Big Cherry Holler

by Adriana Trigiani

  He is also really handsome. He’s tall. And what a face. He reminds me of Rock Hudson in Pillow Talk. Maybe it’s the dark hair. Or maybe it’s the look in his eyes. That’s where the movie-star dazzle ends, though; he’s pretty trim, but I can see he has to fight a gut. (Who doesn’t? Maybe he’s a little older than me, but not much.) The chest is broad; I’ll bet he’s a runner. He isn’t wearing glasses, but I can tell he wears contact lenses, because he blinks a lot. He has beautiful white teeth, with the front teeth a little longer than the rest, which is sexy. He has thin but well-shaped lips (no cruelty there, just practicality in buckets, according to face-reading). The nose is amazing: straight, a little bulbous on the end (this is the nose of humor and wisdom—the tip is the giveaway).

  “Non capisce,” I say to him.

  “Okay, okay,” he says, more to himself than to me. Frustrated, he looks off, giving up the Italian. “You’re looking at me like I’m nuts. Okay, maybe I am nuts.” I get it: he thinks I’m a native. I feel as though I won the Nobel Prize, I am so proud of myself! I have passed for a Bergamosque! The pants, the cardigan, and the haircut have worked. I appear to be a real Italian through and through! I could kiss this guy.

  “Sí. Sí.” I motion that he should continue in English and, with gestures, relay that I am trying to understand him. This is so much fun!

  “I saw you dancing with those kids. And well, anyway, I think you’re cute. And I’d like to dance with you. I’m American. I guess you could tell that from the English I’m speaking. You’ve got a great face. In fact, everything is pretty fine on you, to tell you the truth.”

  “Yes?” I say.

  Galvanized that I am making the attempt to communicate, he continues. “So you’ll dance with me?”

  “Sí,” I say slowly, sounding like Gina Lollobrigida in La Bellezza di Ippolita.

  The American takes me in his arms and pulls me close, placing his hand on my waist, a little too low for a stranger. I reach back and put his hand above my waist. (I’m having fun, I just don’t want to have too much fun.)

  As the song ends, he seems to screw up his courage to say, “You have beautiful eyes.”

  I try to smile in a way that is enigmatic yet noncommittal.

  “Could I take you to dinner sometime? I’m here for another few weeks …”

  Okay, Ave, game over. Let the nice man off the hook. “I’m murried,” I tell him in a pure country accent straight out of the Appalachian Mountains.

  “Say that again.”

  “I’m murried. Married. And I’m American. I can’t do this to you for another second. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re Southern!”

  “Uh-huh. Virginia.”

  “You’re just loaded with accents. Can you do Garbo from Camille?” I can’t tell if he thinks my little game was funny or offensive. “Where in Virginia are you from?”

  “Southwest. In the Blue Ridge Mountains. Where they meet the Appalachians. Near the Cumberland Gap.” When you’re from Big Stone Gap, you always have to overexplain the location. No one ever knows where we are.

  “You aren’t on the Appalachian Trail, are you?”

  “We’re right on it. In fact, it runs through our home-ec room at the high school. At least that’s what I was told in ninth grade by my home-ec teacher, Mrs. Porier.”

  “I’m hiking that trail this fall!”

  “You are? Well, you’ll have to stop in.”

  I extend my hand to the tall American with the pretty eyes. “My name is Ave Maria Mulligan. I mean, MacChesney.”

  “You don’t know your own last name?”

  “I do. I just forgot it for a second. My married name, I mean.” I’m so embarrassed. Why am I embarrassed? Why is he laughing in that conspiratorial way? Am I flirting with this man?

  “I’m Pete Rutledge.”

  “Well, it was nice dancing with you.” Nice, Ave. Could you sound more awkward?

  “Thank you for the dance,” he says. We stand and look at each other. I don’t want him to go, but I don’t want him to stay, either.

  “Thank you for saying I was cute,” I blurt.

  “I meant it.”

  “I could tell. So thank you.” I smile at him as one does when a stranger compliments your car.

  He tilts his head and looks at me directly. “How married are you?” he says with a half smile. (And I thought the only wolves in Italy were Italian.)

  I don’t answer his question, I throw my head back and laugh. I turn to walk away and he grabs my hand.

  “How long are you here?” Pete asks, then follows me off the dance floor.

  “I’m leaving soon.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Yes, I am. But you make me nervous, and I lie compulsively when I’m nervous.”

  “That’s good to know.” He smiles.

  “I’m here all month. Not here in this village. I’m with my father, over in Schilpario.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Mario Barbari.”

  Pete leans down and pushes an unruly curl off my cheek. “Will I see you again?”

  “No.”

  Pete laughs. “You’re a Play-by-the-Rules girl?”

  “You have no idea.”

  I hustle the girls to bed so I can be alone and think about what happened tonight. Why am I so jazzed, so giddy? I’m a grown woman. I’m acting more like Chiara and Company than the sensible woman I am! I feel guilty for replaying the excitement of Pete Rutledge in my mind, so I go into my father’s study and call Jack. The phone rings three times.

  “Hello?” he says, groggy with sleep.

  “Hi, it’s me.”

  “Ave?” Then he seems to wake up and listen. “Is everything okay? How’s Etta?”

  “She’s great. We went to a disco. And she’s made friends with my second cousin Chiara, who’s ten. She’s here with Etta now.” Why am I talking so loud and so fast?

  “That all sounds great.”

  “I missed you tonight. There was dancing.”

  “There usually is at a disco.”

  “Right. Right.”

  “I miss you both too,” he says.

  “Thanks.” I don’t mean to be selfish, but can’t he just miss me? “Well, I guess that’s all the news.”

  “Yep.”

  There is a long silence; I guess I’m waiting for him to tell me about his life, but he doesn’t volunteer anything, so I don’t press. “Sleep well.” I hang up the phone. My body is shaking, but it’s not chills. I’m happy! A fine-looking stranger thought I was pretty! And I danced with him. And he felt good, and he smelled like mint and clean woods. And he wasn’t a local on the make, either, he was an American who thought I was an Italian goddess. I dial Theodore’s number.

  “Hello?” Theodore answers his phone sleepily. I’ve woken him up too.

  “It’s me—Ave.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Schilpario.”

  “Jesus. What time is it?”

  “Early. For you. Late. For me.”

  “This better be good.”

  “I danced at a disco tonight.”

  “Wow,” he says with no enthusiasm.

  “Don’t be rude.”

  “I can be whatever I want when you wake me up at this hour.”

  “Sorry. Theodore, there was a man there. Pete Rutledge. He thought I was cute.”

  “You are cute. You’re also married.”

  “I know. Can you print that on a postcard and send it over to me?”

  “I think I’d better.” I hear Theodore sit up straight in his bed. Now he’s paying attention.

  “He thought I was Italian.”

  “You are Italian.”

  “No, really Italian. Like from here. Born and raised. I got a haircut.”

  “I really have to hang up this phone.”

  “Bear with me, please,” I beg him.

  “I’m trying.”

  “When Violetta of the Moderna Salon cut my hair, I don’t know, m
y face changed. And then I felt like I was walking differently. Then all of a sudden, when I was climbing in the Alps, I looked down and there were muscles in my legs, like the ones that were there when I was young and didn’t have to work at it. And I got this lipstick that, I swear to you, is like magic—I put it on and I don’t know, I’m sexy or something. Me. Sexy.”

  “Where was Jack when you were flirting with this Pete person?”

  “He didn’t come. He’s back home.”

  “How convenient.”

  “It was his idea. It’s not my fault I’m alone over here for a month—”

  “You’d better be careful. A woman in her prime loose in the Italian Alps sounds like a setup for a spaghetti western with a bad ending.”

  “Theodore! I won’t do anything! I never do anything. I’m a sensible, practical pharmacist, remember?” Doesn’t Theodore know that it’s the idea of an affair that excites me? I hang up the phone; my palms are sweating so much, they leave a print on the black receiver. I rub it off with the hem of my sweater.

  Everyone in the house is asleep. I tiptoe up to my room on the second floor, a big, square room with a fireplace and four windows, and a high double bed with four carved wood posters that nearly reach the ceiling. It’s a princess bed. And tonight, I am a princess who floated on a dance floor in Italy under a box of silver stars with a handsome prince.

  I close the door and slip out of my loafers. I undress in the dark. When I am completely naked, I stand in front of the long mirror with the gold-leaf frame. The soft beam from the nightlight puts me in silhouette. I turn to the side and look at myself in profile. The gentle curves of my body, from having the babies, are suddenly beautiful to me. My skin is soft and warm, and I smell like the rosewater Mafalda left for me on the vanity. I shake my head, and my hair shakes loose away from my head in full, waxy curls, as curls were meant to be. Something happened to me tonight. I’m a girl again. And I like it.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The rain began in the early hours of Sunday morning before I could drift off to sleep. Papa has built a fire; the smell of wood smoke, fresh rain, and Mafalda’s macaroons baking in the oven woke me up. Etta and Chiara are in the basement making a mural in chalk, and I am reading all about Ornella Muti’s life (she’s good friends with Mussolini’s granddaughter). Papa is at Giacomina’s store, helping her do inventory and place orders for the ski season. Nonna went up the street to visit a friend. Papa argued with her to let her ankle heal a little longer before she went out. (Guess who won that argument?)

  Jack called this morning; fully awake, he was much more animated and attentive on the phone. He had a long talk with Etta, and when she handed the phone over to me, I realized that even though she misses her daddy, she was happier than I had seen her in a long time. She is happy because she sees how happy I am. Don’t I remember when I was a girl and my mother was happy? I would do anything to see my mother smile. I remember when I brought Mama to our cast party at the Drama and she sang an Italian folk song for the crowd. I couldn’t believe that she had the courage to sing in front of all those people, and as I watched her, she became her best self, her most free and happy self. I’ll never forget her face that night. I wished her joy could last forever. She had so much sadness, I just wanted her to forget it all and laugh. And when she did that night, I knew that it was possible for her to have a life of joy. Etta knows I’m happy here, and it brings out the best in both of us. I must not forget that I have an insight into my daughter, because I was a daughter once too.

  Jack tells me about the progress he and the guys are making on the rec center in Appalachia. He catches me up on the local gossip. Leah and Worley got married by the justice of the peace; everyone thinks Tayloe Lassiter is having an affair with the jeweler from down in Pennington Gap; and Zackie Wakin, concerned that he was getting robbed, ordered a detective kit from a magazine to trap the thief. He put a special invisible powder on everything in his store and hung a sign on the door that said he was out of town (“To throw ’em off but good,” he told Jack). Turns out someone was in the store at night—and when the police came and washed the powder with a special solvent and took the footprints, they belonged to Zackie. Evidently, Zackie is a sleepwalker. We have a good laugh over that one.

  There is something different in my husband’s voice. His tone is warm but just a touch hollow. Sort of like: you’re there, I’m here, let’s not talk about anything too deep. But since I danced with Pete Rutledge, all I want to do is talk about deep things. One dance made me want to dig deep and live. How dramatic, but how true.

  “Ave, were you drunk last night?”

  “What?”

  “When you called. Had you been drinking?”

  “I had bitters at the disco. But that’s all.”

  “How much?” Jack chuckles.

  “I wasn’t drunk.”

  “You’re on vacation. Live it up.”

  Part of me wants to tell Jack everything, as I used to do, in the beginning. We’d lie in bed for hours, and I’d share things with him I had never told anyone. It’s different now. I’m not compelled to tell him everything, and I’m not sure why. When Jack hangs up, I am relieved. We ran out of things to say.

  The rain is coming down so hard now, it’s making a river in the street in front of the house, and it’s dumping into the creek that feeds the waterwheel. The waterwheel whips around in a high-speed frenzy, throwing sheets of water everywhere. I get back to the glamorous life of Ornella Muti. Oh, the details.

  Mafalda pokes her head into the study. “Ave Maria. You have a guest.”

  Through the door from the living room, which connects to the kitchen, I see Pete Rutledge in a yellow rain slicker, standing in the doorway. He is so tall, he has to duck his head down; his shoulders barely fit in the frame. His blue eyes stand out against the bright yellow collar of the slicker. His hair is wet, and he hasn’t shaved. He reminds me of Clark Gable in The Call of the Wild, just a little. I wish I didn’t think this man looked like all my favorite movie idols, but in certain ways, and in certain lights, he does. He’s a little like my girlhood board game Mystery Date—which Etta still plays with her girlfriends—where the players spin a dial and a plastic door opens to reveal seven different specimens of young all-American manhood, one cuter than the next. I bite my lip; good, I’m wearing lipstick. (Loretta Young would never be caught without it, even in frozen tundra). Why am I worried about how I look? My heart skips, sending a flurry of butterflies through my chest, and lower. Shame on me! I take a deep breath. I am not excited he came to see me; I’m surprised, but I am definitely not excited. Maybe if I say this to myself enough, I’ll believe it.

  “Hello,” I say to him as I lean in the doorway with my arms across my chest.

  “Everybody in this town knows Mario Barbari.” Pete smiles.

  “He’s been the mayor for—”

  “Thirty-seven years,” Mafalda finishes my sentence.

  “May I borrow your Ave Maria for the afternoon?” Pete asks Mafalda.

  “I cannot answer for her,” she says warmly. Even Mafalda is suckered by this American male.

  “There’s an inn up the street. Want to get a cup of coffee?” he offers.

  Mafalda instantly grabs the pot, and I stop her. “No waiting on us.”

  “I am happy to!” Mafalda says.

  “No. If Mr. Rutledge has checked out the local coffee, then the least I can do is try it.” I smile at Pete, who smiles back at me.

  I grab one of my father’s coats off the rack by the door. This time I wear his silly Robin Hood hat. Pete holds the door for me, and we step out into the rain. I walk ahead a few steps, and he catches up with me and opens his raincoat, pulling me inside. I resist at first, but the rain is coming down so hard that I opt to stay dry. I have to skip to keep up with him; his legs cover twice the distance mine do in the same amount of time. He looks down at me and laughs. I hope he thinks this hat is ridiculous. I do not need this man attracted to me.

&n
bsp; Pete holds the door for me as we enter the old inn. My father has told me that in the winter, at the height of ski season, this place is packed. Today there is just me, Pete, and the proprietor, an old man with a pipe, sitting in the kitchen and reading the newspaper. The pipe smell is familiar: he’s the same man who walks home late at night. I smile at him and wave, and he looks up and nods. Pete takes off his raincoat and drapes it over a chair. He helps me with my coat and hat. The proprietor comes out; Pete orders coffee in lousy Italian, and I let him. There are three stuffed deer heads over the fireplace. The room has Tyrolean touches, just like the homestead. The tables are waxed and the chairs mismatched, some with embroidered seats and some straight-backed and plain. I sit down in one of the two dilapidated easy chairs in front of the fire and stretch my legs out on the stone hearth. The chairs are so old and low to the ground, you might as well sit on the floor. Pete sinks into the other chair, scooting it to face me.

  “How are you?”

  “I’m fine. How are you?”

  “A little wet,” he says as he runs his fingers through his hair. “Why don’t you wear a wedding ring?”

  I look down at my hands. Why do I keep forgetting to put on my rings?

  “I was helping Mafalda make macaroons.”

  “You weren’t making macaroons last night.”

  “No. Last night I wasn’t wearing them because I had been fishing stones out of the stream yesterday afternoon and I had taken them off.”

  “You wouldn’t want to lose them,” he says, and smiles in a way that is so sexy, I’m glad I’m sitting down: if I were standing, my knees would give out.

  “No, I wouldn’t,” I tell him, regaining my composure, then say directly, “What are you implying?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Good.” I lean back in the chair, then shift as a spring pops up and jabs me in the center of my back.

  We sit in silence for a moment. The old man brings the coffee. He looks at Pete, and then he looks at me. I can see that he appreciates the happy American couple who wandered in from the rain. You can’t find a soul in this country who doesn’t believe in romance. No need to further anyone’s misapprehensions. I move my chair away from Pete’s. I have to get this conversation on a more general, friendly plane.