Big Stone Gap Part 14

We never saw Elizabeth Taylor again. After the bone was dislodged, she rested for several hours; then, in the wee hours of the morning, she was transported out of Big Stone Gap by helicopter to a large hospital in Richmond, on the other side of the state. She recuperated there for the remaining days of the campaign. John Warner won the election by a hair; many thought he got a lot of sympathy votes because his wife suffered an accident while on the stump for him. It's a shame that Big Stone Gap will be remembered not for the way we honored her but as the campaign stop where Elizabeth Taylor swallowed a chicken bone. Folks 'round here have a theory about it all: Maybe there's some old Scotch-Irish curse on us. After all, the coal-mining boom never made us the Pittsburgh of the South; now we've choked an international movie star; maybe we're just not meant to be part of the Big World.

After all the hoopla (which gave me a chance to put my life on hold), I face myself again. I finally sit down and write my Aunt Meoli a letter. The letter writing is cathartic. I figure she's in her sixties now, so I start the letter with a request for her to be with somebody before she continues reading the letter, in case she pa.s.ses out or something. It is very hard for me to write about my mother's death, but knowing that this is my mother's sister, I give her every detail to the best of my recollection. Mama always expected the whole truth from me-how ironic-so I a.s.sume her sister would, too. I don't know why Mama didn't tell me about her family, especially since we had thirteen years without Fred Mulligan around. What was she still afraid of? Why didn't she see our trip as an opportunity to clear her conscience and share the truth with me? There were so many opportunities for her to tell me her story. When our pa.s.sports arrived, she could have told me everything then. She could have told me on the plane to Italy. Pick any number of days, of moments inside those days, when it was just the two of us, here alone in this house, in private, without the threat of any outsider. She could have unburdened herself. What a gift the truth would have been! We could have flown to Italy together and reunited with the people I come from. She could have introduced me to her family. We could have stayed with them, learned about them, caught up on all the time that had gone by. I would have aunts and uncles and cousins who loved me. Look at all I missed in the bubble of a lie.

I'm about to dig into a nice slice of a chocolate layer cake that the Tuckett sisters dropped off (the other half was delivered to Theodore). I've been getting a lot of covered dishes since I was part of the team that saved Elizabeth Taylor's life. I whip up some fresh cream. I have a nice steaming mug of coffee. I'm in my softest flannel pajamas, with my feet up, when the phone rings.

It's Spec. (Who else?) He needs me to go down to the Church of G.o.d with him. I beg him to make the run alone, because I'm tired (and by the way, I forgot to tell you, Spec, I'm quitting). But he begs me, so I agree to go with him. About five minutes go by before Spec honks, and I run, grabbing my kit on the way out.

As we speed across town to the church on the riverbank, Spec fills me in. Reverend Gaspar was preaching a revival to a packed house when he took two poisonous rattlesnakes out of a cage and started handling them. One bit him.

"Relax. I gave Preacher Gaspar a serum a while back. Doc Daugherty made him take the prescription." Spec doesn't respond, he just takes a deep drag off his cigarette. This is one of those go-nowhere runs I got suckered into because Spec insisted. A snakebite is a one-man job. Wash and dress the wound, and out. I picture that moist layer cake sitting on my coffee table at home, and it makes me real cross.

The Church of G.o.d is a one-room building made of sandstone. The simple roof has a cross painted on it. The front door is painted bright red to keep the Devil out. Spec and I can hear wailing from the congregation, but this is typical for a revival. People come to cleanse themselves of their sins and seek redemption. That can get loud.

We enter through the rear of the church. Dicie Sturgill, a small st.u.r.dy woman with a shock of red hair, meets us at the back pew. She is very upset. She leads us up the aisle to Reverend Gaspar, who is lying on the floor of the altar with someone's coat wadded up under his head for a pillow. About twelve believers are laying their hands on him and speaking in tongues. I recognize one of the faces from a Rescue Squad run last year: a rambunctious fifteen-year-old troublemaker named Den-Bob Snodgra.s.s. During girls' PE one morning he came out of the boys' dressing room bouncing a basketball, buck naked. The girls saw him, started screaming, and ran out into the hallways, creating a stampede. Den-Bob was suspended, but he never returned to finish school. He went to work in the mines instead.

Reverend Gaspar moans softly. His wrist is wrapped in a wad of paper towel, and the blood is seeping through. I dress his wound while Spec quizzes him. Spec asks Reverend Gaspar if he took the serum. The preacher cannot focus; his response tells me he hasn't taken the serum, but I can't be sure. I ask his wife, who is crying and praying at his feet, to take a seat. She is wailing loudly, asking Jesus to save him. I tell Spec to finish wrapping the wound; maybe I can get through to the preacher. I ask the hand layers to take to their seats, as the patient needs air. They oblige. One of them puts her arms around Mrs. Gaspar and leads her to the front pew, a simple wooden bench. Spec prepares a shot to administer to the preacher. If he already took the serum, it won't hurt; and if he didn't, I pray this will do the trick.

"Reverend, can you hear me? It's me, Ave Maria. You got a nasty bite." He smiles as though he understands.

Then Den-Bob Snodgra.s.s leaps up, pulls a pistol out of his pants, and shoots the snakes writhing in the cage on the altar. Blood and thin strips of brown and green snakeskin explode everywhere. The congregation screams out in horror.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n rattlers!" Den-Bob cries. Two men grab him, take the gun, and hustle him out of the church. Spec and I keep our cool and continue with our business, though I feel I might throw up. I have a fleeting thought that no one ever changes; Den-Bob Snodgra.s.s was a loose cannon before he chose the Lord, and he's a loose cannon now.

"Reverend, did you take the serum?"

He does not answer me.

"We have to take you to the hospital."

"No," he says clearly.

"We have to. You got bit."

"No!"

Spec looks at me like, We're taking him anyway. Let's wrap this up and get him out of here. Preacher Gaspar's face has begun to swell. As we lift him onto the gurney, a small vial falls out of his jacket. It's the sealed bottle of serum I sold him. I slip it into my pocket, hoping his wife didn't notice.

Spec barks for folks to clear the aisle. We get Reverend Gaspar outside and hoist him into the back of the ambulance. Spec drives, and I stay in the back with the reverend.

I hold his hand. He still has the strength to squeeze my hand, and I tell him to keep squeezing. He asks for water, and I give it to him. He has something he wants to say to me. First, he takes another sip.

"Why didn't you take the serum, Preacher?" I ask him.

"Faith," he says. His grip on my hand loosens.

"Hurry, Spec."

I look down at Preacher Gaspar. His expression is one of contentment. I can't understand this. He's in pain. Why isn't he crying out?

Men look so very small when they're dying. He seems like a child to me. I hold his hand and squeeze it gently, awaiting a response. I don't get one. He still has a pulse, though; he has quietly slipped into a coma.

Spec drives me home. We are silent most of the trip from the hospital. Reverend Gaspar died at 3:33 A.M.; some folks noted that Christ died at the age of thirty-three, and maybe there is some connection. Spec and I have never lost a patient, so we've never walked this territory with each other before. He drops me off and I walk up the steps, into my old house, but I don't feel like it's home anymore. I left all the lights on; the cake and coffee are where I left them, the whipped cream now a flat sandy pool. I take the dishes to the kitchen and throw everything out. I wash the plate and the fork and the mug. I don't cry, but I can't get Reverend Gaspar's face out of my mind.

It is a glorious late-November day, perfect for apple picking or a funeral. In a simple pinewood casket Reverend Gaspar is laid out in a white gown. Field flowers are gathered with ribbons and set about the foot of the casket. The Church of G.o.d has never been so crowded. Almost all of the local preachers from the other denominations flank the altar, including my Catholic priest, a gentle old Irishman out of Buffalo, New York.

The Mormon brothers peruse the crowd and nod to me in recognition. I smile at them in appreciation; they sent me a family tree researched by the Mormons on my behalf. The only problem was that they were off in the spelling of Mario Barbari's name. They researched the Bonboni family instead. While the Bonbonis were talented olive oil pressers, they were not related to me. I didn't have the heart to tell the boys they made a mistake, so I sat through their spiel and acted excited about the discovery.

There is much singing and revelry. Folks stand and talk about Preacher Gaspar, how he helped them find Jesus; how he prayed with them and for them; how he was a real preacher, a genuine apostle who could tell a story and make you believe it. I couldn't help thinking about his preaching at our school when I was a girl. We were a little scared of him, and also in awe. The word faith keeps popping up, and I remember how he said it the night he died. It sends a chill through me.

At the end of the funeral, after Pee Wee Poteet plays "In the Sweet By and By" on his fiddle, Dicie Sturgill gets up to read a letter that the reverend wrote to his flock in the event of his death. The very mention of this letter sends the women in the church into a wailing spell. When it goes on a tad too long, Dicie gives them a look that says, Do you want to weep, or do you want me to read this here letter after all? The wailing trails off to nose blowing and sniffling. Then she reads: My dear Friends in Jesus the Lord: In my life I found Jesus, my Lord and Savior, in all things, in work and play. Jesus wasn't Somebody I turned to when I was sick or sad. I had fun with Him, too. He was with me wherever I went, whether it was to preach up at the school or fis.h.i.+ng in Powell Valley Lake on a Sat.u.r.day morning. He was always with me and I hope I knew Him well. Instead of a punch-and-cookie reception in the Fellows.h.i.+p Hall, I've arranged for all of you to go to Shug's Lanes and bowl the afternoon away. I want you to have some fun with Jesus. Listen to one another, laugh, and see the great glory of G.o.d in each other. It is there, my friends, believe me. Sometimes we just don't have the eyes to see it. Have a set on me.

Devotedly yours, Reverend Elmo Gaspar One thing we do very well in the Gap is follow instructions. So after we put the reverend in the ground, the funeral procession headed right down Shawnee Avenue to Shug's Bowling Lanes. Midge and Shug Hall had the lanes ready, the b.a.l.l.s polished, the Nabs out, the pop poured, and the scorecards empty.

We pour into the bowling alley, teaming up to play a series or two. No one is impatient or compet.i.tive. We each wait and take our turn and enjoy watching others play. Even the old ladies join in the fun. There are tears here and there, but mostly there is laughter and storytelling and good eats.

Iva Lou and I excuse ourselves to go to the ladies' room. You have to walk down one of the far aisle lanes to get to the back where the bathrooms are. I remember how self-conscious I was in the first buds of p.u.b.erty when I made that long walk to the bathroom. One week I was a kid with a wad of bubble gum, bouncing all around this place; within a month or two, I hit adolescence and was horrified to be on display and draw attention to myself on the way to the bathroom. Today, as Iva Lou and I make the long walk, the self-consciousness is gone. We just hope a ball doesn't pop over the aisle and hit us. Shug's is packed with lousy bowlers; b.a.l.l.s are flying everywhere.

When we get to the back, we pause for a moment, because instead of LADIES and MEN printed on each of the rest room doors, there are two pictures to choose from: POINTERS and SETTERS. The POINTERS door has a picture of a hunting dog; the SETTERS door has a picture of a dog sitting by a hearth. "We're setters," Iva Lou announces as she shoves the door open.

June Walker is at the sink, was.h.i.+ng her hands. "Ain't this awful about Preacher Gaspar?" We nod sadly. June continues, "You know death comes in threes, so I done guess we got two more to go."

"I don't think you have to worry about that old superst.i.tion. There have already been three deaths," I tell June's reflection in the mirror.

"How do you figure?" June asks.

"Well, there was Reverend Gaspar and the two snakes. That makes three."

As we primp at the mirror, we hear the b.a.l.l.s rolling down the lanes toward the pins. When the b.a.l.l.s. .h.i.t the back wall of the lanes to go into the return aisle, they sound like they are going to bust right through the ladies' room wall. June can't help but jump a little with each crash. Iva Lou and I laugh. The last time I was in this bathroom I was a little girl. I had forgotten how the b.a.l.l.s smash the wall.

I don't know why I'm not sad about Reverend Gaspar's pa.s.sing. I guess it's partly because he died on the heels of my mother's death and I'm still not over that, so anything on top of it seems surreal. When I get back from the funeral, Otto and Worley are putting in my storm windows on the ground floor. I tell them all about the bowling and they laugh. I'm running out of ch.o.r.es to a.s.sign them, and it gets me to thinking about the future. I don't know when it happened, but Otto and Worley have gone from the town junk haulers to my home-and-business repairmen. Otto left a stack of mail on the kitchen table for me. I grab it and go upstairs. I change out of my Sunday best and into my overalls. I take the mail up to the attic, through the window, and out onto the roof. I haven't been out here since we patched the roof. Where does the time go? I kept meaning to come up here and look out over town and collect my thoughts. I guess I've been busy. Or maybe I didn't need to be high up and above everything until now.

There are three requests for magazine subscription renewals. Instead of opening them and putting them in the TO PAY stack, I tear them in half. I get plenty of magazines at the store; I'll just read them there from now on. At the bottom of the stack is an onionskin envelope with swirly blue writing: The return address is Meoli Vilminore Mai! Finally!

I'm careful to open the envelope without tearing the thin paper inside. It's a three-page letter, in Italian. I must admit, I worry about losing my Italian reading and speaking ability since Mama died; each day that goes by without her, I get rustier.

In the letter Aunt Meoli tells me how sad she is to hear of my mother's pa.s.sing. She had been hopeful that someday they would reunite. She tells me my mother would be happy to know that she and I found each other. She also tells me how happy she is that I am fine and asks if I could send a photograph of myself. Visions of Italian comarei gathered at the groceria with my picture, fighting over me as a potential bride for their toothless sons, gives me a s.h.i.+ver, so I decide not to send one just yet. Zia Meoli goes on about her life in Italy. Her twin sister, Antonietta, practically raised her two kids, since Meoli was a schoolteacher with a full-time job. Toward the end of the letter, I see the name Mario, so I skip past the newsy chitchat to the real reason for the correspondence. Zia Meoli tells me that she does not know my father well; he lives in Schilpario, up the mountain from where she lives. She does hear of him from time to time, as he is still mayor! She does not know if he's married, but she a.s.sumes he is not; when she last heard about him, he was known to be something of a ladies' man. She promises to try and find out more about him.

I lie back on the roof. It is quiet except for the sliding sounds of storm windows being tested from below. I know I should be happy that my father is alive and well. Instead, the news makes me cry. I don't know what to feel or how. So I cover my face with my sleeve so Otto and Worley won't hear me.

I have so many books to return to the Bookmobile that I half joked to Iva Lou she ought to just park it in my front yard. I gather them up in two carryalls and head for town. Pearl and Fleeta are handling the store today-I decided I need a few days off. I don't think they miss me much. Fleeta loves to clear the register, take the money sack to the bank, and put it in the night-drop slot. She says it gives her a sense of completion at the end of a hard working day.

The Bookmobile door is open, which is unusual. I hear giggling from inside; I think to knock but don't. Iva Lou is sitting on one of the snap stools next to Jack MacChesney, who is perusing one of the three national newspapers she has on board. The paper, attached to a large bamboo holder, is unwieldy, and watching Jack Mac try to balance it cracks Iva Lou up. I haven't seen Jack Mac since the Elizabeth Taylor Choke Night. He doesn't seem one bit happy to see me.

"Hey, y'all." I empty out the two canvas sacks and turn to leave.

"Why are you in such a hurry?" Iva Lou says with a look that means Stay. I look back at her with a look that says: I'm not staying.

"I have to check on Pearl and Fleeta. Otto and Worley are over to the house." Why do I have to justify myself to them? Can't I just drop the books and go?

"Call me sometime," Iva Lou says with a twinge of sadness. The truth is, I was looking forward to some time on the Bookmobile with Iva Lou. It would have been fun, but He is here, so forget it. All it took was Jack Mac's scowl to change my mind; I'm disembarking p.r.o.nto.

Now that I've told Iva Lou I was checking on Pearl and Fleeta, I have to stop at the store; they can see where I'm headed through the winds.h.i.+eld, and I don't want to be a liar. So I park my Jeep in front of the post office and go into the Pharmacy. Pearl and Fleeta are back by the makeup counter. Pearl is plucking Fleeta's eyebrows. Fleeta smokes.

"I'm not checking on you two. I was forced to come in here due to circ.u.mstances."

"Who you avoiding? Spec?"

"No."

"He's been looking fer ye. He done got your letter that you quit the Squad. He don't want to come over by your house, so he keeps stopping by here and bothering us."

"Did the reverend's snakebite skeer you that bad?" Pearl asks.

"I wasn't scared. It was just the last straw. You know what I mean?"

"Well, all I know is that I don't like no d.a.m.n quitters," Fleeta remarks as she inhales her Marlboro deeply down to her diaphragm.

"I've been working on the Rescue Squad as a volunteer for years! I am not a quitter."

"Defensive," Fleeta decides under her breath.

I'm in no mood to argue with Fleeta. So I walk over to the post office to check my box, which turns out to be a waste. There are a few flyers for quilt shows, tours to Knoxville for the University of Tennessee football games, and several bills.

There's a truck parked next to my Jeep, so I have to squeeze in between the two vehicles to climb into my driver's seat. I hate when people park too close. There's plenty of s.p.a.ce for everybody when you park at the correct angle. I pull my door open and I'm about to climb in when something on the pa.s.senger seat of the truck catches my eye. The word Schilpario pops out at me. The afternoon sun is bright, so I cover my eyes and peer into the truck through the window. It's very strange. The book I just returned to the Bookmobile, Schilpario: A Life in the Mountains, is sitting on the seat of the truck. Who would check that out? And why? It was a special checkout, too, so whoever borrowed it must have convinced Iva Lou to bend the rules. As I pull out, I look down the street for the Bookmobile, but it's gone. The truck is familiar. It's new. Then I remember: It belongs to Jack Mac. I don't have a good car memory, but I do remember that he pointed this one out to me long ago when I made a delivery to his mama up in the holler.

Instead of waiting to ask Jack Mac why he checked out my book, I throw the Jeep into gear and peel up to the stoplight. In the rearview I see him come out of Zackie's with a brown sack and jump into the truck. As he turns over the ignition, the light turns green. I hang a left and drive off.

Theodore and I have something special we do every once in a while. We call it our field trip. We go over to Jonesville to Cudjo's Caverns, a deep cave in the side of one of the mountains. It is full of stalagmites and stalact.i.tes, nature's majestic mineral and stone deposits-"G.o.d's Jewelry Box," or so the sign says.

At the entrance to the cave, there is a flat area where we wait for the guide, an old man named Ray. He senses when there are visitors; we hear his footsteps down the path. "Oh, it's y'all. Ye ain't been up here for a while." He chuckles. Then he leads us into the cave along a path that weaves through carved-out halls and catacombs left behind by the Indians. The rock formations that hang from the ceiling look like glittering candle-wax drips, all shapes and sizes, including some that are quite large. The ones that come up from the ground look like s.h.i.+mmering fingers.

Theodore and I used to keep notebooks describing the various formations. After a while, we got bored and gave it up. Still, we come back so often, the guide knows us, so he treats us to special areas of observation. Our favorite is a small crystal lake deep in the heart of the cave. Ray never takes regular folks back there because it was a sacred place of Indian prayer. It is also very dangerous; the bank of the lake is only about a foot wide, and there is one shelf of rock above it, room enough for two people to crawl up and sit. The water in the lake itself is hundreds of feet deep. Ray is afraid a visitor could fall in. He allows us to go to the lake because he knows that we'll be careful and not touch anything.

The surface of the lake is quite small, maybe ten feet across. Ray told us to imagine a deep cylinder of stone filled with water, like a tall, slim vase. I can see why the Indians prayed here; it is so quiet, the only sound you hear is water trickling down the walls. The lake reminds me of the baptismal pool at Reverend Gaspar's church. There is just enough room to immerse a body or two at a time. (I wish I would have brought him here to show him how the Indians wors.h.i.+pped.) Theodore points out the far wall with the large flashlight he is holding. The water reflects off the stalact.i.tes, throwing iridescent colors all over the water-washed walls. It looks like a moving painting of blues and silvers.

Theodore, ever so sensitive, knew I needed a treat. He thinks between Elizabeth Taylor's choking and Preacher Gaspar being bitten by a deadly snake, I haven't quite been myself. He's right. I feel like the last year of my life has been one unpleasant event after another. So much for something exciting happening to me while I'm thirty-five. (Maybe I'm growing a mole or something on my face somewhere that signals disaster instead of joy.) I do have five months to go until I'm thirty-six; maybe things will change for the better-if not, I fear I will lose my faith in the ancient art of Chinese face-reading altogether. Theodore and I stay by the lake for a long time, never tiring of the color swirls nature makes.

On the way home we stop at the Dip & Cone Barn, a hamburger shack between Jonesville and Pennington Gap. Theodore orders a lot of food. We sit outside on a picnic bench even though the final day of November has a strong chill to it.

"I want to talk to you about something."

"Sure." I start tearing open the little ketchup packets. I like to have a substantial pool of ketchup before I start eating fries. I don't like to eat a couple and open a packet, eat a couple, open a packet. I like an orderly dinner setup.

"It's been a wild time," Theodore offers diplomatically.

"No kidding."

"And I don't think that I've been thinking straight." He looks down at his hands.

"About what?"

"About us." I look at Theodore and see a sincerity in his eyes that, I must confess, scares the h.e.l.l out of me. He never said "us" like us before. We were always buddies, except for that night I threw myself at him and was rejected (a night I would like to forget).

"Remember the night of the halftime show for Elizabeth Taylor?" Remember it? Is he kidding? It was a night of nights for me.

"When those two dogs were humping in the middle of my masterpiece, I wanted to quit. But I looked down at you from the announcer's booth, and you were wearing that red velvet coat, and you smiled up at me and did this funny thing where you checked your watch like, How long can two dogs screw? It can't be forever, and I actually felt the burden lift off of me. You saved my life that night. I'll never forget it."

"You're welcome, Theodore."

"I mean it. You're always there for me. I don't know what I'd do without you."

The only other person in my life who ever told me that she didn't know what she would do without me was my mother, when she was dying. I make note of this, in case I have to come back to it later.

"I think we should get married."

It's as though a shade, the kind on a roller in an old window, starts being pulled by the circle tab from the top of my head, slowly down my face, neck, torso, and limbs all the way to my feet. I want to stay behind this shade forever.

"What do you think?" he says after a moment.

"Oh, Theodore."

"It's what you want, isn't it?"

What I want? Can't he tell that's what's wrong with me?I don't know what I want. I have spent my entire life trying to give everybody else what they want. I'm not complaining. I like to be of service. I find great purpose in it. And no one was more surprised than I when my old routines didn't work anymore. Somewhere along the way, I got sucked dry and started feeling like the mountain mother with sixteen kids who wakes up one morning and realizes that she's just a vessel, a way station where life pa.s.sed through before it pa.s.sed her by. When Reverend Gaspar was dying, and he held my hand and muttered, "Faith," I didn't know what he was talking about. Okay, maybe he meant the traditional Jesus story, to have faith in that, but I don't think so. I think he was talking about a deeper concept. A concept I cannot comprehend. I'd like to but I haven't yet. What did he mean? Faith in G.o.d? Faith in myself? Faith in others? Faith in the unknown? I don't know. And as for the things of this world, I am even more confused about them! I don't know what makes me happy-okay, maybe Ledna and Edna Tuckett's coconut layer cake, a letter from Italy, and the lining in any of my winter coats, hand-sewn and tufted by my mother. Those things make me happy. But getting married? Is that happiness? Or is it just a container to keep happiness in? I don't know. Theodore can see that I am confused.

"I sprung this on you too quickly," he apologizes.

"No, you didn't. I've been thinking about marrying you since the day we met."

Theodore looks relieved that he's getting somewhere. If there's one thing I know about men, it's that they fear rejection.

"You know, I think you and Jack MacChesney asked me to marry you because you knew I'd say no."

"This isn't about Jack."

"No, it's not, but it sort of is. I'm the town spinster, and I've gotten two wedding proposals in the past six months. Something's up."

I eat my french fries and sip my Tab and look at Theodore.

"I want to marry you."

"Do you love me, Theodore?"

"Of course I do."

"Well, thank you."