Big Cherry Holler (28 page)

“Now. Let’s get down to It,” Iva Lou says, buttering her toast.

“Are you sure about Jack Mac and Karen Bell?”

“Well, I haven’t caught him in the act. But I’m pretty certain. Let
me tell you what I know. And don’t think it hasn’t been an effort for me. James Varner got over his cold and is itching to get back on the Bookmobile, but I won’t let him, ’cause if I let him, I lose that run up to Coeburn, and then my source dries up on me.”

“Who’s the source?”

“Karen Bell’s best friend. Benita Hensley. The librarian up in Wise.”

“Great.”

“How’s Jack Mac treatin’ you?”

“Like a sister.”

“Not good.”

“Maybe it’s over, Iva Lou.”

“Don’t say that! Don’t ever say that! Y’all are true lovers! Look how long you waited to get together. Come on.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“You waited so long, to lose it all like this? Over what? Sex? What’s the matter with you? Don’t you care?”

“Iva Lou. Something happened to me.”

“A horrible thing. I know, honey. You’ve been betrayed. I feel turrible about it.” Iva Lou glops orange marmalade onto her toast.

“I mean something else.”

“What?” Iva Lou looks up. From my tone, she guesses it must be a man. “Have you fallen in love with someone new, is that what you’re sayin’?”

“No. I’m not in love. But he might be in love with me.”

“Who is he?”

I tell Iva Lou all about Pete Rutledge, all the stories, all the way through the kisses in the field of bluebells.

“Well, look. On one level it’s so goddamn romantic I can hardly take any more details. But you say you’re not in love with him. So why would you leave what you got?”

“I wouldn’t. I don’t know how to explain this, Iva Lou. I really
don’t. But the love I have for Etta and for Joe sort of replaced the romantic love I had with Jack. And the love I have for my kids is more important to me than the love I have for Jack or the lust I had for Pete. Or any man who might come along. I’m not proud to admit it. I know I’m supposed to put my husband first, and then from there, from what’s supposedly the center of everything, comes your love for the kids. But I realized when Joe got sick that things had changed between Jack and me as soon as Etta was born. She replaced him as the love of my life. And then when Joe came, I was thrilled that I could give Etta a brother and Jack a son, but I also knew that there was no question: Jack was number three. For sure. Behind Etta and Joe, my new true loves.”

“Oh, you’re all confused.” Iva Lou rifles through her purse and finds her cigarettes. “You know, I quit.” She grips a cigarette between her lips and urges me to continue as she flicks the lighter.

“I don’t mean to make this sound complicated.”

“Honey-o, that ain’t right. It’s two different kinds of love. One is not more important than the other. They’re different. Love for your husband is about you. Love for your kids is about them.”

“I know. It goes against everything I believe. But don’t you think Jack knows that he’s number three? He’s not stupid.”

“No, he’s not. That’s the first true thing you’ve said all the mornin’.”

“I’m not even mad at him. What’s the matter with me?”

“That’s just a defense. You’re giving up because you’re afraid you’ll lose him altogether.”

“We don’t have anything to talk about anymore.”

“Do you talk about Joe?”

“No.”

“There’s your problem. It’s all you two are thinking about, and no one’s saying anything about it. You’re blaming him. He didn’t give Joe the cancer.”

“No, but he didn’t save him either, did he?” I can’t believe I said it. I’ve only ever thought it, I’ve never admitted it out loud.

“Ave, you listen to me. Jack couldn’t save Joe. No one could.”

“But—”

“But nothin’. You stop this. You’re killin’ your marriage with blame. And you’re holding on to bad feelings that have no place in the present.”

“I know.” Iva Lou is right.

“What’s your plan?” She looks at me. “ ’Cause, honey, I guaran-damn-tee you that Karen Bell has got a plan. What’s
your
plan?”

F
leeta, who swore she’d have nothing to do with the Soda Fountain, now stays late and bakes the desserts. And they’re not simple ones, either. Pearl bought those aluminum cake stands with the glass domes to show off Fleeta’s red velvet cake, her pecan and cinnamon pound cake drizzled with glaze and topped with crunchy sugar-dipped walnuts, and her mile-high chocolate cake with white butter-cream frosting. (“The secret to that one is the cup of strong coffee instead of cold water in the batter,” Fleeta told me.) There is a
SPECIALS!
sign behind the counter and a chalkboard with folks’ birthdays listed (you’re entitled to a free sundae on your big day). This is unbelievable. In a few months, Pearl has hit a home run. Look out, Norton.

“I’m tellin’ ye. It’s a lot of work, but I love it,” Fleeta says as she goes behind the counter.

“I thought you didn’t want a soda fountain in the Pharmacy.”

“I didn’t. Till it was here. Then once it was here, I got to like doin’ the bakin’. And makin’ the lunches. I just added soup beans and cornbread to the menu. See?”

“Fleets, you have found your passion.”

“Maybe.” Fleeta blushes; she doesn’t think of herself as passionate.

Ed Carleton has done a good job subbing for me in the pill department. He’s caught up; the new orders are only as of this morning. I feel good as I slip into my smock and take my place on my bar stool behind my counter. I missed my job. I sort through the new orders. There is one for Alice Lambert for a very potent drug usually prescribed for cancer patients to counter the nausea that comes from chemo and radiation.

“Fleets? What’s happening with Alice Lambert?”

“I told Eddie to refer her orders over to the Rite Aid in Appalachia.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“She has cancer. I guess her meanness done turned on her.”

Fleeta walks away. Now, there’s loyalty for you. Fleeta cannot forgive Alice for the way she behaved after my mother died. As I count out twenty-four tiny pink pills and load them onto the knife to place them in the bottle, I wonder why I feel sad. Is it because Alice Lambert is the last person left from my old life? When she’s gone, will it all be ancient history?

Etta is in town, spending the night with her girlfriends. I’m sure she will tell them all about her crush on Stefano and about Pete Rutledge and peach lip gloss. She hung a picture of Tom Cruise over her bed; Pete must have triggered her new taste for brunette men with flashy smiles.

Jack is working late. Or so he says. I go to bed at my usual time; often, when I wake up, he’s already up and dressed and making coffee. I try to stay awake to see if he even comes to bed at all; I know at least one night he fell asleep in the living room in the easy chair with the television on. I keep waiting for the right time to have our talk, but there doesn’t seem to be a right time. Maybe he is avoiding me. I’m not sure.

I have a chance to go through the house for the first time since our return last week. I have a stack of pictures from vacation to
put away. I’ve bored everyone I know from St. Paul to Pennington Gap with the pictures of the summer snowcaps in the Alps—enough is enough. I sent some off to Papa, and I’ll put the rest in the box where they stay until I fill albums with them. I pull the box out of the hall closet. I hear a mew. Shoo the Cat peers out at me, annoyed that I’ve found his hiding place. I give him a quick kiss on the head.

I sort through the box. I really need to get some photo albums. The box is practically full. I study the faces in the pictures. We look so happy; we are a family. The pictures from last Christmas are as clear and bright as the ones from years before. We were back on track. Ready to celebrate again. Weren’t we happy last Christmas? And yet I sensed something. I was scared, even then, that Jack Mac was slipping away from me. I wasn’t just being paranoid. I know that all men look at women. But I couldn’t get that stupid Halloween Carnival out of my head. I remember it in such vivid detail, right down to the way the popcorn balls smelled so sickeningly sweet as I watched my husband chitchat with Karen Bell. What is that little voice in our head that tells us to Watch Out? How do we know when to heed the warning signs instead of chalking them up to PMS, or getting older, or just having a bad day?

I put the pictures in the box. Jack’s canvas work vests are hanging in the closet. He didn’t wash them while I was gone (obviously); he just wore them and hung them up again. I pull them off the hangers and head for the sun porch to wash them.

I pull keys and nails and bolts and scraps of paper out of the pockets. I make a neat stack of all the junk on the dryer. As I toss the vests into the machine, I hear something crackle. So I pull the vest out of the machine and go through the pockets one more time.

There’s a square of loose-leaf paper folded many times. It reminds me of a note passed in high school study hall. The edges of the paper are ripped fringe. I unfold the paper and read:

I fold the note carefully back into a small square, just as I found it. (Why am I doing this?) I’m numb. This note makes it real, right down to the heart she put in the word “love” where the “o” goes. I met Karen Bell. She was no rival! What would my husband see in her when he had me? My ego makes a valiant effort, but it’s not long before it gives way to despair and self-loathing. I feel the numbness leave me and the anger set in. I am so furious I could destroy this house, burn it to the ground and not look back. It’s dangerous for me to be inside. I have to get out of here.

I look around for my keys to the Jeep. I usually leave them on the front table. When I can’t find them, I begin to tear the house apart. I find myself ripping the cushions off of the sofa, then turning over the straight-backed chairs, then opening the cabinets in the kitchen, shoving out their contents—glass smashes, jars of jelly and cans of spices and boxes of rice shower the floor like rain. I go into my bedroom and rip off the coverlet, the sheets, and I tear the feather pillows apart; I’m sweating, soaked to the skin, and so angry that I cry out. I lift the mattress off the bed and shove it to the floor. What am I looking for? I am losing my mind.
Where are those keys?
I hear a deafening screech inside my ears, one so loud, I would stab myself to stop the noise.

“What are you doing?” A voice cuts through the pounding in my head. Jack stands in the doorway of our bedroom.

“You, you … I hate you!”

“What’s going on?” he says, his voice breaking. I’ve caught him, and he knows it.

“Why don’t you tell me the truth!”

“What are you talking about?” Now he has the look of a gentle person, a look that tells me he doesn’t want to hurt me with the truth or anything else.

“You … you.” I fish around my pockets—where did I put that letter? I find it and take it out and carefully, like a judge, unfold the clue. “Look. Look right here. You love this woman!”

“Ave. Listen to me.”

“Why? You’re a liar. You’re just going to lie to me. I want these mattresses out of here. You fucked her all summer right here in this room. In our bed. Where my children were. How could you do that? I will hate you until the day I die.”

I shove past him, out of the bedroom and to the front door. Suddenly, in the first moment of clarity I’ve had since I found that note, I remember where my keys are. I left them in the Jeep.

“Where are you going?”

“Don’t talk to me,” I tell him. I run to the Jeep. I feel him behind me. I get into the driver’s seat. He reaches in and tries to pull me out of the Jeep. He has me by the waist. I swing my legs out and begin kicking him, and I’m grateful for my strong legs as I fend him off. He tries to control my kicks, but he cannot.

“You made your choice. Now go to her. Go on. Go!” He steps back. I turn the key and throw the Jeep in reverse. Before he can make another move, I am down the mountain. I don’t look back.

It’s a long drive to Knoxville, Tennessee. Even longer when you don’t have any money. I left my purse in Cracker’s Neck Holler. Thank God I have an emergency gas card taped to the bottom of the driver’s seat. As I pay the man for the gas, I ask him if I can charge some food on the card. He shrugs. So I go through the Quik Mart and buy pretzels and Diet Coke, two apples, a cup of coffee, and a bottle of Tylenol for my throbbing head.

The road to Knoxville is a straightaway into the hills of Tennessee. I am glad I don’t have to think too much as I drive. I go about eighty miles an hour. I hope a cop stops me. Have I got a story for him.

I feel oddly relieved after my tantrum, almost exhilarated. The pain and rage gave way to endorphins that pulse through my system, soothing
me. Iva Lou was right. I had my defenses up; my lack of feeling about my husband’s affair was just a facade. There’s a lot inside me that I haven’t addressed. The worst part is the realization that my husband is not the man I thought he was. I thought he loved me so much that there wasn’t room for Karen Bell or any other woman to wheedle in and take him. How pathetic he looked when I told him I knew. There is no worse face in the world, the face of a man who gave it all away. I’ll never forget it.

My marriage is over. It’s sad, but it isn’t nearly as sad as losing Joe. I instantly compare the two, because now, and for the last three years, everything is measured against that loss. I can’t help it. And I realize that everything I’ve done since Joe’s death has been busywork. My strategy has been to keep myself occupied until I can be with my son again. I can fill up my life with work and games and trips and even have moments when seeing Joe again isn’t the only thing I think about; but as surely as I am diverted, the thought comes back. The ache of my loss never stops. It is as real to me as my breathing.

I find Theodore’s house quickly (I’m surprised; my sense of direction is usually terrible). It’s late. Thank God there’s a light on. I knock on the door. Theodore looks out the window; when he sees it’s me, he comes to the door and flings it open.