“Finally, you’re happy!”
“Only thing I have a broken heart about is Pavis. Me and him never got along too good. He was a good baby, but when he growed up, he just walked on the wrong side. I tried everything to help him. I give him money, bailed him out several times—oh, and the women he brought home, if you can call ’em that. Pack of flappers—party girls without the means to support the habit, you know what I mean. And they done took him for all he was worth, four times and counting.”
“Why don’t you call him?”
“He told Janine that Portly wouldn’t approve of me gittin’ murried again.”
“How does he know that? Portly’s in heaven.”
“I don’t have no guilt about Portly, not one drop! I took good care of him all the days of our murried life, and I gave him my youth, my middle age, and a good portion of whatever stage you call this dead end that I’m in right here and now. I don’t have a single regret.”
“Portly wants you to be happy.”
“He better would.” Fleeta pushes the pie toward me. “Can I tell you something?”
“Sure.”
“It gits better at my age.” Fleeta winks.
“What?”
“It.” Fleeta wipes her hands on a dish towel and then looks at her long fingernail tips, painted in small tasteful stripes in the high school colors of red, white, and blue.
“Come on.” I’m a little stunned.
She leans across the counter and lowers her voice. “And we don’t need no help in that urr-ea neither.”
“Really.”
“In fact, old Otto told me that he’s gonna get me some of that Vi-nag-ra.”
“It’s Viagra, and you don’t take it. He does.”
“No, it’s Vi-nag-ra. That’s what Otto calls it, ’cause I’m always nagging him for some personal attention.” Fleeta blushes for the first time in all the years I’ve known her.
Danberry Heights
Thanksgiving Day was always a MacChesney family favorite, so for years I’d turn it into a big party and invite half the town. If you didn’t know I was Italian by birth, you’d have guessed it by my style of entertaining: more is more. I dragged the family into my holiday madness. I’d bake a few weeks in advance, freezing pies and cookies and a Texas sheet cake (Etta’s request). We’d set the table the night before. Jack would make cider, Etta would print the place cards, and Shoo the Cat would stay out of the way.
We’d put out a buffet of roasted turkey, fresh ham, buttery mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, green-bean casserole, and pumpkin pie. Etta was in charge of decorations. We would gather branches of bittersweet berries and put them on the mantelpiece. We’d make a centerpiece of fresh pumpkins and gourds, carving out the tiny pumpkins and putting votive candles in them. We’d have games in the yard in the afternoon (croquet is more fun on fallen leaves), and as the sun was setting, we’d come inside to eat. We’d laugh and talk through dinner, then play poker until somebody went bankrupt and ran out of pennies. The kids would roast marshmallows in the fireplace as we played cards. Midnight would come way too soon, and everyone would go home with leftovers.
This year will be different. I miss Etta so much that it seems almost like a betrayal to have a big party. People seem to understand. Since Jack’s been sick, we’ve received more invitations to dinner than we can count. So we decided to go to Iva Lou’s trailer. She’s a great cook, and Jack likes Lyle, so it will be a quiet day with football on TV and good food among friends. It won’t be like it used to be, but it will be fun.
As I slide out of Jack’s truck, I juggle a blackberry pie and a bottle of champagne. He grabs a six-pack of beer from the truck bed. Iva Lou has festooned her front door with an autumn wreath of cranberries nestled in green velvet leaves and a shock of Indian corn where the bow usually goes. I can hear the football game on television from the back of the trailer. Iva Lou pushes the door open, giving each of us a hug. “Jack, go on back, Lyle has your chair ready.”
I follow Iva Lou into the kitchen, which she has redecorated about four times since she’s owned this trailer. “Wallpapering is good for the soul,” she always says. The current look is lovely. The wallpaper has a white background with tiny bright yellow lemons on it—sort of a dotted-Swiss look. The wallpaper is offset by china-blue cabinets and place mats on the glass-topped table. She carries the crisp blue and yellow theme down to the teacups, which dangle on small gold hooks from her white curio shelf. The café curtains are yellow-and-white-striped with rows of hot-pink rickrack on the hems. Over the sink she has a series of miniature Degas ballerina prints that pick up the pink details of the curtains.
Iva Lou oohs and aahs over the pie and puts the champagne in the refrigerator. She lowers her voice. “Don’t worry. At the football game, I was watching Jack Mac and Karen Bell the whole time through my bi-knocks. It was platonic.”
“I’m not worried.”
“You look worried. What the hell is he doing talking to her anyhow?” Iva Lou fiddles with the temperature dials on the stove. The question sounds more like a judgment.
“I don’t know. I never asked him.”
“Are you serious?”
“Couldn’t.”
“Why, I’d have taken Lyle by the hair of the head and dragged him out of that stadium and let him know that I am not about to put up with that kind of behavior.”
“I thought you said it looked platonic through your binoculars.”
“On Jack’s part. Not hers. I don’t trust her. Word is, she broke up with her current boyfriend. You don’t want a woman like that on the loose around a man who isn’t. You should say something to Jack. Tell him he doesn’t have any business chatting with man-eaters in Bullitt Park.”
“I’m not going to say a word.”
“Mistake.”
“And you wouldn’t either. The most important thing I have learned as a married woman is to say a quarter of what I’m thinking and leave the rest in my head, where it belongs. I might wind up in the nuthouse, but I’ll stay married.”
“Them’s your choices?”
“Jack’s only seven weeks out of the hospital. I don’t want to upset him.” Saying the name Karen Bell would be like lighting a cherry bomb in my house. I won’t do it.
“Okay. I just hope you ain’t keeping everything bottled up inside yourself. That ain’t good.”
“I can tell you my troubles, can’t I?”
“Of course, honey. That’s what I’m here fer. Spill.”
“I’m tiptoeing around about everything, and to be honest, I think Jack likes it better.”
“He’s never been chatty.”
“No, he hasn’t. I’ve pulled his feelings out of him for twenty years. And I have the carpal tunnel syndrome to prove it.”
“All men are that way.”
“Maybe.”
“How are you feeling? You know, since that morning you saw Joe.” Iva Lou pours me a glass of wine and motions for me to sit.
“I can’t shake this feeling of doom. I dream of him a lot.”
“Honey-o, that’s normal. You lost him during the winter. I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed, but you always get blue about now. I’m not one bit surprised you thought you saw him in the woods. You’re looking for him.”
It’s true. When it turns to winter, I begin to feel unnerved. I have bad dreams and I feel desperate. The weather doesn’t help. Winter is dreary in our mountains. The rusty slopes close in on you, and the drab sky overhead makes the mountain walls almost prisonlike.
I’ve been waiting for that magical day when time will finally heal all my wounds. I’ve always heard that it can (that has certainly been said enough at the funerals I’ve attended). There are days when it feels like no time has passed at all. Time can do a lot of things—it can make memories sweet and it can dull pain—but it doesn’t take away pain entirely.
I replay every day of Joe’s illness over and over again in my mind, and sometimes I allow different endings to the terri
ble story. Sometimes there’s a cure for him, other times I die instead of him, and there’s even a scenario where he tells me why he has to die. I’ve tried to make sense of it all these years, and I can’t. “Do you think he’s trying to tell me something?”
“I think you’ve been through a lot in the last six months. Etta’s leaving did not help one bit. You thought you had four more years with her around. Nearby. Even if she went away to college, she’d still have been close enough to see every once in a while. That’s what all this missing Joe is about. Your feelings are raw. That’s all.”
We hear footsteps on the deck. “Is there more company coming?”
“Nope. Just the four of us.” Iva Lou shrugs, checks her lipstick in the toaster, and goes to the door. I can hear the Notre Dame/Army game from the den. Notre Dame must have scored. The fight song plays through.
Iva Lou opens the door. Whoever’s there seems to be going into a long-winded explanation of something. Iva Lou puts her hands on her hips. She’s leaning in, listening intently. I get up and look around the corner to see who it is. There’s a woman standing on the deck. She might be forty. She has long blond hair pushed back off her face by her sunglasses, which are perched on her head like a tortoiseshell tiara. She’s pretty. Small features, perfect rosebud lips. She’s exactly Iva Lou’s height. She wears a khaki barn jacket with navy blue velvet trim. Her hands are shoved deeply into her pockets. I’ve never seen her before. I don’t know why, but I go to the door.
“Hi!” I say brightly.
Iva Lou looks at me, and I see that the color has drained from her face. My interruption causes the woman to look away. Iva Lou doesn’t say anything either.
“Are you okay?” I ask Iva Lou, then I turn to the woman. “I’m Ave Maria MacChesney.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had company,” the woman says to Iva Lou. She extends her hand. “My name is Lovely Carter.”
“What a beautiful name.” I look at Iva Lou and smile, but she isn’t looking at me. She studies Lovely’s face as though it’s a map.
“Thank you,” Lovely says. “I could come back another time.”
“Well, it’s just that I have company today. Tomorrow is good. I have to work, but I could figure something out.” Iva Lou seems unnerved. “Would you like my number?”
Iva Lou goes to the kitchen. She opens and closes drawers, looking for a paper and pencil. There’s something odd about the way she’s doing it. She doesn’t seem to really look at what’s inside the drawer—it’s as if she’s going through the motions but doesn’t really want to find the pencil and paper.
“I have a pen in my purse.” I reach over the room divider to the bookshelf, pick up my purse, and dig out the pen. “Here.” I give it to Iva Lou.
“Thanks.” Iva Lou writes her phone number on the back of a grocery receipt from her pocket. “Here.” She gives it to Lovely, who hands Iva Lou an envelope.
“I’ll walk you to your car.” Iva Lou grabs her coat and follows Lovely out the door.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” I call after the woman. The energy between Iva Lou and Lovely was so strange that I feel I have to make up for it by being warm. Why do I always have to try and fix things? What business is it of mine?
After a few minutes, Iva Lou comes back into the trailer. She takes off her coat and hangs it on the hook.
“Who was that?”
“She’s from Johnson City.”
“What’s she doing here?”
“Oh, she heard about me from up in the county li-burry and stopped in to introduce herself.”
“She’s a librarian?”
“No, no.”
“Then what’s the connection?”
“Connection?”
“Yeah. Why did she come to see you?”
“She wanted to see where I lived.” Iva Lou begins taking casseroles and pans out of the oven.
“Why would she want to see where you live?”
“Are you some sort of a detective?” Iva Lou snaps.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her.
“Look. I don’t know how to answer any of your questions, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t ask them.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
Iva Lou puts out the plates and silverware, wrapped in cloth napkins and tied with a ribbon. We don’t talk as Iva Lou sets the table. I break the silence. “Did Lovely say something to offend you?”
“No, no. I just wasn’t expecting her. That’s all.”
Her tone of voice tells me not to pursue it further.
Iva Lou makes the gravy on the stovetop. She stirs the broth from the turkey pan, slowly adding in the flour; as she whisks, she makes small talk about goings-on at the library. It’s odd. She’s acting as though the stranger never showed up at the door unannounced. I wonder who Lovely is. Maybe she wanted money or wanted to sell Iva Lou something, but why would she do that on a holiday? Or maybe she’s Iva Lou’s Karen Bell, and Lyle got friendly with her at work. Who knows? Iva Lou doesn’t want to say. But I have a feeling this isn’t the last we’ve seen of Lovely Carter.
The Saturday after Thanksgiving turns out to be a glorious wedding day for Fleeta and Otto. The sun burns high and bright orange in a pale white sky, casting a glow on our town, bathing the bare tree branches and caramel fields in warmth. It’s cold enough to see your breath, but that doesn’t matter. The United Methodist Church just got a new boiler, so the service and reception will be downright toasty.
It’s always a treat for me when Jack puts on a suit, because it’s so rare for him. His blue jeans, work shirt, and boots are his uniform. Jack calls them “his workingman ensemble.” What with Etta’s graduation and wedding, and now Fleeta’s big day, he’s worn a suit more times this year than he has in the last ten. If only he knew how handsome he looked. (Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t!) My papa and Giacomina gave Jack an elegant green silk tie when we were over in Italy. I watch as he makes the loop in the mirror.
“You’re pretty good at that,” I compliment him.
“If I go slow, I get it right.”
I fix the cuffs on the sleeves of my dress. My mother’s dress. It’s a pale green sheath of ruched silk with long sleeves and a boat neck. I remember when Mama did the ruching on the dress. It took days to get the folds in the fabric to lie correctly.
“You look beautiful.” Jack puts his arms around me.
“We match.”
He smiles.
We have to park a couple blocks away, in front of Doc Polly’s house, because every space around the church is taken. Fleeta was right: this will be a standing-room-only situation. Iva Lou estimates she made fifteen batches of mints, so there will be plenty of those. Jean Hendrick volunteered to make tea sandwiches, while Barbara Polly made Kentucky truffles, chocolate balls soaked in bourbon. Connie Polly, Barbara’s daughter-in-law, whipped up a monster batch of cheese straws that she transported from Roanoke like fine china.
Jack takes my hand as we walk up the church steps. I tell him to save me a seat; I want to check the Fellowship Hall.
I push the basement door open. The Garden Club has done an exquisite job. Bare branches twisted with burgundy berries adorn the ceiling, making a canopy. The pillars are covered in tapestry fabric and trimmed in cloth leaves. The cake has six tiers, white swirly buttercream icing, and a bride and groom on top—just like Fleeta wanted. Janine did a good job. The punch tables are covered in crisp white linens. Nancy Kilgore-Hall made sure the silver was polished. Members of the Intermont Garden Clubbers’ Junior Division bustle around, placing napkins and bowls of salted nuts here and there. They will be the waitstaff for the reception.
“Lordy, did you see the cars?” Iva Lou says from the service kitchen. “You’d think it was the Division D football championship.”
“It’s packed wall-to-wall upstairs.”
“Thank God we have enough food. I panicked yesterday and started making calls. I had Evadean Church make a batch of he
r famous sand-dollar cookies, even though she’s a Pentecost. She was so sweet. Just made the cookies regardless of church affiliation. Dropped ’em off on trays here this morning. You gotta love that.”
“It’s gorgeous. Not that I lifted a finger, but it’s perfect.”
“You got the right idea. Delegate. Maybe I’ll figure that out next time.”
“You coming up?”
“In a minute. I gotta start the coffee. I didn’t borrey Barbara Horton’s silver urns for nothing. She went to the trouble to dig ’em out and polish ’em, so I gotta use ’em. I’ll catch Fleets and Otto before they kiss. Never fear.”
I sneak up the back stairs and into the church. I spot my husband at the end of a pew. He turns, looking for me, and motions for me to come and sit. The organist starts to play “Islands in the Stream,” and the procession begins. Janine looks lovely in a ballet-length pink skirt and a white blouse. She carries a bouquet of miniature pink roses and baby’s breath. Next comes Preacher Mutter and his wife, wearing dark blue robes with bright yellow sashes. As they pass, they greet the congregation on either side of the aisle. Then Fleeta and Otto enter, arm in arm. Otto looks sharp in a navy blue suit and a pink plaid silk bow tie. Fleeta looks stunning. Her hair is licorice black (L’Oréal #147, “Deeply Ebony,” Aisle 3 at the Mutual’s), slicked back in a French braid with a long shiny corkscrew curl in front of each ear. The curls are inlaid with bunches of baby’s breath studded with small pink jewels that glitter as the flashbulbs pop.
I pull a camera out of my purse and start clicking away, along with the rest of the guests. Methodist services are short, so I snap as many pictures as I can, and quickly. Preacher Mutter’s introductions are practically drowned out by the sound of cameras rewinding. I scan the front rows and see some of Fleeta’s cousins from Scott County. They wear gloves and hats. Fleeta calls them “fancies.”
Worley is the best man, and he’s smiling (good sign). Fleeta said that Worley has slowly come to accept the inevitable. When the vows begin, Janine takes her mother’s bouquet and gives her a kiss. Fleeta takes her daughter’s hand and pulls her close. Then Fleeta does something I’ve never seen: she makes the groom and best man join hands also. Worley is a little uncomfortable with that but complies. Fleeta turns and motions to the front pew. The crowd sighs as Pavis joins them at the altar. Reverend Mutter smiles.
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