Fleeta has planned a welcome-home party for Iva Lou at the Mutual’s. Spec insisted we delay the festivities until he returned from Florida, so here we are, at the height of Christmas shopping season, throwing a big bash at the Soda Fountain for our returning soldier.
Nellie Goodloe took charge of the program. She is going to read a poem; Cindy Ashley is going to present Iva Lou with a gold heart pendant (she raised the money by passing the hat at the homecoming game); Nicky and Becky Botts are going to sing one of Iva Lou’s favorite songs, “Sleeping Single in a Double Bed”; and evidently, my husband has agreed to spike the punch (there was a note at home: Bring the Rum).
“Don’t touch that icing, Spec Broadwater!” Fleeta hollers from the kitchen. I don’t know how she can see Spec hovering over the sheet cakes from back there, but she can.
“You should have let me lick the spoon,” Spec yells back playfully.
Fleeta comes to the doorway. “Don’t you get enough sugar down in Pennington?”
The crowd has a good laugh on that one, and thank the Lord, Spec’s wife, Leola, is not here yet. She doesn’t need Spec’s friendship with Twyla Johnson rubbed in her face, and we certainly don’t need a marital knock-down drag-out at Iva Lou’s party.
“I’d say you know more about gittin’ sugar than I do, Fleeta Mullins,” Spec says loudly. Everyone goes quiet and looks at Fleeta.
“Now, Spec.” Fleeta points a spatula at Spec. Will she admit to the crowd that she and Otto are an item? The buzz of the overhead fluorescent lights is the only sound in the place. Spec takes a drag off his cigarette and looks at Fleeta. I haven’t seen this kind of Mexican stare-down since the Trail Theatre showed A Fistful of Dollars at the Clint Eastwood Film Festival.
“You got somethin’ to say to me?” Fleeta does not flinch, and the spatula stays pointed at Spec.
“No ma’am.” Spec backs down. Fleeta returns to the kitchen. The chatter resumes.
“How was your vacation?” I ask Spec. “You’re so tan!”
“Well, we was never out of the sun. And we was on the water a lot. Went fishin’ with Leola’s cousin. We had us a good time. I took a spill down there, though.”
“What happened?”
“Well, I passed out. You know, Florida sun, a six-pack, and wrangling a swordfish for three hours will deplete anybody. They took me to the emergency room, so I got to see what it was like to ride in the gurney in the back instead of driving the vehicle. I can’t say I enjoyed the experience.”
“What was wrong?” I should be able to accept that my friends are getting older (so am I) and sometimes get sick, but it’s still hard when I consider what they once were and that we’ll never see our youth again.
“I had me old-fashioned heatstroke. I was dehydrated too. So I drunk me some Gatorade for the rest of the trip. Didn’t have another problem.” Spec shrugs. “Gonna have one helluva crowd tonight. SRO, looks like.”
Fleeta returns from the kitchen with another sheet cake and sets it down on the counter.
“How many cakes did you make?” I ask her. The parking lot is filling up, and the Italian in me is always afraid there won’t be enough food to go around.
“Six. Iva Lou’s favorite. Chocolate Coca-Cola Cake.”
“I want that recipe,” Nellie Goodloe says cheerfully.
“Then go in the kitchen and git it. It’s hanging on the bulletin board. Make and eat it at your own risk. This cake is rich. One of them Delph girls got addicted to it when she was pregnant and ballooned up eighty pounds beyond recognition.”
CHOCOLATE COCA-COLA CAKE
CAKE
2 cups plain flour
2 cups sugar
1 cup Coca-Cola
2 sticks butter
3 tablespoons cocoa
11⁄2 cups miniature marshmallows
1⁄2 cup buttermilk
2 eggs, well beaten
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon vanilla
A pinch of salt
ICING
3 tablespoons cocoa
1 stick butter
6 tablespoons Coca-Cola
1 pound powdered sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
1. For cake: Combine flour, sugar, and salt in a saucepan, combine & heat butter, cocoa, Coca-Cola and marshmallows until it begins to boil (add marshmallows last) . . . remove from heat & stir to dissolve marshmallows. Pour over sugar & flour and blend well . . . add remaining cake ingredients and blend well. Pour into greased 9 x 13 pan and bake at 350° for 30 to 40 minutes.
2. For icing: Combine butter, cocoa & Coca-Cola in saucepan and bring to a boil . . . mix with powdered sugar till it makes a thin paste, then drizzle over the cake while it’s hot from the oven.
The sound of wild cheers, wolf whistles, and applause can only mean that Iva Lou has arrived. There must be over a hundred people, including the staff of the Wise County main library, where Iva Lou restocks the Bookmobile. Lyle has his arm around Iva Lou, who looks slim and radiant in an electric-blue leather jacket and matching pants. Her earrings are two marcasite pyramids with enamel bluebirds swinging from the bottom.
“Thank ye all, thank ye for showing up to this shindig,” Iva Lou announces from my microphone behind the counter. “I am happy to be here. So happy I don’t have words. But I do have a story to tell ye.” The crowd cheers. “Y’all know I am not a religious person. I was raised in several Protestant faiths, none of which I can remember, because my mama never decided where to park her soul and my daddy never much cared where his soul went on Sundays or any other day of the week. Now, I’m a believer in God and Jesus and all that, but I never liked going to church or any of the socials, because we couldn’t dance or drink liquor or do any of the wonderful things that result as a combination of those two activities.”
“You must’ve been a Baptist,” someone hollers.
“Yep. For about a week.” Iva Lou winks. “Anyhoo, when I was in the hospital, a kindly preacher from the Higher Ground Baptist Church came to see me, and I confessed all my sins to him. He promised me that God had forgiven me, and I felt a sense of peace. I slept through the night and felt like a new woman. Well, the next day around the same time, another preacher came to see me, this one from the AME church, and he asked to hear my sins, so I complied and he absolved me. I had another good night’s rest and actually started to think, Well, maybe there is something to this confession stuff. It does cleanse the soul! Anyway, the next day, I got another visitor, this time a lovely minister from the Presbyterian church, and he took a listen to my sins too, and then, once more, graciously washed them away. But on that fourth day, when the friendly minister from the Seventh-Day Adventists came to see me and I confessed my sins, I began to wonder: Does every patient get this kind of spiritual attention when they come to this hospital? So I asked the Reverend Du Jour, who came a-callin’ the following day. I don’t remember what his affiliation was, but it did have Jesus in the title. He too inquired about my past. So I said, ‘Rev, I’ve had every man of the cloth in East Tennessee come visit me. What gives?’ And he said, ‘Mrs. Makin, no patient in the history of Holston Valley Hospital has ever confessed a litany of sins as colorful as yours. In fact, you make Mary Magdalene look like a wallflower. I speak on behalf of all the preachers, we are truly grateful for the spice you put in our soul saving.’ ”
The crowd’s laughter erupts into applause, wolf whistles, and general whooping. Pearl, Fleeta, and I put on our aprons and take our place behind the buffet table as the guests form a line. Iva Lou works the crowd, hugging and kissing her friends. If I ever doubted that she made the right decision regarding her surgery, I am positive now that she did. Iva Lou loves living, and whatever choice gave her peace of mind was the right one.
CHAPTER SIX
It has rained for months, so when the sun finally came out, it actually made a headline in the town paper: WINTER GONE, SPRING SPRUNG. Fleeta’s so tired of hearing it that she wants to put a jar on the counter at the Mutual’
s requiring anyone who says “Thank God winter’s over” to put a quarter in. Yet there is still cause for celebration. Pearl is a new mother!
India Leah Bakagese was born April 3, 1993, at Saint Agnes Hospital, after a long labor. Our Pearl did a magnificent job, and her husband, Taye, was so proud of her he almost insisted their daughter be named Pearl. “One Pearl in the house is enough,” she told him and named their daughter after his homeland. Pearl is bringing India to the Pharmacy for the first time today. I’ve attached balloons to the front door to welcome her.
Fleeta enters, battling balloons as she comes through the doorway. “Turrible idea. This is a place of business, not a day-care center. I guess we’re gonna put an entire nursery in the office,” she grouses.
“Just a crib for now,” I tell her.
“Whatever happened to the days when women stayed home with their babies?”
“What’s the difference if they stay home or bring them with?” I ask her.
“It’s a big difference to me. I went back to work to git away from my youngins. But I don’t own the joint, so I guess I have to live with it.”
“She’s so cute, Fleeta. You’re gonna love her.”
“I ain’t sayin’ the baby ain’t cute, I’m sayin’ I don’t want her around.” Fleeta says this in a tone that tells me she doesn’t really mean it. “Is Etta coming in for her free sundae? Ain’t it her birthday?”
“This Saturday. She’s having a party and everything. Can you believe Etta is thirteen?”
“Jesus, I’m getting old.” With her palms, Fleeta lifts the jowls on her face up a good half inch.
“But your hair looks good.”
Fleeta shoots me a look that makes us both laugh.
“Introducing India!” Pearl announces, carrying her daughter through the balloons. Taye follows with a jumbo diaper bag. He is beaming with the look of a man who has everything he wants in the world. He greets us, placing the bag on the counter. “Call me if she does anything special,” Taye says with a wink.
“Yeah, I’m gonna have her make out the bank deposits, Doc,” Fleeta says wryly.
“That’s fine, as long as she gets her naps in.” Taye kisses Pearl, then India, and goes.
“Well, well,” Fleeta says as she comes from behind the counter. She studies India in the soft pink blanket. “Now, that’s a brown baby.”
“Well, she’s half Indian,” Pearl says pleasantly.
“And you’re Melungeon, don’t ferget that. That’s some black hair on her. Now, I know them ferriners got the black hair, but this here is the shiny Melungeon variety.”
“Isn’t she beautiful?” I nudge Fleeta, hoping to get her off the bloodline topic. She doesn’t bite.
“Every once in a while, my daughter Janine comes over and spends Fri-dee night with me. And we pop us some corn and rent us a movie. We like them Ali Baba movies set in them sand dune countries, you know, where the snakes dance out of baskets and virgins get thrown into a flaming pit on holidays. And there’s always a sword fight between a homely prince and a good-lookin’ poor man for the hand of the Indian princess. Somehow the good-lookin’ poor man is always a real prince in disguise, but then he always gets found out and marries the princess. Well, that’s what your little girl reminds me of—one of them black-eyed princesses with them Bambi eyes. She’s a beauty, all right.”
“Thanks, Fleeta.” Pearl looks at me, and we laugh.
“Well, that’s what she looks like to me.” Fleeta shrugs and goes back to the Soda Fountain.
“Is she still annoyed about the crib?”
“So peeved she put it together for you,” I tell her.
To Jack’s amusement and my horror, we are hosting the first boy-girl birthday party ever to take place in the MacChesney homestead. Jack’s family tradition for birthdays was always simple: every great-aunt and -uncle and distant cousin came for Sunday supper, and at the end of the afternoon, Mrs. Mac would bring out a red velvet cake with candles and everyone would sing. Birthdays were strictly a family affair.
My childhood birthday parties were all-girl events. Mama said I could invite boys, but I preferred my girlfriends’ company. We didn’t dress up, we ate lots of cake, and we played cards for hours. We were big gigglers, and that always gave Fred Mulligan an excuse not to come. Noisy girls drove him crazy, so he’d work late at the Pharmacy until the party was over.
I look over Etta’s guest list. There are two Trevors, two Codys, one Jarred, one Dakota, and one Homer; two Tiffanys, one Tara, a Crystal, a Kristen, and a Chris. My daughter definitely prefers the coed birthday party.
Jack comes into the kitchen. “Everything is done. The pizza’s in the oven. Fleeta dropped off the coconut cake. We have lots of pop. I borrowed the softball equipment from the church.” He looks at me. “What’s the matter?”
“Our girl is thirteen.”
“Uh-huh. Last year she was twelve.”
“You’re not funny.”
“You can’t stop time, Ave.”
“I just don’t want her to grow up yet.”
“We don’t have a choice, honey,” Jack says practically.
As I set up the picnic table on the sun porch, I look at the paper plates with Barbies on them, and suddenly they seem ridiculous, so I throw them in the drawer and pull out real china instead. I don’t want to embarrass Etta, and Barbies and boys simply don’t mix.
“Letter from It-lee!” Etta hollers as she comes into the house. She joins us in the kitchen. “It’s from Stefano Grassi!” she announces. “It’s addressed to you.”
Etta stands by as I read the letter from Stefano, in which he accepts our “kind invitation” for him to come and work this summer and promises to write again soon with his travel itinerary.
Etta rolls back her shoulders—I have never seen this gesture before. She flips her hair and looks at us. “Thank you both for hosting Stefano this summer. I’m sure he’ll do a good job for you, Dad,” Etta says, and leaves the room.
“What was that?” Jack points in the direction of his daughter.
“She’s a teenager now. She’s sophisticated,” I tell him.
“No, the accent. Where did that come from?”
“That was her imitation of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. We watched it last night.”
If the empty cake plate, punch bowl, and pizza pans are any indication, Etta’s birthday party was a success. Jack is out in the yard putting away the last of the softball equipment while Etta helps me with the dishes.
“Everybody seemed to have fun,” I remark.
“Yeah. Until Tara and Trevor got together.”
“What do you mean ‘got together’?”
“After we played softball, she chased Trevor up the path when I took everyone into the woods. Trevor Gilliam, not Trevor Bailey.”
“How do you keep them straight?”
“Trevor Gilliam’s cuter.”
“That’s as good a system as any, I guess.”
“Tara got him down the path and then made out with him.”
“Define ‘made out.’ ” I try not to let my voice break.
“Ma. You know.”
“I know. I want you to tell me.”
“They kissed three times.”
“How did they find the time?” I wonder aloud. We had the revelers scheduled with games and refreshments down to the last minute. Furthermore, how did they manage a make-out session with steely-eyed chaperone Jack MacChesney on the beat? (I’ll deal with him later.)
“Tara said she’s gonna marry Trevor as soon as we graduate from high school.”
“She’s awfully young to be thinking about marriage.” This is the perfect entrée into our mother-daughter sex talk, but I am completely thrown that anyone Etta’s age would even think about marriage (it’s an even bigger issue than sex, isn’t it?).
“Dad told me Grandma Mac got married at seventeen. That’s only four years older than me.”
“I know, but that was in the 1920s, for
Godsakes.” Etta had one grandmother who was a child bride, and the other was a single teenage mother, and while I’d be thrilled for her to take after them in every way, this is the exception.
“Dad told me that even though they were young, they had true love.”
“Etta, it was a different time. Now we have so many more options. You’re going to college. Grandma Mac didn’t have that kind of an opportunity.”
“Tara’s mom got married when she was seventeen too. She’s thirty now.” Etta climbs on the step stool and puts the cake plate away. “You weren’t even married at thirty, were you?”
“Nope.”
“I have the oldest parents in my class. But I don’t care. Y’all don’t act old.”
“Thank you for that ringing endorsement,” I tell her. “Did you have a good birthday?”
“My best yet.” Etta takes the rubber band off her wrist and twists her hair into a ponytail with it.
“What did you like best about your birthday?”
“The letter from Italy.”
“Can I lie and tell Aunt Fleeta it was her coconut cake?”
I’m hoping if I don’t make an issue out of Etta’s old crush on Stefano, it will dissipate on its own by summertime. Jack comes into the kitchen with a package. “Happy birthday, Etta. This is from Mom and me.”
“But you gave me a party,” she says as she rips into the package. She lifts the lid off the box, and her eyes widen with excitement. “My own telescope!”
“Dad will help you put it together.”
“Not that you need my help. I think you know more about this stuff than I do.”
Etta throws her arms around us. “Thank you! I love it! I’m going to go and set it up right now.” Etta and Jack sort through the box, lifting out parts and directions. They go upstairs as I put away the last of the dishes.
I’m exhausted, so when I’m done, I sit on the rickety bench under the windows and rock on the leg that was sawed off short for a reason no one remembers. I hear Etta and Jack fussing over the directions upstairs, and it makes me smile. This house hasn’t been quiet since the day Etta was born. If I ever missed my single life (and, I confess, I have from time to time), what I missed most was the quiet and glorious solitude of my own thoughts. As I listen to the taps the three good legs of the bench make on the wooden floor, I think about what it means to be the mother of a teenager and how fundamentally my relationship with Etta has changed. Are the best days behind me, when I could hold her and kiss her as much as I wanted? This morning I went to hug her, and she pulled away. She wasn’t being rude, just her idea of grown-up. But I would be lying if I said it didn’t hurt my feelings. Before I had my children, I would hear parents complain about the teenage years, and I’d think, Not my kids. I’ll love them so much, they’ll never push me away. Well, here it is, the day Etta pulled away, and I wasn’t ready (though I doubt there is any way to prepare for this).
Milk Glass Moon Page 12
