Big Stone Gap Part 6

"I am not old!" There she is, old maid Ave Maria again, poking through the fence like a cuckoo. Not old! Not old! Not old!

"I didn't say you were old. Older."

My palpitations slow to a normal rhythm. I breathe deeply. I remember my medical training: Take in oxygen. As much as you can stand.

"Would you like to dance?" a voice says from behind me. At last! Theodore! He didn't leave me! I stand up. But I don't smell peppermint and apples: Instead it's a new smell, sandalwood and lime. Pleasant but unfamiliar.

"Would you like to dance?" Jack Mac repeats, extending his hand graciously.

I look all around for Theodore. But he is not there to rescue me.

"Okay, well. Sure."

"Have fun," Lew says, and waves bye-bye to me as though I were a child.

Jack Mac takes my hand. We shuffle into the mix and move toward the center of the dance floor. He pulls me close and rests his hand on my waist. He moves slowly, so he's easy to follow. He seems much taller to me as we dance.

"Where's Sweet Sue?"

"She took her boys over to their daddy's."

"He's living over in Coeburn, isn't he?"

Jack Mac nods.

"I remember him from high school. Do you?"

Jack Mac nods.

"Mike Tinsley was the best in everything. His varsity jacket was decorated like a four-star general's. Remember? All-state in this and that."

"Things have changed since high school," Jack Mac announces, and looks off to get me to stop yapping about Mike Tinsley. Hadn't I heard about his philandering on Sue and his terrible temper and how she moved home most weekends of their married life? Besides, don't I know that no man wants to be compared with the man who came before?

Jack Mac pulls me close; his cheek rests above my left ear.

"How's your mama?" I ask. He doesn't answer for a moment. I feel him pull away to look at me. He looks me in the eye. Then he pulls me close again.

"To be honest, I wasn't thinking about my mama right then."

For G.o.d's sake, Ave Maria! Asking a man about his mother. Who does that? You are an old maid! You have forgotten how to talk to a man. Say something smart.

"Could we just dance and not talk for a minute?" Jack Mac asks.

I nod. Don't talk, Ave Maria. This is a man who prefers silence. You are getting on his nerves. You don't have to think of something funny to say. You don't have to entertain. Let go. Listen to the music and dance. Just dance. That's all.

The song ends. Jack Mac bows graciously and formally like a duke. "Thank you, ma'am," he says, and goes.

I am careful to park behind Theodore's house so as not to start any more rumors. (I don't need to be the town spinster, the town b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and now the town tramp all rolled into one.) And Theodore is, after all, a teacher in the Wise County public school system with a sterling reputation. He flicks the lights on. His home is simple and neat. It could be any high school teacher's house, except for the elaborate display on the dining room table. The only indication that this is a dining room is its proximity to the kitchen. Theodore has removed all of the chairs and dishes. He has turned it into a workshop, where he ch.o.r.eographs his halftime masterpieces.

Tonight, meticulously lined up in rows, are one hundred toy soldiers; now they represent our high school marching band. A small turntable and speakers face the table on an antique server. Alb.u.ms are stacked neatly next to the turntable. He's got Sousa, cla.s.sical, and Al Green, the rhythm and blues singer. The table is covered in butcher's paper. Theodore has drawn the field's yard lines onto the paper with chalk. The figurines fan out in perfect lines, in the formation of a star, leading to three small paper pyramids on the fifty-yard line. The pyramids are made of tissue paper and are scaled to size.

"You're making pyramids?"

"The shop boys are going to build them. The Vernon girl is doing the craft work. Remember her? She made the giant globe for last year's prom, 'Color My World.' " How could I forget? I was Theodore's date. I couldn't believe I finally attended a prom at Powell Valley High School. I was never asked to go when I was a student. Dancing under the tinfoil stars sixteen years later was sweet retribution.

"Who's going to get them out on the field?"

"The flag girls. Two under each pyramid."

"Flag girls? Are you kidding?"

"Papier-mache. They'll be as light as fritters."

"Great. Any blackouts?" There is a concert section in each halftime show in which the band faces the home stands and plays a number. This is traditional, but it can be dull. Theodore came up with a way to ignite the show; at the appropriate moment, the field lights shut off to reveal our lovely majorettes, with batons lit up like torches, spinning wheels of fire and spelling out words like Win or Go.

"The flag girls will have industrial flashlights under the pyramids. I'm using selections from the scores of Elizabeth Taylor's movies, starting with National Velvet. As the band plays the theme to The Sandpiper, we'll black out and the pyramids will light up. Then, as we segue into the love song from Cleopatra, Tayloe will emerge from behind the center pyramid, dressed as Cleopatra, and twirl fire." Theodore moves the pieces around the table to show me the ch.o.r.eography. Then he turns out the dining room light to show me the lit-up pyramids. They do give the effect of being there, right there, in downtown Cairo.

"I think this is spectacular, Theodore," I say, meaning it with every fiber of my being. "It'll knock the socks off of a movie star."

"Think so?" Theodore says as he moves the woodwinds with a ruler.

I can feel the pressure on his shoulders myself. "Elizabeth Taylor has probably had more salutes than all the presidents combined. She's seen it all! And in a million different countries. She's going to cry or something when she sees this kind of show in little old Big Stone Gap. You'll be famous!"

Theodore lights up at the mention of fame. Who among us wouldn't? What a grand concept: to be appreciated and sought after for your G.o.d-given talent. To be revered and consulted as an expert in your field. To have the awe and respect normally reserved for movie stars.

"I don't want to be famous, Ave. I just want to be really, really good."

"You are that! You are." I have no problem being pa.s.sionate around Theodore. I really believe in him.

Theodore moves a line of soldiers, turning the star into a triangle. I watch him masterfully make shapes and study the table as though it's an algebraic equation. Theodore loves his work. He is forever thinking about it, studying, trying things, improving. That's how my mother was. She was never satisfied with her sewing. She ripped out as many seams as she completed, probably more. There was a level of craftsmans.h.i.+p, a pride in her work that I have never known. She was so hard on herself. When she sewed, she would talk to herself, criticizing her work, then mumble in approval and smile when the fabric met the thread in glorious, tiny, uniform st.i.tches that disappeared into the fabric in their delicacy. That was the hallmark of my mother's work: In order to be perfect, the seam had to disappear. The overall effect of the final garment was important. The line. The fit. The movement. Her work was never obvious, so it went unrecognized.

I am not an artisan like my mother, or a visionary like Theodore. I am a pill-counting pharmacist. I simply follow the orders of doctors; I don't even make a diagnosis. My work is not about expansion, it's about precision. Maybe this is why Theodore wants my input. Details. That's what I'm good at.

"To pull this show off, you're going to need a crew on the sidelines. I can get the folks from the Drama to help. I could put a crew together for you, and then you could boss us around."

"You'd do that for me?"

"Of course I would. Now, all you have to do in return is sleep with me."

Theodore and I laugh so hard at this, we shake the table and all of the soldiers fall and rattle across the table like they've just lost a war. We keep laughing until we're crying, and I'm wondering what the neighbors will say. What a boring life I'd have without Theodore. I wonder if he knows.

I gave Pearl the week off to study for her PSATs, the junior version of the college-entrance SATs. Since she's been working for me, Pearl's grades have gone from C's to B's. Dillard Cantrell, the high school guidance counselor, called me to express his thanks. She might make the honor roll next term. Girls like Pearl often fall between the cracks, he told me, and he would be personally thrilled to see a mountain girl exceed expectations.

Fleeta has the day off, and I'm running the store alone. June Walker, the most wrinkled woman in town, is driving me nuts with questions about face creams.

"June, you'll have to wait for Pearl to get here from school. She knows all about moisturizers."

"Well, she better d.a.m.n hurry because I got me an emergency situation."

The Bookmobile stops outside the Pharmacy. Pearl gets off. Iva Lou waves at me from her window and motions that she will be over at the gas station. (Things must be hot and heavy with Kent Vanhook because her usual spot on the street is open.) Pearl comes into the store with a chic short haircut and a nice outfit. Could it be a cinch belt? It is! I haven't seen her in a little over a week. What a difference. She has lost weight! Enough that you can tell! I am about to fall all over Pearl when June does instead.

"Pearl Grimes, you done dropped some weight. How'd you do it?"

"I joined Weight Watchers. And I eat a lot of Jell-O."

"Well, count me in. I'm gonna eat me a ton of Jell-O so I can drop me some weight, too. Now, missie, I got me some wrinkles on my face you could hide a roll of quarters in. Which one of these here creams do you suppose I oughta slather on my mug of the night?"

"I would recommend the Queen Helene Cuc.u.mber Masque. It's thick, but it soaks in. And you get a lot for your dollar."

Pearl leads June Walker to a little makeup table she's put together. I watch Pearl the Expert as she demonstrates all the different creams on June's hand. What salesmans.h.i.+p. Perhaps Mr. Cantrell is right. This girl's got a future, and it ain't in Insko.

The pleasant jingle of the tri-bells on the door signals the entrance of another customer.

"Good afternoon, Preacher."

"h.e.l.lo, Miss Mulligan." Preacher Elmo Gaspar, our local Church of G.o.d in Jesus Christ's Name reverend and snake handler, stands before my prescription counter and commences to go through all of his pockets.

"Preacher, you are the most disorganized man in Southwest Virginia."

"Ave Maria, I know I'm a mess. But you know, there ain't no perfection in this world, only in the next."

"You speak the truth, Reverend!" June cries through her cream.

The preacher chuckles, reminding me of the light side to his character. When I was little, every Friday morning we had a.s.sembly in the elementary school auditorium. The speaker was always a minister from one of the local churches. Of course, as we grew older, we dreaded it. But when we were kids, we loved the fire-and-brimstone Bible stories, delivered with pa.s.sion and zeal by the Protestant of the Week. The Protestants were on rotation until one week when there was a cancellation and no preacher could fill in, so the spot went by default to the only Catholic priest in the area. The schoolkids used to tease me about my religion, saying Cath-licks drank blood in our service and wors.h.i.+pped statues. The kids were convinced when the priest showed up that he'd have horns and green skin. They were mighty disappointed when Father Rausch, a mild man with a crew cut, brought out puppets and acted out the parable of the Prodigal Son-not exactly a barn burner. I almost wished my priest had a little of the devil in him, for theatrical purposes. I wanted the Catholics to have some pizzazz. Couldn't he have explained stigmata or weeping statues? But it was not to be. We didn't have the stuff. The Protestants did.

The Protestants knew that the hard sell was everything (there has always been a heated, if unspoken, compet.i.tion among the various sects), so they came fully loaded, ready to convert, with audiovisuals, pamphlets, and songs. When Preacher Gaspar came, he showed an actual filmstrip of what heaven would look like. The living room in the Palace of Heaven was made of pink and gold marble, and young, beautiful people in flowing gossamer robes were reclining on stones and staring into a bright light that came from the open ceiling. The light was G.o.d, and he was stopping by to visit the folks in one of the many rooms he had prepared for us. Then Preacher Gaspar showed us h.e.l.l. It was layers of people stacked upon one another, in torment, feet crus.h.i.+ng into faces, hands reaching out, begging for release, gnas.h.i.+ng their teeth and wailing in horror. Preacher Gaspar left that image up a very long time and preached over, around, and in front of it, trying to scare the tarnation out of us. He succeeded because by the end of the filmstrip most of us were weeping. After we wiped away our tears and swore never to lie or steal or cheat anybody, we sang a song about the Bible.

"Preacher, remember that song you taught us at a.s.sembly when I was a girl?"

"Miss Mulligan, aren't you still a girl?" he says with a wink.

"You'll have to answer to G.o.d for lying." I hum a bit, and then in my terrible singing voice, "The B-I-B-L-E. Yes, that's the Book for me! I stand alone on the word of G.o.d! The B-I-B-L-E!"

"Very good." Preacher looks happy that I'm done serenading him and relieved that he has found his prescription order in his breast pocket.

I unfold the paper and attach it to my clipboard. It's from Doc Daugherty: a tincture for poison, for rattlesnake bites. I keep a supply on hand at all times; after all, it's hunting season and occasionally one of the men will get bitten.

"Going hunting, Preacher?"

"No, no. We got a revival down in the Frog Level. I'm preaching and handling. I promised Doc Daugherty I'd keep the medicine on hand."

The preacher has been handling snakes at revivals since he was very young. There's one story that he handled three rattlers at once and tamed them to sleep. Snake handling is mentioned in the Old Testament. It's a way for believers to prove their faith in G.o.d; if they truly believe, G.o.d won't let them get bitten. Preacher Gaspar's beliefs must be sincere, because in all these years he's never been bitten. He looks up at me and smiles. His expression is beatific, there is a saintly sweetness to him. He must be close to seventy now, but his face is unlined and youthful. He still has his own teeth, straight and white. His hair, once black, thick, and unruly, is gone, but his scalp is smooth and pink, an advertis.e.m.e.nt for his good health. His blue eyes s.h.i.+ne with a knowingness and humor that can only come from a serene and intimate relations.h.i.+p with G.o.d. There is no pretense to him; he is the real article, kind and good.

"You be careful now, Reverend."

"I will. I will." He turns to go, then looks back at me. "Miss Ave, do you remember the rest of that song I done taught you?"

"Reverend, I'm ashamed to say I don't."

He sings, "G.o.d's words will never fail, never fail, never fail . . ."

Pearl, June, and I join in, "G.o.d's words will never fail. No! No! No!"

Reverend Gaspar laughs as he leaves.

"Someday you ought to come down and see him preach," June says from the makeup table. "He is one of the greatest, I'll G.o.dd.a.m.n guarantee you."

Tayloe Slagle and her majorettes come in giggling and chatting. They are always loud enough to draw attention, but not so loud as to be considered obnoxious.

"What can I do for you girls?"

They swarm around the magazine rack and don't answer. If Fleeta were here, she'd swat their hands with a duster for reading the magazines and never buying them. I cut them some slack because they spend their money in other ways in my store.

Finally Tayloe asks, "Did you get any waterproof mascara in yet?"

"I don't know. Did we, Pearl?"

Pearl continues to rub cream into June's face like she's waxing a car. "Yes, ma'am. We got in the Great Lash."

"See there? One-stop shopping, girls. All your needs met right here. Maybe you ought to get Pearl to show you all of our new makeup." Pearl shoots me a look like, Please don't mention me. If you don't talk about me, they won't notice me. I will disappear into the vat of Queen Helene Cuc.u.mber Masque.

"Now, Miss Mulligan, let me ask you one thing." Tayloe looks at me. Even after school, without a st.i.tch of makeup, even under my hideous fluorescent lights, she looks luminous. She sticks out her perfect chin. "Why would somebody who looks like me take beauty tips from somebody who looks like her?" The majorettes laugh loud and hard at this one. Tayloe takes my People magazine off of my rack and flips through it. Her casual cruelty makes me angry. Suddenly I don't want the likes of her touching anything in my store.

"Put down the magazine," I warn in a voice that startles me. "You never buy them."

Tayloe quickly puts down the magazine. I look back at Pearl, whose eyes are not filled with tears, who is not blus.h.i.+ng with embarra.s.sment, who calmly works cream into June Walker's face with purpose and resolve. Pearl isn't a bundle of nerves anymore.

"I'm gonna say something to you girls. And you're gonna listen." Two of the majorettes, one a redhead with Farrah Fawcett feathering, the other a brunette with a Jaclyn Smith center part, backtrack to the door to escape. "You're not going anywhere, you two." The girls stop in their tracks and turn to face me.

"I'm sick and tired of your snide comments. You're mighty proud, Tayloe. But I'd be careful if I was you. Someday you won't have your looks anymore. And all those girls, like Pearl, who weren't popular, will be the pretty ones. Why? Because they have had to work at it. So they appreciate beauty in all its forms. You only know beauty as something given, not earned. So you won't understand what's happening when your youth is gone and the pounds creep on and the wrinkles come; and you'll panic because your best days are behind you. But Pearl's best days will be ahead of her. Why? Because she had to make something out of herself from scratch. n.o.body helped her. The best she got was a bunch of stuck-ups making fun of her to make themselves feel big. But trust me, that kind of power is poison. It'll turn on you. When y'all are my age, you'll be the ones envying her. Pearl will know the great power of self-acceptance and real self-love, not the shallow vanity you mistake for it. At the end of the day, Pearl Grimes will be so beautiful, she'll wipe the floor with you."

All is silent in the store except for the creaking of the spin stool June Walker is sitting on as she leans into the mirror to examine her creamed face.

"You are so weird, Ave Maria Mulligan," says Tayloe. Finally, somebody p.r.o.nounces my name correctly. Tayloe and her twirlers go. Pearl continues with her demonstration.

I come out from behind the counter and stand in the doorway and watch them walk up the street. And I don't know how to pinpoint what I'm feeling exactly, but for some reason I see myself at sixteen walking away from myself. I know it's not me out there on the street, but it is, in the image of those girls, walking away getting smaller and smaller, and disappearing. For the first time in my life I feel the thread of who I am unravel. I am one of those people who swears she knows herself well, who in any given situation can be described and counted on to behave in a certain way. I never yell at people, nor do I make speeches. When things get tense, I usually make a joke, so everyone will feel at ease. But something, beyond defending Pearl, beyond standing up for what is right, compelled me to speak. Where did she come from? Who is this voice that isn't going to make nice anymore, but will tell the truth? It isn't Fred Mulligan's daughter. I think of Mario da Schilpario, my father, the man in the picture. Why have I tried to put him aside, thinking him dead, gone, uninterested in the likes of me? But suddenly I know-and I am as sure of it as I am sure of myself standing here-that my father is alive, and he is well, and I must find him. I put my hand on my chest, expecting another anxiety attack to come, but it does not. Practical Ave Maria must go. Me. The never-married town pharmacist who is never caught without her first-aid kit. Me. So responsible she carries two spare tires in her Jeep instead of one. Me. Who has double insurance on everything because she's afraid one of the companies will go out of business and leave me penniless after a flood. Me. The girl who built her life so carefully so she'd never have to ask anybody for anything. I have had it with me. Whoever I was! Get mad, Ave Maria! You're alone in this world. You were abandoned. Let that anger fuel the job you must do. Find him. Find your father!

I walk out of my store and into the street. I breathe deeply right down to my toes. I walk to the Bookmobile. I have a job for Iva Lou.

CHAPTER FOUR.

It is quiet in my living room except for the sound of Theodore and Iva Lou turning pages as they read. I've never had Iva Lou over to my house. I don't know why. When Mama was alive, I didn't have friends over much. Mama ran her sewing business out of the house, so people were always stopping by anyhow-maybe it didn't dawn on us to formally entertain. Fred Mulligan hated having company. Mama had better have seen her last customer before he came home. Even after he died, she kept that schedule. When I came home from work, everything was put away. That must have been so hard for her. She was social. Mama loved people. She never knew a stranger. After she died, so many folks came up to me and thanked me for her kindnesses: girls, now women, who wore prom dresses that Mama had made for free. Brides who needed wedding gowns with extra fabric in front because they were a little pregnant and didn't want to show for the occasion. She'd never complain; she'd just make the adjustments.