Milk Glass Moon (19 page)

“Stefano? Is that you?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“What is going on here?” I sound like everyone’s mother now, including Iva Lou’s.

“We went to the disco up there!” Iva Lou points to the hill above us and attempts to do a couple of dance moves that look slightly dangerous. Jack stops her before she topples over.

“And had bell-eeeeee-knees.” Etta throws her head back and laughs. My daughter is dead drunk.

“Get in the house,” I say sternly; even in her inebriated state, Etta can tell I mean business. “Now.”

Jack helps Etta and Iva Lou into the house. Chiara, also tipsy, follows. “You stay here tonight, Chiara,” I tell her.

“Va bene,”
she says. Evidently, she loses her ability to speak English when she’s wasted.

“Bye-bye, Stefano!” The trio of lushes waves good night to him as Jack pushes them through the door.

“Are you drunk too?” I turn and face Stefano.

“No.”

“How could you let this happen?”

“I didn’t think—”

“No, you didn’t think. Etta is only fifteen years old.”

“I know how old she is, Mrs. Mac,” he says evenly.

“Then you know that she’s too young to be at a club drinking.”

“I understand.” He turns to get into his car. “I’m sorry.”

Iva Lou is snoring by the time I check on her. Chiara is facedown and sound asleep on the trundle in Etta’s room. Etta is throwing up in the bathroom, and I decide it’s better for her long-term health to let her father hold her head while she hurls, as I might kill her.

“She washed her face and got into bed,” Jack reports when he comes to our room.

“Do you believe this?”

“She’s a teenager.”

“Jack, she was drinking!”

“We let her drink wine on this trip.”

“This is different. This is going-out-partying drinking!”

“We’re on vacation.”

“That is no excuse.”

“Iva Lou was a wreck too.”

“Iva Lou can get drunk. She’s over twenty . . .
fifty
-one!” I bellow.

“What happened to Stefano?”

“He went home. I yelled at him.”

“Iva Lou gave me the whole story before she passed out.”

“Didn’t you see how he looked at Etta down in Bergamo? She’s a pretty young thing, and he’s Italian and he was giving her That Look. I don’t like it.”

“Honey, I think we’ll all be better off if we don’t make a big deal out of it. Okay?”

“She should be punished!”

“And ruin the vacation?” Jack says sensibly.

“Here we go again. Mr. Loose, Mr. Let Her Do What She Wants, thinks all of this is just fine, a natural part of growing up. ‘Go on back to the still and git you some hooch!’ Well, I don’t go for it. I never came home drunk, and I don’t want a daughter who is underage and drinks. Call me a fanatic, call me too strict, I don’t like it!”

“Ave, I can’t do this tonight. I’m beat. Can we table this till the morning?” Jack sounds genuinely weary. Besides, I don’t want my yelling to wake Nonna, Papa, and Giacomina, so I let it go for now.

This is a recurring pattern, I think, as I lie down in bed with my husband: he goes right off to sleep, and I spend my time stewing. There is a pattern with Etta too. We have a coast period when we get along great and she follows the rules, and then suddenly, she does something completely out of character and ruins whatever good behavior points she has built up. I am speaking of her as a prisoner, and I know it. I’m not proud of that. But I don’t know how else to mother her. When I’m lenient, she takes advantage, and when I press the discipline, she sulks. She knows she is not to drink, and she knows that wine with dinner is not the same thing as champagne cocktails while partying. No, she figured we wouldn’t be back tonight, and she was going to test the rules. And what a chaperone Iva Lou turned out to be. What was she thinking?

Jack, Giacomina, Papa, and I are the only ones at breakfast. Not much is said as Papa reads the paper, and the cuckoo clock behind him ticks loudly. Jack and I drink our caffe lattes and Giacomina fills the sugar bowl. We look at one another when we hear the Less Than Holy Trinity come down the stairs.

“Keep your cool,” Jack says to me quietly.

Iva Lou, in sunglasses, Chiara, looking far younger than eighteen with her disco war paint washed off, and Etta, still a bit green, sit down quietly at the table.

“Well, y’all look like a pack of river rats,” Jack says as he surveys the damage of the night before.

“Don’t rub it in,” Iva Lou says.

I can contain myself no longer. “What happened last night?” Giacomina offers the girls bread, and in unison they slowly shake their heads. Instead of the usual large mugs of steaming milk, Giacomina serves them espresso, black, in tiny cups (good hangover cure).

“We was dancin’ at the club. And we all started with OJ and ice. Right, girls?” They nod in agreement. “And then we thought we’d try the bitters, ’cause I ain’t never had bitters. So we chugged them back. And then there were these broad-shouldered alpine hunks at the next table, and they bought us a round of drinks. Now, Stefano put out a warning that maybe we shouldn’t take the offer, but I figgered why not. So you see, all of this is my fault.” Iva Lou adjusts her sunglasses and continues, “Well, I tasted the bellini first, and it was delicious. I told Etta she could have a sip. And the rest is, well, the rest is a hangover.”

“Etta?” I look at my daughter, who looks contrite, but that could be due to the fact that she’s on the verge of vomiting.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly.

Jack nudges me under the table.

“Apology accepted,” I say in a tone that implies it’s not. “Let’s not ruin the rest of our trip.”

The remainder of our vacation goes smoothly (Iva Lou became a teetotaler after Bellini Night). We make our way through the Milan airport, hauling more bags than we brought (boy, did we shop). When we reach the gate, Etta asks if she can go and buy magazines. There’s a bit of a line to check in, so I let her.

“Mrs. Mac?” I hear from behind me.

“Stefano! What are you doing here?” Jack and Iva Lou greet him.

“I wanted to apologize again for the disco,” he begins.

“It’s all been settled,” Jack tells him politely.

Stefano looks around; he must be wondering where Etta is. “Etta went for magazines,” I tell him.

“Could you give her this for me?” He gives me a small parcel.

“What is it?”

“A lens for her telescope. This one is high-definition.”

“I’m sure she’ll love it. Thank you.”

Etta rejoins us in the line and lights up to see Stefano.

“Stefano brought you a present,” Iva Lou announces.

Etta rips into the package and pulls out a small lens. “Thank you.” She looks up at Stefano, and there’s that heat again. “I can’t wait to try it out!” I thank God when they announce that it is time to board. Jack looks relieved too. Maybe now he sees what I see.

“Good-bye, Stefano.” I give him a hug, and Iva Lou and Jack Mac say their farewells. The three of us turn away, though I nudge Iva Lou to keep watching. She leans down to pick up one of her carry-ons and whispers, “Kiss on the cheek. That’s all.”

Iva Lou eats everything the flight attendants offer on the trip home, including the mixed nuts (hers and mine). “I was too excited on the way over,” she says, apologizing.

“No, no, eat.”

“It-lee triggered my appetite. For food. For shoes. For jewelry. And Lyle Makin better watch it. My sex drive increased in the land of love.”

“I’m sure he’ll be thrilled about that. And, of course, the crocodile loafers you bought him.”

Jack Mac stands and stretches in the aisle. He is sitting with Etta, who is reading a novel in Italian. Jack motions for me to meet him in the back of the plane, and when I do, he says, “Okay, she’s suffered enough.”

“Jack, I am not torturing her.”

“You’ve hardly talked to her since the incident.”

“I have a problem with teenage drinking, okay?”

“Ave, it wasn’t a typical thing. She’s on vacation in a foreign country, with
your
girlfriend, her cousin, and a young man I respect. It got out of hand, she told you how. She drank bellinis and—”

“I’m not interested in the ‘how’ of all of this. I only know that she got drunk. If we act like it’s okay, you’re going to find her on High Knob with the Alsup brothers drinking Night Train.”

Jack laughs.

“I don’t think it’s funny.”

“You know what? I am sick and tired of being the referee in my own family. You put me in the middle, and I don’t want to be there. You work it out with your daughter however you want to. I’m out of it.” Jack turns to walk up the aisle.

“I’ll talk to her,” I say.

“Good. I told Iva Lou I’d help her with her customs form, anyway.”

We go back up the aisle and Jack sits with Iva Lou, while I take his seat next to Etta.

“Etta?”

“Yeah?” She answers without taking her eyes off the book.

“I’d like to talk to you.”

“I really don’t want to talk right now.”

I look over at Jack, who is chatting with Iva Lou. He completely set me up. Etta is furious at
me,
probably more angry than I am at
her.

“I don’t want to end our vacation not speaking to each other.”

“Too late for that.”

“Wait a second. You’re the fifteen-year-old who came home drunk.”

“How many times a day are you going to remind me how old I am or that I drank too much at that stupid disco?”

“Till it sinks in that you’re not twenty-one.”

“I’m well aware that I’m your prisoner till I go to college.”

“I resent that.”

“I resent that you treat me like I’m a kid.”

“You
are
a kid. You’re my kid. And I don’t want a daughter who drinks when she’s underage.”

“You’re forever judging people.” Etta turns and looks out the window.

“If you mean you, yes, I am judging you. That’s my job. I don’t like to be your warden. But you scared me. You did something that makes me think you don’t understand the consequences of your behavior.”

“You’re old-fashioned. You don’t get it.”

She’s got me there. I am old-fashioned (emphasis on the “old”). Most of the kids her age have mothers in their early thirties. I have two decades on them, so I am coming at things from a different perspective. And I know I’m alienating my daughter. She’s not really
bad.
She’s no Pavis Mullins, who spent more time in the county jail than he did in his mother’s house. Why do I treat her this way? Why do I treat her like Fred Mulligan treated me? The thought of this makes me cry.

“Ma, please.”

“Oh, Etta.”

“What?”

“You have to try and understand: part of my nature is that I try too hard. I’m afraid for you. And I express myself in ways that hurt you, and I don’t mean to do that. You’re plenty mature. Usually you do just great with everything. But it seems like whenever we have a good run for a while, something like this happens and ruins it.”

“Was your mother like this?”

“My father.”

“Grandpa?”

“Fred.”

I haven’t told her much about Fred Mulligan. I felt I resolved almost all of that, but I can see by my actions that I haven’t, really. On some level, the man I first knew as my father was a consistent parent. He controlled me, and I behaved. I hadn’t realized that I have subconsciously taken that path with my own daughter because I know it works.

“You have a great future ahead of you. I don’t want you to compromise that with some dumb choice, like drinking, that you’d look back on and regret. That’s all.”

“I’ve told you I’m sorry. I meant it, Mom.”

“I believe you.”

“You’re mad at me all the time.”

“I don’t like being mad at you.”

Etta goes back to her book. I should feel that our situation is better. She has promised not to drink again, but I can’t promise I will ever be the mother she might wish I were. Jack looks over at me. Iva Lou had plenty to declare, but they’ve run out of things to do. I motion that he can come back to his seat. He looks at me as if to ask,
How did it go?
I give him a peppy thumbs-up. But I feel far from a thumbs-up. I wonder how I’m going to get through the next three years. And then there’s four years of college, worrying about Etta from afar. This motherhood thing just doesn’t get any easier.

CHAPTER NINE

The timing of the United Methodist Church’s “First Call for Fall” Covered Dish Supper is coming on a good night. Our vacation photos are back from Kingsport and everybody in town wants to see them, so I figure I’ll just haul a bagful over to the church basement and form an assembly line.

Fleeta has whipped up five pounds of Swedish meatballs in a jumbo baking pan, which will be our contribution (that and a case of Coca-Cola, which is standard to-bring fare at a potluck when you come in a party of three or more).

“Hi, Mom.” Etta and Tara come into the Pharmacy. Etta shows me a pack of gum from the display case and tears into it, handing Tara a piece. “Hi, Mrs. MacChesney.”

“You girls look great. What’s going on?”

“I got a perm.” Tara twirls to show me her curly hair. “Ethel Bartee said you’re only supposed to git one perm every six to eight months, but mine fell out, so she bent her rule and give me another one.”

“Thank God. We can’t have our lead flag girl with a flat head of hair.”

“That’s what I told her,” Tara says soberly.

“Is Dad going to the church supper?” Etta asks.

“He’s meeting us there.”

“Can Trevor come with us?” Tara asks softly.

“Cute Trevor or Medium-Cute Trevor?”

“Ma,” Etta says in a tone that means I’ve said something wrong. As a mother, I make it a general rule to remember only the things that embarrass my daughter and then, of course, to say that exact embarrassing thing in front of her friends.

“Oh, he’s the cute one,” Tara informs me.

“Then he can come. Aunt Fleeta made plenty of food, so we haven’t hit our head-count limit yet.”

The Methodist Sewing Circle has decorated the church basement with fall leaves made of construction paper and glitter. The main table has been set with a white tablecloth trimmed in twisted orange crepe paper.

“From Fleeta,” I tell Betty Cline as I hand her the enormous tray.

“Good. We’re short on meat,” Betty says as she takes it. Then she lowers her voice. “If you’re a deviled-egg fan, you better make haste to the Apper-tiff Table. I already caught Lottie Witt stuffing a few in her purse. They’s almost gone.”

“I’ll get on it,” I tell her.

It’s so much fun to see everyone after the long summer. Nellie Goodloe has her first tan, compliments of a trip with her grandkids to Myrtle Beach. Kate Benton, the band director, has a beau in tow, a transplant out of Norton named Glenn who sells mining equipment. Iva Lou is entertaining the Dogwood Garden Club with stories of the natural wonders she observed in Italy (not many plants, mostly men).

“Father Rodriguez! Did the Methodists invite you?” I ask.

“Catholics have to eat too. How was your trip?”

“Great. I brought lots of rosaries back for you to bless, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m happy to do it,” Father Rodriguez tells me.

I smell a cigarette, so I turn to look. In the corner, Spec is having a smoke by one of the basement windows, ashing out into the drainage area. “Spec!”

“I wondered how long it would take you to say hello.”

“The place is packed.”

“I know.” Spec smiles. “Sorry I had to send Otto and Worley to pick you up at the airport, but we had our all-county Rescue Squad picnic at the Natural Bridge, and I couldn’t get out of it.”

“No problem.”

“What did you bring me from It-lee?”

“Gina Lollobrigida wouldn’t fit in the suitcase.”

“Damn.” Spec laughs so hard, it turns into a cough. I pat him on the back.

“So I brought you a tie and handkerchief set. Silk.”

Spec whistles long and low. “You didn’t have to do that.”

I feel a tugging at my pant leg; it’s little India Bakagese. She looks up at me with her huge brown eyes. I lean over and scoop her up.

“God, she’s gorgeous, she’s gotten so big,” I tell Pearl.

“I know. She’s already two and a half. Welcome home.”

Fleeta, still wearing her Mutual Pharmacy smock, interrupts us. “Y’all took off without the serving utensils,” she says, waving three large slotted serving spoons.

“Sorry.”

“Use your heads, people. Vacation time is over. We all need to git back in the groove. Looky there. They let the Tuckett sisters out of Heritage Hall Nursing Home for the night. I’ll be damned.”

The Tuckett twins, wearing matching housedresses in a loud iris print, occupy side-by-side wheelchairs at the head of one of the picnic tables. Nellie Goodloe sits on the bench conversing with them.

“See how they tell ’em apart? The slippers. Edna’s in the white scuffs, and Ledna’s in the blue.” Fleeta waves us off with the spoons and goes to the serving table.

“Ave, can I stop by later?” Pearl asks.

“Sure. You guys did a great job while I was gone. You really kept up with the prescriptions.”

“Had to. We have to compete with twenty-four-hour chains. Can’t let any grass grow under our feet.” Pearl looks off into the distance.

“Are you okay?” I ask her.

“Why?”

“You seem upset about something. What is it?”

“Well, I do have news.”

“I hope it’s good news.”

“It is. But it’s also big. It would mean big changes.”

“How so?”

“I was gonna wait till later to talk about this. But you know me, I can’t keep anything from you.”

I smile. It’s true, Pearl has confided in me ever since she was a girl. In many ways, our relationship reminds me of the one I had with my mother.

“Taye got offered a job at the Boston Medical Center.”

“Boston, Massachusetts?”

She nods. “He wants to take it. But it means that we would move with him. India and me, that is.”

“Of course. You have to be with your husband.” My mind races. This town without Pearl? This pharmacy? How would we do it? She is the passion behind the growth, she is the visionary. How would I manage without her? “But I’m worried about the business,” Pearl says plainly. “I told you about selling the Lee County branch, well, it’s a lot harder to do than I thought. There aren’t any buyers for our kind of operation, and if I have to move soon, I can’t really do a statewide search for partners.”

“So you want to sell the business? All three pharmacies?”

“The problem is, I can’t sell them even if I wanted to. I’ve been to the banks, and they said that Big Stone Gap is essentially a bedroom community now. Most of the young people commute to Kingsport to work. We haven’t had any new industry move in, except for the wildcat coal operations, and you know how folks feel about them.”

“I do.”

“I wouldn’t do anything without asking you.”

“Pearl, you’re the president. You’re in charge. I’m just your partner on the Big Stone Mutual.”

“I know. But there isn’t anyone else I trust to oversee the three operations. I can sign this pharmacy over to you, but that’s a full-time headache. The three branches are really interdependent. I’ve set it up so that costs are spread over all three. They work together, in a way.”

“How can I help?”

“Lew Eisenberg seems to think I should put the company in trust and have you as the guardian. That way, the places could function until we find a buyer. I can’t be in two places at once. When we move, I have to devote myself to something new in Boston.”

“I understand.”

“I’ve been agonizing about this.” Pearl’s eyes fill with tears. “I’ve been struggling to figure out what to do.”

“Honey, when I gave you this place sixteen years ago, I did it without strings. There still are no strings. We’ll find a way to keep the places open until we find a buyer, and if we don’t find one, we’ll figure out how to proceed.”

“Hello, gorgeous.” My husband interrupts us, giving me a kiss. “You two look serious. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” we say in unison.

I give Jack a look that tells him I will explain later. Reverend Manning calls us to stand as he blesses the food. I take Pearl’s hand and hold it firmly. I don’t want her to worry. We’ve been in this position before, and we made it through, and we’ll make it work again.

Jack helps me fold down the quilt on our bed. I open the windows a bit to let the fresh air in, all the while filling Jack in on Pearl’s plans.

“Pearl in Boston?” he wonders aloud.

“It’s a great opportunity for them.”

“Big change.”

“She can handle it.”

“Do you ever want to move?” Jack looks out the window.

“Are you serious?” I go to him and put my arms around him.

“Don’t you ever want to try someplace new?”

“And do what, open a restaurant?” Why do I always say the first thing off the top of my head? Jack winces and sits in the easy chair.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him sincerely.

“I’m getting tired of construction.”

“I know.” Before our vacation, I noticed that Jack had grown weary of the late-night phone calls, the haggling over bids, and the long hours. Rick, Mousey, and Jack have kept their operation small (the only way to make money), but it has taken a toll on them, since they do the primary labor. I tell him gently, “Honey, I want you to be happy. But we have Etta going to college, and with the Pharmacy in flux financially, I think we should stay the course for a while, if you can stand it. We need your income.”

He nods and knows this is true. “But don’t you ever just want to shake things up?”

I look at Jack and want to say sure, I love to shake things up. But truthfully, I don’t. I like to have a plan that goes off without a hitch. I like knowing that Etta’s schedule is consistent, that we do the little things that add up to a strong family life, things like eating dinner together every night. I know I’m set in my ways, but I don’t know how else to do it. “Do
you
want to shake things up?”

“I do.”

“How would you do that?”

“Move.”

“Where?” Why am I asking? Why would I care? I used to dream of picking up and moving. Why does the idea of it scare me now?

“I don’t know. Charlottesville. Kingsport.”

I make a face.

“Tuscany.” Jack smiles.

“Tuscany!”

“Giuseppe said he could use a man like me in his operation.”

“Giuseppe? The Olive Oil King? Really?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you say?”

“I said I’d think about it.” Jack looks at me. “Life is going by so fast. I want to take some chances. I hope you do too.”

We lie down in bed. I’m so surprised, I can’t think of anything to say. Maybe I discourage Jack from dreaming big because I’m always worried about practical things, but I’ve never pegged him to be an adventurer. He always seemed happy here, living in the house where he was born, in the mountains he grew up around, with me, a girl he loved all his life and finally married. What more is there? Evidently, a lot.

The phone rings.

“It’s probably for Etta,” I say as I reach for it.

“It’s always for Etta,” Jack replies.

“Hello?”

The caller speaks so softly, I can barely hear her. She asks for me.

“This is Ave Maria.”

“This is Leola Broadwater.” Leola is Spec’s wife. I wondered why she didn’t come to the Covered Dish Supper.

“Leola, are you all right?”

“No. It’s Spec. He’s had another heart attack. Worse than the one he had in Florida.”

“Florida?” I can’t believe Spec lied to me. I sit down as my heart begins to pound. “Where is he?”

“He’s in the ICU up at Saint Agnes. He’s asked for you. I think you ought might hurry,” she says, and then she starts to sob.

“He was fine at the supper tonight!” I tell her, trying to be upbeat. “He looked great.”

“Oh, Ave,” Leola cries.

“I’m on my way.”

Jack wants to drive me, but I tell him I don’t want him to wake Etta or to leave her alone. The truth is, I need to be alone. It’s strange, but I have to sort out things like this for myself. Jack understands this about me and doesn’t give me an argument. I promise him that I will call once I’m at the hospital.

As I walk to my Jeep, I look down and realize I have two different loafers on. I wipe the dew off the windshield with my sleeve, feeling an odd sense of familiarity that keeps me from crying. This night reminds me of the times I joined Spec on emergency calls at all hours with the Rescue Squad. I never thought I’d be making an emergency run on his behalf.

The night receptionist at the hospital knows me. By day, she works as a clerk at the Norton Mutual’s. She waves me in, and I take the short hallway to the ICU. Leola stands beside Spec’s bed, and surrounding him are his five children. His son Clay cannot stop crying. I grab Dr. Stemple as she exits the ICU and introduce myself.

“He was asking for you,” she says, looking back at Spec through the small viewing window.

“How is he?”

“You know he has a bad heart. He had a bypass a few years ago, but it’s not the arteries that are failing him now, it’s the actual heart muscle.”

“Is he going to make it?” She does not answer me, and I already know the answer. “Was he at home?”

“No, he was at work. He had some mechanic working on the fire truck or something and was staying to oversee the job, and then he collapsed. The mechanic drove him here.”

“Is he conscious?”

“Yes ma’am.”

A nurse summons Dr. Stemple, and she hurries off. For a moment, I stand and look at Spec and his family. I refuse to let this man go. It’s too soon.

I push back through the doors and go to Leola. I put my hands gently on her shoulders. She does not turn to look at me. She just places her hand on mine and continues to watch Spec, who is on oxygen and, as the doctor said, wide awake.

“Was it the Swedish meatballs, Spec?”

He smiles as I take his hand.

“Doc said you were gonna be fine.”

Spec rolls his eyes. I should know better than to bluff a trained emergency technician.

“Let’s give Pap some privacy,” Clay tells the rest of the family.

Spec lifts the oxygen mask off of his face. “Git Ma some coffee,” he tells the kids. Leola kisses him on the cheek, then moves to the doors, sheltered by her children.

“I’ll be right back, you old mud turtle,” Leola promises from the door.

“Mud turtle. Now, there’s a sexy picture for you,” I say.