Milk Glass Moon

by Adriana Trigiani

  “Good.”

  “I mean, I feel fine otherwise. I’m just so ding-dang tarred all the time. It just drains you, and maybe it’s the mental part of it, but I ain’t myself. I git home around seven, and I’m in bed by eight. It’s crazy. I’ve always been a night owl, and now I’m acting like a shut-in senior citizen. That ain’t like me!”

  “It sure isn’t.” I put my arm around my old friend. “I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

  “I know you will. Now, tell me about that Radio City. Did you get me an application to be a Rockette like I asked ya?”

  I don’t answer her. After all, what is a trip compared to what she’s going through? We stand there a long time and finally look up and realize that all the other passengers have left. We’re alone, and my luggage is circling around the carousel waiting for me to claim it.

  “Let’s go home,” I tell Iva Lou.

  Iva Lou and I ride most of the way home talking gossip and funny stories. Iva Lou isn’t one to dwell on her problems, so we make light of things. I give her a big hug and tell her everything is going to be fine as she lets me out in front of my house. She’s anxious to get home to Lyle, and I’m happy to be back in Cracker’s Neck, surrounded by these old mountains, whose every ridge I know and every path I’ve followed. It’s so peaceful here, I think as I stand on the front steps and look out over the dark field that leads to the lower road into town. New York is magical, but I missed the sound of the wind and the low rustle it makes through the trees before the leaves fall.

  “Hello, beautiful,” my husband says to me as I drop my bags in the front hall.

  “I’m going away more often,” I tell Jack as he takes me in his arms and kisses me.

  “Nope. Not without me. I wanted to fetch you, but Iva Lou insisted—”

  “No problem.” Iva Lou asked me to keep her problems confidential, and though I’d like to tell Jack, I’ll keep my word.

  “Where’s Etta?”

  “Upstairs. She has a slumber party tonight.”

  “That’s right. It’s Tara Kilgore’s birthday.”

  Shoo comes down the stairs. I stoop to pet him, but he sniffs and walks away. “Not everybody around here missed me.”

  “She did,” Jack says and points up the stairs.

  “Seriously?”

  “We did a lot of talking while you were gone. You may see a little difference.”

  The door to Etta’s room is open. She is packing her overnight bag, taking the neat pile from her bed and stuffing it into the duffel.

  “Hey, Etta!” I stand in the doorway. She smiles at me (good sign). I go to her, and she hugs me (even better).

  “How was New York City?” she asks, then continues packing.

  “It was great. I made a list of all the places I’m going to take you when we go back. And Uncle Theodore sends his love. Now, tell me, what’s new?”

  “Let’s see. While you were gone, I got an A on my geography test. I was the only one in class that knew all of Asia Minor. And we had to take Shoo to the vet. He had a respiratory problem. He stayed out all night when it rained.”

  “He seems fine now.”

  “He is. We gave him drops. And Dad made polenta.”

  “How was it?”

  “Hard. But you know how he is about his cooking, so I ate it anyway.”

  I smile. Maybe there is more compassion in Etta than I realize.

  “You know, Ma, Miss Benton ain’t so mad anymore.” Etta corrects herself. “Isn’t so mad.”

  “She isn’t?”

  “No, she was sort of laughing about it at school on Friday. We were complaining that we had an extra practice, and she said after the coal incident, she was adding in seven more practices a week. After we got the coal picked up, Dad went and put down new sod. I helped.”

  “Good. I’m glad she’s feeling better.”

  “You ain’t mad at me anymore, are you?” Etta asks without looking at me.

  “Only when you use ‘ain’t.’ ” I sit down on the bed. “Is Tara having a big party?”

  “Six of us. Her mom asked Ethel Bartee to come over and teach us how to do manicures. Mrs. Bartee is not real patient, though. She did our hair for the band photo and went so fast it hurt when she teased it. I’m sure she’s gonna get over there and try to show us stuff and then just give up and give us the nail polish to do it ourselves.”

  Etta zips her bag and sits down next to me. She doesn’t say anything, but it isn’t awkward. Our conversations are funny to me. Often she answers a question in one word or a quick sentence, but I always feel that she wants to say more. Sometimes she even takes a breath like she’s going to and then stops herself.

  “I got you a present in New York.” I give Etta a preteen makeup kit I got at Saks. There’s nothing conspicuous in it: sheer lip gloss, a facial cleanser, and a perfume that smells like vanilla.

  “Cool!” Etta digs through the kit. “Thank you!”

  “And, most important, this.” I give Etta a hardcover copy of Harriet the Spy.

  “My own book! Now I don’t have to check it out all the time.”

  “Give the other kids a turn to read it, right?”

  “Thanks, Mom.” Etta gives me another hug, and it’s worth everything we’ve been through. As I hold her, I wish for a second that I had another lifetime just to be her friend instead of her mother.

  When I get home from dropping off Etta at the slumber party, Jack is waiting for me on the front steps with a picnic basket.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m taking you out to dinner.”

  “You are?”

  “Yeah. I found this chef. He’s ornery, but he makes real good fried chicken, and his biscuits are almost too good to eat, they’re so fluffy. And he recommends this Tuscan wine, a robust red, and he swears it puts his wife in the mood.”

  “Really. And where did you find this chef?”

  “He lives around here.”

  “Hmm.” I play along. “In an old stone house in Cracker’s Neck that needs a new road, a new water heater, and a sump pump in the spring because the basement fills with rain?”

  “You know what? That sounds familiar.” He smiles. “So, you want to go out with me?”

  “Sure.”

  We take Jack’s truck and go down the mountain, turning onto the valley road that will take us up to Big Cherry Holler. I slide over to the middle of the seat and put my arms around my husband just like the kids do when they borrow their daddy’s truck and head for the Strawberry Patch, Big Stone’s number one make-out perch, for a date.

  “You missed me?” I ask my husband, knowing the answer.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s no fun around here without you.”

  “Come on.”

  “No, you don’t appreciate what a constant source of amusement you are to Etta and me.” My husband pats my leg.

  “Thanks.” I remove his hand from my leg and put it back on the steering wheel, but I stay snuggled against him.

  A full moon the color of sandpaper floats over Big Cherry Lake like the face of an old clock. Jack is loaded down with a duffel bag, a picnic basket, and a flashlight. He shines the beam down the narrow path covered with pine needles. When we get to the water’s edge, he pulls a camping lantern from the basket and lights it. The glow makes a pale golden mist on the water’s edge.

  I laugh as he unpacks his parcels. “You’re a regular Sherpa.”

  “That’s what I was going for. As a rule, those Sherpas are pretty sexy, right?” He winks at me.

  “I don’t know. You’re the first one I ever met.”

  Jack lays an old quilt on the ground. I sit down next to him. “Are you hungry?” he asks.

  “Not yet.” I climb into my husband’s lap and take his face in my hands. I do love him, I’m thinking to myself as I study his hazel eyes and the bridge of his perfect nose. I kiss him over and over and hold him close. “You don’t change,” I tell my
husband.

  “Good thing or bad thing?”

  “Good thing.”

  “Do you know what tonight is?”

  “The night my husband surprised me with a picnic?”

  “You’re worse than a guy. You don’t remember.”

  “Remember what?”

  “October fourteenth. It’s the night I proposed to you the first time.”

  “Apple Butter Night!”

  “Whatever you want to call it, darlin’. I call it the Night You Turned Me Down Flat.”

  I can’t believe he remembers the date. Jack used two jars of his mother’s fresh apple butter as an excuse to visit; he blew into my house and started chatting, and pretty soon he was talking marriage out of the blue. It was the worst marriage proposal of all time. He compared me to a fully loaded pickup truck and implied that neither one of us had enough time left to be choosy. I said no, and not too politely, but I am not going to remind him of any of that. I say, “I’m glad I came around, honey.”

  “Me too. Are you happy now?” he asks.

  “Very.”

  Over breakfast this morning, Theodore told me that I should use my attraction for Pete on my husband. I thought this was strange, although I realize you can love your husband and still be attracted to other men. To use Theodore’s metaphor, Pete “stirred me up,” but I’ve come home to let Jack finish “cooking the dish.” I kiss Jack again, this time like I really mean it.

  “You did miss me.” Jack laughs.

  “Shh.” I try not to laugh as I hear our echo across the lake. In the event that some mountaineer is out here hunting grubs, I don’t want him to find us. Jack reaches across the quilt and turns off the lantern. Now all the light we have is from the moon glistening off the reservoir. As Jack kisses my neck and rolls over onto me, I look up at the moon, and now I see the hands of the clock speeding around. I close my eyes. For the first time in my life, I feel time passing quickly, and I want to stop it. I feel full and whole and loved and wanted, and there isn’t a place inside of me that is lonely or disconnected. Each kiss my husband gives me tells me that he is here to stay and I am the only woman for him. The ground is cold beneath me as I hold on to him. Tonight I choose him all over again, and I know that every time I do, it’s the best decision I make.

  The prescriptions are so backed up at the Pharmacy, you’d think I was gone a year instead of a week. As I count out Nancy Toney’s sinus medication, I get a whiff of Jade East cologne, and there’s only one man left in Big Stone Gap who wears it.

  “What’s up, Spec?”

  He stands at the door, sorting change from his pocket. “I need to talk to you. In private.”

  “There’s nobody here but me.”

  “I heard about Iva Lou.”

  “How?”

  “I was dropping off Arline Sharpe over to the heart center, she’s fine by the way, and ran into Beth Hagan, Lyle Makin’s sister-in-law, and she told me the bad news.”

  “Iva Lou doesn’t want anybody to know.”

  “I don’t know why she wouldn’t. Get them Methodists and Prez-bees and Freewill Baptists all competing with their prayer circles, and by God, she’ll be cured PDQ.”

  “For now she wants it kept quiet.” I make a mental note to stop by and tell Beth about Iva Lou’s wishes.

  “It ain’t right.” Spec fishes for his cigarettes.

  “I know, people talk too much.” Of course, what did I expect? Iva Lou should have just gone ahead and run an ad in the paper announcing her illness.

  “No. No. I mean about Iva Lou and her . . . Well, she’s got the best figger in Wise County, including those gals half her age. Truthfully, she could win Miss Lonesome Pine tomorrow if she wanted to.”

  I want to shake Spec, or yell at him, but he doesn’t mean it like it sounds. “Spec, when it’s your health, you really don’t care about appearances. It’s more about life and death.”

  “I know. I know. I’m just saying, as a man, I think it’s a helluva thing for her, of all people, to git that. Iva Lou Wade Makin’s assets are like the Natural Bridge, or the Roaring Branch, or Huff Rock. They’re a thing of beauty, God-given, and by God, we should be God-grateful. That shape of hers is landmark status.”

  “There’s more to Iva Lou than her great body.”

  “I know. I’m just saying.” Spec breathes out impatiently. “I’m runnin’ down to Pennington. You need anything?”

  “No, thanks anyway,” I tell him.

  Fleeta pushes through the doors juggling two Tupperware cake domes. “Jesus, Spec, you live here?” Spec holds the door for her on his way out. “Git yourself a home or something, would ja?” She coughs, then says to me, “Ave, you heard about ole Iva?”

  I shoot Fleeta a look. “Where did you hear it?”

  “Supermarket. I ran out of eggs.”

  “God forbid anybody around here wants to keep things private.”

  “God forbid anybody’d tell me anything around here before I hear it thirdhand out in the street. What are you gittin’ mad at me fer? Cripes a-mighty on a mountain, I’ll stay home if I’m gonna git my head bit off.” Fleeta heads back to the Soda Fountain to open up.

  Pearl pulls up in front of the Pharmacy. As I watch her get out of her car, I can really see that she’s pregnant now.

  “How was your trip?” she asks. “How was Theodore?”

  “He’s having the time of his life. He sends his best to you. How are you feeling?”

  “I have morning sickness all day.”

  “It’s rough. Have you tried Sea-Bands?” When I was pregnant with Joe, I wore the elastic pressure bracelets they give you on cruises to keep down the nausea. They worked.

  “I got ’em up my arms like gypsy bangles. Cleared the stock of the Norton store.” Pearl smiles.

  “Got the baby something on my trip,” I say.

  Pearl opens the package from Saks Fifth Avenue and shrieks with delight when she lifts out a tiny yellow sweater with a taxicab design. “I love it. Thank you!”

  “You tell Pearl about Iva Lou?” Fleeta wants to know.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Iva Lou’s got the breast cancer,” Fleeta announces.

  “No!”

  “Yeah, but they think they got it in time.”

  “I’m surprised you’re not passing around copies of the X rays,” I tell Fleeta. She grunts at me and heads for the supply room. “Iva Lou wanted it kept confidential,” I explain to Pearl.

  “Well, this is confidential, Big Stone–style. People know everything about you in this town, including your underwear size.”

  “For the record, I wear a six,” Fleeta calls from the supply room.

  “She’s going to be all right, isn’t she?”

  “It’s very early, so yeah, we’re hoping,” I reassure Pearl, but I’m not so sure about anything anymore. I can’t believe that two of the most important women in my life have gotten breast cancer. And I don’t ever forget my aunt Alice Lambert, who let it go untreated until it went to her bones. Pearl looks worried, so I tell her what I keep telling myself, that treatments and technology have improved vastly, and there is real hope for Iva Lou.

  “It’s not just Iva Lou.” Pearl sighs.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Ave, I’ve been thinking about closing the store down in Lee County. We’re not doing well there at all. They have a Rite Aid now, and it’s more like a department store. And there isn’t enough of a population to justify two pharmacies. I hate to do it, but we’re losing money.”

  “Hasn’t the prison brought in more business?” We were all so excited when the government decided to build a federal prison in Big Stone Gap. Our people were hurting from the coal-industry bust, and the new jobs created by the prison seemed like the answer.

  “It helped. But we need more industry here.”

  As I watch Pearl go into the office, it’s hard to believe that she’s the same mountain girl who used to stock my shelves when she was in high school. P
earl is a rare person. She hasn’t forgotten what she came from, or the folks who helped her get where she is today. I was afraid she’d be too kindhearted for business, that people would take advantage of her, but she has natural street smarts—I’m sure she could show the hard-boiled businesspeople in New York City a thing or two.

  Part of my plan to cheer up Iva Lou (she acts like she doesn’t need it, but of course she does) is to fuss over her, so on Saturday I take her for a girls’ night over in historic Abingdon. We have a delicious dinner at the Martha Washington Inn, an old, sprawling colonial landmark that looks like something out of a storybook, with gas lanterns and a grove of pink dogwood trees, perfect for strolling. I bought tickets to the Barter Theatre show for after supper, so we’re really making a night of it.

  The theater is across the road from the inn, so we decide to walk. It’s early November, and the breeze is changing. Folks are using their fireplaces already; we inhale the smell of smoky applewood, my favorite sign that fall is here.

  “Look, Ave,” Iva Lou says, pulling me behind a tree.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Look in the carriage.” Iva Lou urgently points to the inn’s horse and carriage, moving up a stately circular driveway.

  The horse clops the carriage past us. Sitting in the backseat with a blanket over their knees are Fleeta and Otto, dressed in their Sunday best. We stay behind the tree so they don’t see us.

  “Are they on a date?” I ask, mystified.

  “They ain’t collecting buckeyes. Did you know about this?” Iva Lou asks me.

  “I had no idea!”

  “How could this happen and none of us would know about it?” Iva Lou wonders.

  “Maybe it’s a new development.”

  “They don’t look like it’s a new development. Otto had that ‘I’m pitchin’ woo on a Saturday night’ face, and Fleeta seemed pretty durn happy to be on the receiving end of his attentions.”

  “What do we do?”

  “We go to the show and act like we didn’t see ’em.” Iva Lou smiles. “I always thought old Otto had the fish eye for Fleets.”

  “You’re kidding, aren’t you? She’s always so mean to him. One time she told him he didn’t have an ass. I heard her say it.”