Big Cherry Holler (19 page)

Jack comes to me and puts his arms around me. “We can’t go back to a magic place and hope it fixes us. It don’t work that way, baby,” he says simply, then he kisses my neck.

“As long as there’s one spark here, just one, maybe we can make it work,” he says to me. I smile at him, then I bury my head in his shoulder. One spark. My marriage rests on the notion of one spark. What a delicate, tiny, insignificant little thing. A spark. One glint of light. Is that enough to see with?

Etta walks between Jack and me, holding our hands as we walk through Tri-Cities Airport. When we get to the gate, Jack hugs Etta for a long time.

“Etta, wait for me by the door,” I tell her.

“Okay, Dad, that’s enough,” Etta says as she gives her father a final hug. She adjusts her backpack and goes to wait for me.

“Jack. Look at me.” My husband looks at me. His eyes are full of pain. I can see that he is torn, that he would like to go with us. But he too has a plan, and he is sticking with it.

“Not here,” he says softly.

“No, I have to say something to you. You told me last night that you want me to decide if I want to be married to you. And I promised you that I would think about it while I was in Italy, so I will. But I want you to understand something. I may always be, I don’t know … awkward. Maybe I didn’t leave that spinster behind when we got married. I don’t know. Maybe I don’t express the love I feel the way I should. And maybe I don’t know how to love you like you need to be loved. But I believe that even with all my shortcomings, and there are
many, I am still the right woman for you. Please wait for me. I think I deserve another chance.” And with that, I kiss my husband on the cheek. I hoist my duffel bag on my back and join Etta by the gate. I hand the tickets to the nice man by the door, and we follow the other passengers to the puddle-jumper plane, then climb the steps. When we get to the top step, Etta turns around and waves to her daddy.

“Mommy, wave.”

“You wave for me, honey.” I can’t look back. I won’t.

My daughter’s sadness at Jack’s absence gives way to the excitement of international travel in a matter of minutes. Our flight from Tri-Cities connects into Charlotte, North Carolina, we make a quick change, and head on to John F. Kennedy Airport in New York. Etta is shocked at how many people race through JFK from one terminal to another. “Mama, they look like ants!” she says, pointing to the crowd of travelers, which surges at a central point where the international terminal merges into one big space. “Stay with me,” I tell my daughter cheerfully. She latches her finger on to my belt loop lightly as we walk through the throng. I’m excited by the hub of activity too. I love the way the airport smells: of soap and leather and perfume from the duty-free shop. This is just what we needed, I think as I look down at Etta.

Everything about the transatlantic plane ride enthralls her: the pretty flight attendants with their long, shiny taupe nails and perfect haircuts; the Coke in small glass bottles on her seat-back tray; the kit of amenities, including navy blue cotton booties with Italian flags embossed on them. Etta sheds her small-town, Blue Ridge Mountain reserve and sits high in her seat. She is not missing one detail of this flight. How thrilled she is when they bring her dinner in courses.

“Mama, why is it so black out there?”

“That’s the ocean underneath us.”

“But shouldn’t there be ships with lights on them?”

“I don’t think ships come out this far.”

“If we crash, would anyone know?”

“Let’s not think about crashes.”

“We better not crash. What would Daddy do?”

“We won’t crash.”

“Daddy told me to be careful.”

“He did?”

“He told me that you and me were his life. And that I was to watch out for you and make sure that you had a good time.”

“You and Daddy talk about me?”

“There’s only the three of us,” Etta says, looking off down the aisle as though I am the biggest idiot in the world. Maybe I am.

Milan is a city of crisp vertical stripes, navy blue, gray, and black. Everything here is angular, from the architecture to the bone structure on the serious faces that brush past us. Even the Milanese bodies are simple and spare and thin; no Sophia Lorens here. No curves. Just straight, lean, no-nonsense shapes. Etta and I, in our cotton and denim, stick out like American tourists. (Forget that we actually
are
American tourists, we just don’t want to look like it.) So before we board the train for Bergamo (there is one every hour), I take Etta into a small women’s clothing shop. Lightweight wool trousers, navy blue with a flat placket and straight legs, a white cotton blouse with a gold hook and catch at the collar, and a beige cardigan are exactly what I’m looking for. I am not getting on that train with this Italian face in these American clothes. I need a uniform. And here it is. Etta thinks I’m nuts. My daughter likes her American jeans just fine and has no need to be anything but a MacChesney from Virginia, U.S.A.

As the train clicks north through the Italian countryside, low mossy hills of a deep green so rich it’s almost midnight blue give way to a deep and endless pink skyline, and I am amazed at how quickly we leave modern Milan behind. Soon the world chugging past turns ancient, untouched. The sun hangs low and golden, resting on peach clouds just like it does in Tiepolo’s painting on our guidebook.

I look down at Etta, who gazes out the window with an expression of wonder. I’ve seen that expression before, on her father’s face. God, she looks just like him. Even if I wanted to leave Jack Mac behind in the mountains of Virginia, I can’t. As long as she is with me, her father is here too. She is so much like Jack, even though my friends say she is just like me. She is so steady and true. Even if you hurt her feelings, she forgives you and doesn’t seem to store up grudges. That’s not to say she doesn’t suffer; she does. She feels things deeply. But like her father, she doesn’t like to linger too long on things that hurt her. There is no victim in my daughter. She is wide open and yet very private. I fold my arms across my chest and lean back, placing my legs on the seat across from us. I look down at my long legs; I could work a farm here.

A man passes by our glass-enclosed car and peeks in. He drinks me in from the tip of my toes to the top of my head and then looks into my eyes. His brown hair and mustache make him seem young, but he is around fifty. He winks at me. I smile politely, quickly look away, and sit up. I grip my knees with my hands, wedding-ring-side up. He couldn’t care less about the ring; I shoot him a look that he should move on. He does.

As our train chugs into Bergamo, Etta stands in awe. I have told her the story of my honeymoon many times, and how I felt when I first saw this place, my mother’s hometown in all its detail: the carved wooden bench at the train station, the fountain of angels, and my first ride on cobblestone streets. How the air smells like clean straw and lemongrass.

Etta presses her face against the window, knowing that in seconds she will be with Nonno; at last she will meet her great-grandmother (to whom she has written letters since she could write); all her cousins; and of course my mother’s people, the divine Vilminores of Bergamo. I have shown her pictures of them many times, and she starts rattling off things she remembers. Some of the first words she learned
were their names from the “flash cards” we made of our honeymoon pictures. Etta wants to visit the magical Alta Città and see the priests in their wide-brimmed black hats and cassocks, and the post where my grandfather used to hook his donkey named Cipi and his old wooden wagon before he made deliveries up into the Alps. I want to stand and jump up and down like she is, but suddenly, I see Joe’s face as he lay dying, and I cannot be happy. Quickly, I erase the picture. I’m a terrible mother. I don’t focus. Focus on Etta. She’s alive and well and thrilled to see Italy. Don’t think about all the things you didn’t do for Joe. Don’t think about how he would love this train. Don’t think about how you made him frozen waffles in the toaster instead of fresh pancakes on the stove. He’s gone. Etta is here. Focus on Etta.

Carefully, I pull our luggage off of the wooden rack above our seats as Etta smoothes her hair. Even the luggage racks in the Italian train cars are works of art. The lush cherry wood is curved and polished smooth. Etta runs for the steps to the platform and stops short of hopping off, turning around to wait for me. My father greets us at the foot of the stairs. He pulls Etta off the steps like he’s gathered a bunch of flowers and swings her around the platform. How youthful and strong he is, though his hair has more white in it now. His eyes, a clear, dark brown, dazzle against his golden skin. I feel instantly safe around him. He wears black pants (the cuffs hit his gray suede loafers in a perfect crease) and a gray cashmere pullover sweater. Papa puts Etta down and embraces me.

“How was your trip?”

“Glorious.”

“You’re tired.”

“A little.”

“I want you to meet Giacomina.” My father turns to find the woman in his life. She is a few steps behind him, smiling, with her hands clasped in anticipation. Trim and small with clear gray eyes,
she has a simple beauty and thick, straight brown hair that she wears in a ponytail. Her lips are full and even, her teeth white and perfectly shaped. She has a small, delicate nose with a narrow bridge. She is dressed like the Milan version of me, except she’s in beige from head to foot. In English, her name is Jacqueline—it suits her.

“Ave Maria, we are so happy you’re here.”

“I’ve heard wonderful things about you.”

“Thank you. I feel as though I know you. Your father talks about you all the time.” Giacomina loads my bags onto her shoulders and arms without wrinkling her silk blouse.

“Where is Jack?” Papa wants to know.

“He had too much work.”

“He needs a rest, though.”

“Yes, he does. But you can’t tell my husband anything.” I say this all so gaily that my father looks at me curiously.

“The Vilminores are expecting us at Via Davide.”

Etta shrieks at the mention of Via Davide, Mama’s family homestead on the side street. She has heard all about the poofy beds and the hard biscuits and coffee with sweet, hot milk for breakfast. She wants to see the tiny handmade chocolates on a silver plate that Zia Antonietta left on our pillows each night.

“Giacomina and I will stay in her apartment nearby. You and Etta will stay with Meoli. Sound good?”

“Sounds great.”

“When I told her you were coming, Meoli didn’t want to wait until after you stayed in Schilpario. She wanted you first. Very bossy.” Papa clucks. “But I don’t argue.”

“Schilpario will be there tomorrow,” Giacomina says, and smiles.

Via Davide has not changed. The houses are close together and painted soft corals and blues. Long shutters flap against the houses in the breeze. Small, shiny cars are parked on the street.

“It’s just like the postcards,” Etta exclaims.

When we get to Zia Meoli’s house, I jump out of the car and race for the front door. Zia Meoli, in a simple navy blue pocodotte shirtwaist dress, greets us. Her beautiful black hair is streaked with white, and she wears shiny gold hoop earrings. Her daughter, Federica, joins her at the door, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, her red hair a mop of curls and her brown eyes crinkled at the corners. Zio Pietro walks around from the side yard, having heard our noisy reunion. He brushes his thick white hair from his forehead, takes a final drag off his cigarette and tosses it into a rosebush. When I introduce Etta to them, they fuss over her like a new toy. They feel as though they know her from my letters; I am so glad that I write to my family here regularly. It’s as though they live an hour, not an ocean, away. We have a bond that connects us at the soul; we don’t have to be neighbors. Zia Meoli touches Etta’s hair and her face and holds her hands, examining them, all the while shooting questions in all manner of Italian—fast, slow, dialect—and broken English.

“She looks like her papa,” Zio Pietro decides.

“I think so too,” Zia Meoli agrees.

“Where is Zia Antonietta hiding?” I ask my aunt.

“Oh, Ave Maria. I’m sorry.” Zia Meoli looks down. Her face assumes the expression of grief that I know so well. “She passed away last month.”

“No!” I take Zia Meoli’s hand.

“She knew you were coming, and she tried so hard to stay. But she was very sick for a long, long time.”

“I’m sorry.” I had a deep connection with Zia Antonietta, Meoli’s twin. She never married, so the chores of housekeeping and managing the family home fell to her. That is the way it goes in Italy. The one without the husband takes care of the group. Meoli’s children were Antonietta’s life, and she spent it taking care of them. She wasn’t sad or bitter about it, though. It was as if she was only happy to have a role, an important role, in her family and in serving them. Zia
Antonietta had been in love once, and her true love died. So she accepted fate and, instead of having her own family, invested herself in her sister’s. Zia Antonietta was the most unselfish person I know.

“Come. Let’s eat,” Zia Meoli says. I explain that Jack could not come because of work. Zio Pietro, in particular, is sad about that. He has a woodworking shop and wanted to show Jack a sideboard he made himself. (I have to remember to tell Jack this.)

The parlor is just as it was when I came here on my honeymoon. The walls are eggshell white; the rug on the floor is a simple tapestry of gold and sage green, and it looks like there’s a needlepoint tree woven in the center of it. The furniture is sleek and low and dark wood, Italian from the 1930s. A rocker, painted black with gold swirls, sits in the alcove between the windows. The fireplace is full of wood, waiting for winter. The kindling next to the mantel is tied in a bundle with a white velvet bow. The windows have no shades, only long panels of ecru lace. (The shutters close out light and noise when need be.) The mantel is crowded with framed photographs, some as old as the turn of the century, others new. The faces of my mother’s family give me a sense of belonging, a point of origin. Right here. In this room. In the old black-and-white photographs, the expressions are stern; as the years pass and the pictures turn to color, the mood lifts.