it be over now.

Another hush falls over the crowd, and everyone looksto the queen for her response. Elizabeth Taylor is ignoring the dogs and chatting with her aide. Theodore is slumpedin the announcer's booth. I look over at Pearl, who shrugs at me, wordlessly asking, What are we supposed to do? One ofthe referees can't take it another second, so he trots out onto the field to separate the dogs. Spec runs after the ref shouting loudly enough for everyone to hear, "You can't pull 'em apart, they'll bite you, you stupid son of a b.i.t.c.h." So we do the best we can in this terrible situation. We let them hump and we wait it out. This has to be the longest-lasting s.e.x act on record. Finally, King depletes himself. He climbs off Cora and runs into the end zone with a gallop worthy of Secretariat. Cora slinks off into the shadows. The drum majorette blows her whistle. Finally. Finally. The show.

From the first pinwheel formation, the kids are perfect. They play the music so grandly, and what an arrangement! Seamlessly and beautifully, they rondelet through every major theme of every major Elizabeth Taylor movie. She stands and places her hands on the rail of the platform, leaning over the edge like she wants to be close to this majestic, loving salute. Then the flag girls pivot across the fifty-yard line, single file, and magically disappear under the pyramids. The three pyramids move into place and then BOOM! The lights in the stadium go out, the crowd cheers and whistles; and there in center field, surrounded by fire batons, is Tayloe Slagle, in full Cleopatra garb, including jet-black wig, posed Egyptian-style. Her figure is amazing; she is curvy but lean, just like Elizabeth Taylor when she was Cleopatra. Tayloe takes two batons and begins to twirl them like the pro she is. She twists and bends and tosses and catches and smiles, effortlessly, smoothly, and with such sa.s.s. The effect in this dark ballpark is dazzling. Pearl, who has run all the way from the other side of the track in the dark, comes up behind me, breathless. We stand and watch the show with awe. Even though we helped, we cannot believe how beautiful it is.

"She is so talented," Pearl decides as she watches Tayloe.

"Yes, she is. But baton twirling is not a skill one needs later in life." I don't know why I think I always have to teach Pearl lessons. I am not the oracle of Big Stone Gap, after all.

The lights bolt back on; everyone is cheering. The band plays off and exits the field. They pa.s.s Elizabeth's perch; she is weeping and throwing them kisses. Then the most amazing thing happens: She turns to the announcer's booth and throws Theodore a kiss. And then she bows to him! She actually bows! I will never forget this moment as long as I live.

The Coach House Inn is the only real restaurant in Big Stone Gap. We do have the Bus Terminal Cafe and the Sub Sandwich Carry-Out, but they are strictly casual. There is Jackson's Fish & Fry, but they only serve Sunday brunch. Punch-and-cake wedding receptions are held in the church bas.e.m.e.nt fellows.h.i.+p rooms. So, all the rest of life's events-holidays, Lions and Kiwanis club meetings, and family buffets-are held right here at the Coach House.

The building is a simple colonial-style redbrick square, with black shutters and a sloping white roof. A sign swings from the entryway: a black silhouette of a nineteenth-century coach driver whipping a team of horses with a fancy carriage behind him. The artist who painted the coach and driver is the same one who made my nurse in a rush. The eats are terrific. The food is fresh and delectable-salty, crusty, spicy, hot fried chicken (on Sundays it's called Gospel Bird), with biscuits so light and fluffy, one person could eat a dozen. Nellie made the entrance look lovely. She borrowed the large ficus plants in bra.s.s urns from the bank, so when you enter the Coach House, you are completely surrounded by lush foliage. Edna and Ledna Tuckett, the town twins, now in their late sixties, are dressed alike in pale blue serge suits and hand out programs for the evening.

The programs are pretty; Nellie really has a knack. She is the doyenne of our Corn Bread Aristocracy. The program covers are made from lavender construction paper, with a tiny purple silk African violet glued on, framed by a small grosgrain ribbon. Inside, the agenda for the evening is laid out in a fancy calligraphy: Welcome Candidate and Mrs. John Warner Library Fund-raising Dinner

October 24, 1978 - 6:30 p.m.

The Coach House Inn

Invocation: Reverend Elmo Gaspar

Dinner: Chicken & Fixings

honoring the great career of screen legend Elizabeth Taylor

Aperitif: "Little Women" crabbies and punch