Home to Big Stone Gap

by Adriana Trigiani

  “Hey, Ave.” Iva Lou slides onto a stool at the counter. “How’m I doing with the Baroness part?”

  “I think you’re a total original.”

  “I know that.” Iva Lou fluffs her fur hood. “I mean, on an acting level.”

  “You fit in with the rest of the cast perfectly.”

  “Thank you. You know I’m a-tryin’.”

  “It’ll be great by opening night. Theodore can’t wait to see it.”

  “It’ll be good to see him. The three of us back together again.”

  “Yep.”

  Iva Lou looks at her hands. She reaches over the counter and pumps some of Fleeta’s hand cream into her palm. “Everything all right with you?”

  I nod that I’m fine.

  “I’m glad. ’Cause you seem a little distant.”

  How can I tell Iva Lou I’m feeling preoccupied because she’s failed to tell me that she has a daughter? It’s almost as if I’m testing her, waiting for her to tell me. I don’t understand why she’d keep it from me. But she has, and for all the years I’ve known her. Am I trying to respect her privacy? I think I am. “Oh, I’m just up to my ears. And I’m missing Etta.”

  Iva Lou pats my hand. “I know, honey-o. We always had so much fun with her at Christmastime.”

  “So much fun,” I agree. “Well, girls, I’ve got to get to work. Be careful driving up to Wise.”

  “I will. Don’t worry. Lyle put the chains on my tires, so I won’t wind up over Powell Mountain.”

  Obviously, Lovely didn’t tell Iva Lou that she came to see me. This makes it even worse. How do I bring it up?

  The doorbells jingle as Iva Lou goes. Fleeta leans over my counter. “What’s going on with you two?”

  “What do you mean?” I don’t look up from my work.

  “You’re acting as cold as a cuke to ole Iva Lou.”

  “I don’t mean to.”

  “Now, lookee here, Ave. I’ve been around too long for you to tell me a story. What’s on your mind?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  Fleeta nods.

  “A woman came to see me at the house the other night. And she said some shocking things to me.”

  “Who was she?”

  “Her name is Lovely Carter.”

  Fleeta’s face turns the color of Pond’s cold cream. “Oh.”

  “You know her?”

  “Not personally. I know the name Carter.”

  “But you know about her.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s the baby that Iva Lou done gave away.”

  “You knew about that?”

  Fleeta nods. “For yars and yars.”

  “Years? And you didn’t tell me?”

  “What fer?”

  “It’s a huge thing.”

  “That’s Iva Lou’s business.”

  “Yes, it is. I feel she should have told me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re—we have been—very close.”

  “Maybe that’s why she didn’t tell you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Maybe y’all is too close. And it’s too much for her.”

  “Do people around here know about Lovely? Besides you?”

  “Most of ’em’s dead now. Spec knew.”

  “He did?”

  “Oh, yeah. But that old rascal knew pert near everything that went on in this four-county area.”

  “I need a cup of coffee.” I get up from my counter and go to the café. Fleeta follows close behind me. “Where did you hear about it?” I ask.

  Fleeta sits down on a stool. “Iva Lou told me herself,” she says.

  “What?”

  “Shortly after she moved here.”

  “You can keep a secret—I’ll give you that.”

  “I’m known fer it.” Fleeta throws her shoulders back. “It was odd how I found out though. Back in the day, we made up Christmas baskets for the poor. We didn’t just put food in them things neither. There was toys and warm socks and even underwear. They was more like boxes instead of baskets. Anyhow, Iva Lou was only workin’ at the library a few weeks when she volunteered to help us. She was a fresh import at that time—do you remember when she got here?”

  “Yes, I do.” I remember all the women trying to look like her and smell like her and move like her. She was very beautiful and blond. Funny and friendly. Very warm and mountain-gracious.

  Fleeta chuckles. “Iva Lou drove the Bookmobile like a Sherman tank. She’d take those curves on holler roads on two wheels, skiddin’ all over the damn place, then she’d barrel into town here and plow over trash cans and street signs if they were in the way when she went to park. I remember when she took out Ida Holyfield’s mailbox after she threw the Bookmobile into reverse out on Valley Road. More than once Chief Bentoski would chide her for her reckless driving. She’d work her charms on him, and instead of writing a ticket, he’d smile and send her on her way.”

  “I remember her wardrobe.”

  “Who could forget it?”

  Iva Lou was known countywide for her fashion sense. She wore coordinated ensembles—I remember a certain pair of lime-green cotton gloves, with buttons in the shape of tiny plastic lemons on the wrist, that she used to wear in the early 1960s with a bright yellow suit. She’d match head to toe and then throw on a hat in a contrasting color. Then there was the jewelry. Lots of shine. She won a trip to Hawaii for selling the most Sarah Coventry jewelry back in the 1970s. Despite her glamour IQ, she knew books. She gave me lots of things to read that I might not have ever selected on my own. When she drove her circuit, she’d make sure to stop the Bookmobile in Big Stone Gap first, so we’d get the best picks from the county library. “Where would I be if she hadn’t given me The Ancient Art of Chinese Face-Reading?”

  “You were obsessed with that book.” Fleeta need not remind me.

  “It changed my life. It was like I was a carpenter and somebody finally handed me a hammer and nails and wood. Everything clicked.”

  “Yeah, that book done changed you. You was able to look at people in the face finally. Your shyness left you.”

  When I was a teenager, Iva Lou gave me classics. The first book she insisted I read was The House of Mirth. I don’t know what she saw in me that made her think I would connect with Edith Wharton, but I did. How was I to relate to a woman struggling to climb the impossibly elegant social ladder in New York City in the last century? Looking back, I realize she often gave me books about women who didn’t fit into society. She wanted me to know that I wasn’t alone. Iva Lou knew that books, filled with insight, language, and relationships, could save an Eye-talian girl marooned in loneliness in a place she didn’t belong.

  I used to take long walks in town with my mother. Everybody drives in Big Stone Gap, so Mama and I were a couple of oddballs, walking the few blocks from our house down to the Pharmacy or for a run to the Post Office or to meet the Bookmobile. I thought we walked everywhere because Fred Mulligan didn’t want my mother to spend money on gas; he was frugal to a fault. But I loved those walks; they gave me a chance to talk to my mother, and they bonded me to her. When I was a girl, Iva Lou called me Lizzie, because, like Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice (another book she recommended), I savored long walks to sort things out.

  I remember when she gave me Good Morning, Miss Dove. The gift of that book was a warning that I should live my life for me, but it didn’t matter; like Miss Dove, I eventually became the woman known as the Town Spinster.

  When I returned from college, Iva Lou figured I had gotten worldly, so she gave me contemporary novels, like Valley of the Dolls and The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. Iva Lou looked at novels like sex manuals, in a way. Those racy subplots gave us something to talk about on the Bookmobile, and boy, she loved to talk about wild goings-on in places like Hollywood and Europe. Iva Lou thought if I read about sex and love, I might find the courage to express myself romantically and to own my own heart. She believed romance was a birthright, that the
search for true love was mandatory and that, ultimately, life was downright sad without it. I always looked at romance as though it were an extra, and only if a woman was lucky would she find her happiness. It was as if Iva Lou was emptying the shelves of the county library, trying desperately to find proof in the pages of books that I too could be happy and spin my own tale of daring and seduction. “Don’t be a Melanie, be a Scarlett!” she said when she gave me Gone with the Wind. I was no Scarlett, but I wasn’t Melanie either, as I hadn’t yet found my Ashley Wilkes.

  Iva Lou would try to help me feel part of a greater universe with popular Italian-American titles too, which was so funny to me because I didn’t know any other Italian-Americans, growing up. I was stunned by The Godfather. I was working full-time in the Pharmacy by then. I remember the black-and-white jacket, covered carefully in Mylar by Iva Lou. The book made me understand that family loyalty was something missing in my life. I didn’t have the myriad of siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles to rescue me or to celebrate with me. I didn’t have a family name I would die for, or a code to live by; right or wrong, it didn’t matter. I was adrift always. The only anchor I had was Mama. The Mulligans were always feuding, and later, I found out why I didn’t respond to their dynamic. I couldn’t because I wasn’t a Mulligan.

  Mario Puzo wrote of the Corleones with passion, and while they weren’t gentle people, they were a family, something I hadn’t known as an Italian. I longed to celebrate my mother’s heritage, which was why I planned the trip to Italy, the one that Mama and I never took. She didn’t like that I read The Godfather; she believed it was immoral. I reasoned with her: “Mama, it’s just a novel.”

  When I look back, though, I see that the books Iva Lou recommended were, for the most part, stories about strong women at a crossroads. She liked plots wherein a female protagonist struggles to learn how to stand up for herself, until, with newfound strength, she finally takes charge of her destiny and finds happiness. I remember she said, “There ain’t nothing like a woman-in-peril story.”

  I didn’t count on the fact that Iva Lou had one of her own.

  “You shouldn’t be surprised by anything about Iva Lou,” says Fleeta as she pours herself a cup of coffee. “Iva Lou’s a character. She’s had a life. A full life.”

  “I know.”

  “Anyhow, them Christmas baskets. We drove way up in the hills, almost to the top of Stone Mountain. Back then it nearly always rained on Christmas Eve. It was awful dreary up there. We went so far up the ridge, I thought we’d get to the top and fall off the other side. We didn’t, though. There’s a house in a holler up there, and me and her got out of the truck and brought a basket to a family. They opened the door, and there was kids everywhere—seemed like a hundred of ’em—though it was probably ten or so. They had nothin’ up there. Nothin’. The mama was holding a baby around ten months old. She was a pretty blond baby, with those big pink cheeks that look like two bubblegum bubbles. Iva Lou took that woman’s baby and held her tight. The baby cooed, and that’s when Iva Lou started crying. So I quick made an excuse, handing the baby back to its mama, and me and Iva Lou went outside. And that’s when she told me that holding that baby reminded her of her own. Said she had a baby once and she gave the baby to a good family named Carter out of Hazard, Kentucky.”

  “And you never told anyone.”

  “Not even Portly. And I never brought it up to Iva Lou again neither. What good would come of that?”

  “You didn’t?” I feel guilty now—I shouldn’t have told Jack. But he’s good with a secret; it will go no further.

  “And I still think you ought not say a word to her.”

  “I have to.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “What if Lovely tells Iva Lou she talked to me?”

  “Then it’s her sayin’ it. Look, it wasn’t easy for girls back then. If they got pregnant, well, a lot of times there was nowhere to turn—hell, most times. You knew girls that left school and went off to live with relatives for the duration and then would come back, and everybody knew they went off and had a baby and then had to give it away. And you’s younger than me; it was even worse when I was a girl. I didn’t even know how exactly a girl got pregnant. Not too easy to dodge something you ain’t sure of. Best way to keep yourself safe was to go on and get murried, then when you had the babies, you had some help. Of course, getting murried was a crapshoot too. My mama and daddy couldn’t help me and Portly much. They didn’t have nothin’. My own mama was sixteen when she had me, so there was still youngins at home when I left. I saw how hard it was to have a baby when you’re a young mama like that. And if you were alone, it made for some desperate decisions sometimes. Women have always kept secrets because we had to. There wasn’t no place to turn. And I’ll bet you that’s how Iva Lou felt.”

  “But she’s met with her daughter and talked to her. It’s 1998, for Godsakes. It’s different now. Even here, in the land that time forgot.”

  “It don’t matter. That’s a deep wound right there. It’s best to leave it alone.”

  The snowflakes Jack and Fleeta promised are starting to come down in lazy spirals over Big Stone Gap. Main Street is getting a light dusting of the white powder, looking like one of Cab’s doughnuts rolled in confectioners’ sugar. I hope Iva Lou takes it easy on the road.

  The bells on the front door jingle. Jack comes in with Tyler Hutchinson; they’re laughing.

  “Hi, honey.” Jack marches in place on the mat to get the snow off his shoes.

  “Hello, Mrs. MacChesney.” Tyler flashes me a big, wide Virginia Tech smile.

  “Hello, Tyler.”

  “Well, come on, you two. Everybody’s done gone. I got beef tips on toast fer ye.”

  “Sounds great, Fleeta.”

  Tyler sits at the reserved table, which, in our empty café, looks silly. Jack folds Fleeta’s handwritten sign neatly and places it on the counter. He joins Tyler at the table. Jack is so animated with this man; it’s as if he’s found a brother.

  I stand back and watch them from my counter and wonder how many businessmen came to these parts and had these kinds of meetings with men like my husband. Tyler doesn’t know that this sort of deal almost never works out, because there’s an unwritten law: if you ain’t from here, you shouldn’t benefit from our resources. This has turned out to be a very bad philosophy, since our young people grow up and, unable to find jobs, move away. It leaves these hills vulnerable to outsiders looking to exploit our natural resources. There are still hundreds of years of coal in these mountains, and a world in desperate need of that kind of energy. The only reason our traditional mines are closed is because the coal can be gotten more cheaply elsewhere.

  My husband, though, knows all of this and yet, ever hopeful, listens to Tyler Hutchinson as if the story is brand-new. It’s almost a gold-rush situation: we sit here, a little bit like suckers, hoping that the ending will change with the promise and glory proposed by yet another salesman looking to cash in.

  There’s not even a single car on Main Street. Lew Eisenberg’s Lincoln Town Car is parked outside his office, but that’s the case most days into the night. He is married to his work because it’s too hard to be married to Inez.

  In Big Stone Gap, when it snows, folks hit the panic button and stay home. The phone starts ringing. This is my sign that I will spend most of the day delivering pills. Maybe I’ll stop by Iva Lou’s in Danberry Heights later.

  “Mom! I heard Uncle Theodore is coming for Christmas,” says Etta when I talk to her from home a couple days later.

  “How do you know?”

  “He instant-messages me all the time.”

  “I’m glad you stay close.”

  “Are you kidding? He’s a riot.”

  “I’m going to miss you, honey. I’m really dreading the holidays without you here.”

  “Oh, it’s not so bad. You won’t have me to do all the grunt work. Now you’ll know how talented I was when it came to hanging lights.”


  “I always knew, Etta,” I say, smiling.

  “Ma, the holiday isn’t such a big deal over here. It’s so funny. Christmas is nice, but Easter’s the big one.”

  “Really?”

  “My Italian friends think I’m a kook. They can’t believe I’m going to hang lights. It’s just not done.”

  “Tell me about your friends.”

  “Okay. There’s Salalena; she’s Calabrese and works admissions at the university. She’s twenty-one and drives a turquoise Vespa motor scooter. I’m serious. Turquoise. If you saw her, though, you couldn’t imagine her driving anything else. She’s a pip. Stefano is close to two of his old professors—they’ve been married, like you and Dad, forever, like twenty years. Her name is Gina and his name is Apollo, like the Greek god.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “Very cool. And then there’re the girls I’ve met at—don’t laugh—my sewing class.”

  “You’re sewing?”

  “I just feel like it’s in my DNA. I’m named for my grandmother, who was a seamstress—and Grandma Mac was also a good one—so I’m hearing the call.”

  “Have you made anything yet?”

  “Nope. We’re starting with patterns. The teacher is hard-core. We’re actually having to draw our own patterns. Sometimes I look at the other girls and think, This is like 1812—eventually, we do get to use electric sewing machines. But not till much much later.”

  “It sounds like fun.”

  “It is! How are you, Mom?”

  “Well, I’m okay. I have a problem.”

  “What is it?”

  “I just found out something that’s got me upset. Aunt Iva Lou sort of…Well, she kept a secret from me.”

  “So?”

  “It’s a big one. She has a daughter.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “She had her years ago—before she moved to Big Stone Gap—and she gave her up for adoption.”

  “When did she tell you?”

  “She hasn’t yet. The daughter came to see me. She wanted me to talk to Iva Lou, to convince her to tell her who her father is.”