Big Cherry Holler (11 page)

Theodore’s guest room is simple and comfortable. There is an old, rich chocolate-colored four-poster bed, a matching dresser, and a small Tiffany-style lamp. There’s a luggage rack for my duffel bag and a full-length mirror behind the door. The walls, the linens, the rug—everything is white. I pull back the coverlet and climb under the cool sheets. This is the first time I have been alone in a bed since I married Jack MacChesney. I’ve never gone anywhere without him in all this time, nor he without me. I wonder if he is thinking the same thing at home in our bed. I stretch my arms from edge to edge in the double bed and my feet as far apart as they can go. I stay in this snow-angel position until sleep comes.

Big Orange does not begin to describe the University of Tennessee Football Experience. It should be called All Orange, All the Time. Thousands of fans descend upon Knoxville wearing the theme color, and many of them have painted all exposed skin to match; their devotion seems to begin on a cellular level. I have never seen such football mania (and I went to Saint Mary’s College in South Bend, Indiana!). Painted people aside, Knoxville is a genteel Southern city famous for its Dogwood Festival and debutantes. You get a sense of times gone by when you walk the streets here.

Once I’m at the stadium, I weave my way through the tailgate parties (a man is actually roasting chicken on a spit in the back of his station wagon). Theodore let me sleep late and left without me. He meets me at the staff entrance and takes me up one of the aerial booths where the football staff films the games. This is also Theodore’s
perch, where he can watch the 125 brilliant musicians who make up the UT Marching Band. “Theodore, remember the county band competitions?”

“Yeah. We always beat Appalachia’s Tricky Sixty,” Theodore remembers.

“Enrollment took a dive since you left. Now they’re called the Dirty Thirty.”

Theodore laughs. I can’t believe he’s gone from the Wise County band competition to national television in less than ten years.

We barely watch the first half of the game as Theodore checks via headsets with the camera crews who are set to record the halftime show. He is a celebrity and honored auteur here—people stop him and ask for his autograph—because he delivers. Theodore, however, takes it all in stride; he knows his popularity rises and falls along with the success of the football team: no sense having a winning band with a losing team.

When the band takes the field at halftime, the crowd goes wild. If you could tap the energy in this stadium right now, you could win a war or move a pyramid. Theodore plays right into the razzle-dazzle. The majorettes are glorious, magazine-cover gorgeous: the whole weekend is an homage to youth, powerhouse athletics, and white-toothed sex appeal.

Theodore’s shows are more technical, more complex, than they were back in Big Stone Gap. Of course, this is another level entirely. But it is a wonder to see how Theodore has grown with the challenge of college football, most of it nationally televised. He has assumed the mantle with little fuss. He has Elizabeth Taylor to thank for this opportunity, and he knows it. If it weren’t for her fateful visit to Big Stone Gap, Theodore never would have been discovered.

As the band takes the field, Theodore is calm and focused. A row of small television monitors on the desk in front of us all record several angles of the performance at once. Theodore takes some notes, occasionally
curses, sometimes smiles. I don’t know how he keeps what he’s watching straight. All I know is, when I look out of this glassy cube in the sky down onto the bright green field filled from end to end with crisp orange and white figures moving as smoothly as the intricate inner workings of a Swiss watch, I would be hard-pressed to find a mistake. I see only an astounding sculpture in motion, and the crowd agrees, thousands of them on their feet, feasting at the sight and sound of this display.

“Pretty good,” Theodore says as the band marches off the field. “Let’s go.”

We leave the booth and head down what seems to be secret stairs into the belly of the stadium. We come out into daylight on the ground level of the field; the plastic passes hanging around our necks on chains give us immediate access everywhere. Security guards nod respectfully at Theodore; VIPs lean over the side of their boxes and yell, “Good show! You’re the man!” Theodore takes my hand and leads me up a tiny set of stairs to the base of the band box. I look up, and as far as my eyes can see, this orange and white checkerboard reaches to the top of the sky. The band major and Theodore huddle, and the band members watch with interest. Then the captain blows his whistle, and they launch into “The Tennessee Waltz.” The crowd goes wild. Theodore looks all around the stadium slowly, and for a moment, backlit by the orange and white musicians, with a breeze blowing through his hair, he is just a little bit Greek god, but surely all artist. He takes me in his arms and we spin to the music.

We have a lazy Sunday, and too soon it is time for me to get on the bus and head for home. I have an extra duffel bag full of UT paraphernalia and stuff Theodore bought for Etta—puzzles and games and an origami kit. Etta knows about international crafts because of Theodore. He is far from an absentee honorary uncle.

“I want you to remain calm,” Theodore tells me as he hugs me good-bye.

“Promise you’ll come for Christmas,” I tell him, not letting go until he promises.

“I will be there. I’ll bring the eggnog.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

I climb onto the bus and sit in my usual seat, right behind the driver. Theodore circles around and taps on the window. I use both hands to slide my window back.

“You’re not old. You’re beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I tell him, meaning it, restored after a great weekend. I’m not crazy, I’m okay. I’m just human. I get scared, and I can be comforted. That’s the miracle of Theodore Tipton. He makes it all better.

As the bus pulls away, I’m not sad. Christmas is just a few weeks away. I want to go home. I miss Etta terribly. And being away from Jack, even with all of our problems, made me long for him. I haven’t kissed him like I meant it in a long time. I will, though, as soon as I see him. I can’t wait.

As the bus makes its descent into Big Stone Gap through the Wildcat, I am filled with anticipation. The apricot sun fades behind the blue mountains in twilight. The trunks of the trees, knotty and twisting toward the sky, wet with rain, look like they’re embroidered in shiny black pearls. They make a fence down either side of the road; I feel protected, but I can see the mountains beyond spilling away in layers down the sides like cake batter. There is an awesome beauty to the Appalachian Trail, where the Blue Ridge meets Tennessee. Soon I will be inside the mountain again, inside the Gap, home.

Jack is waiting for me at the bus station. I am sitting on the edge of my seat like a kid, full of stories to tell. I want to tell Jack everything. I want to tell him how I went away so afraid and how I’ve come home
full of hope again. I wave to him from the window, and he waves back. Etta isn’t with him; how romantic! I stand with my bag before the bus can make a full stop. The driver’s flinty brown eyes narrow in annoyance, and I lurch forward when he brakes. I thank him as I charge down the steps toward my husband. I throw myself into his arms and cover his sweet face in kisses. He accepts the kisses but doesn’t kiss me back.

“What’s wrong?” I ask him.

“Did you have a nice weekend?” he asks me without emotion.

“It was great. Is something wrong with Etta?” Now I’m worried. Why is he acting so strange?

“Etta is fine. She had a good time at the play,” he tells me, taking my bag.

“Musical.”

“Musical. Play. What’s the goddamned difference?”

“Why are you yelling at me?” I’m yelling at him.

“It’s all over town that Pearl made you her partner.”

“What?” For a moment, I forget time and place. I was so happy to come home, I forgot all about last Friday, all about the deal and the papers.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Wait a second. I was going to tell you Friday night, but you had my trip planned. There wasn’t time.”

“You could’ve told me before you left. There is no excuse for this. None.”

“Jack. This is ridiculous.”

“You know, the things you think are ridiculous, I think are important. That, right there, is the problem with us.” Jack throws my duffel bag in the back of the truck. If I weren’t so angry, I’d be laughing. The word “problem”—that’s my word, he never used that before. Men don’t use that word about their relationships, they use it for cars that won’t start or appliances that break down.

“Don’t throw my things!” I holler, sounding about five years old.

“Get in the truck.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!”

“I’d like to find the person who tells you what to do and you do it. I’d like to meet him and shake his hand.”

“What’s the matter with you? I can’t do anything right. I only agreed to partner with Pearl so you could be free to go off and be a construction worker, own your own business. I thought if I could take some of the burden off of you financially, you would be free to pursue your dream.”

“You kill me.”

“What?”

“Since when do you care about my dreams?”

I don’t say a word. I get in the truck. He jumps into his seat and faces me. “You don’t think I can take care of us. You don’t believe I can make a go of the business, so you go behind my back and cut a deal so you’d feel secure.”

“That is not true! I am not thinking about me. I’m thinking of Etta. Okay? If that makes me a bad person, then I’m a bad person!”

“You don’t trust me. If you trusted me, you would have come home and discussed it with me. And we would have made a decision together. One that was best for our family. Instead, I hear about it all over town. Folks think it’s pretty funny that I need a woman to take care of me, so I can have a hobby as a fix-it man.” Jack leans back in the seat, defeated. I can’t bear to see him own this like it’s true.

“I never said you were a fix-it man. Who cares what people think anyway?”

Jack doesn’t answer me; he just starts the truck and drives fast, back up into the holler. He pulls up next to the house. I jump out of the truck and pull my duffel bag out of the bed. I don’t look back. I climb the steps, and Etta meets me at the door. She is happy and shows me the program from
Fiddler on the Roof
. I hear the gravel spit out under the tires as the truck bounces back down the mountain.

“Where’s Daddy going?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is he mad?”

“I think so.”

“Did I do something?” Etta’s brow wrinkles with worry.

“No, you didn’t. Daddy is under a lot of pressure. That’s all.”

I divert her attention with all the goodies from Uncle Theodore. Etta pulls apart the origami kit. We sit on the floor and make shapes with the delicate rice paper. I have to use both of my hands to hold the directions, I am shaking so. The rice paper is so thin, so delicate, I’m afraid I’ll tear it. “Here, Mommy, let me.” Etta takes the paper and lays them out on the floor in front of us.

I give Etta a snack and tuck her into bed. I check the clock; it’s almost nine, and Jack is still not home. I made up an excuse for Etta, but the kid is smart. She knows. I switch on the nightlight in the hallway and turn to go downstairs, but instead, I go into Joe’s old bedroom. We converted it into a playroom for Etta a couple of years ago. I turned his twin bed into a daybed, with a red corduroy cover; now it looks more like a couch. Etta has set up a blackboard and chairs. I go over to the daybed and lie down.

For the first few months after Joe died, I would go to bed with my husband, wait until he was asleep, and then get up. I’d wander through the house, then eventually I’d come up here to Joe’s room and lie on his bed. It was the only place in the house where I could find rest. I tried the sun porch and the living room couch, but I never slept. Once I knew that I could fall asleep in Joe’s room, I came here every night.

I never told Jack why I came up here. Any discussions of Joe’s death were just too painful. And I couldn’t tell him about The Dream, the real reason I came up here each night. I could hardly wait for night to come so I could have The Dream, the same dream, night after comforting night. Joe and I would run through the house. And we would laugh and laugh. The laughter was so real. It sounded like him, and
it sounded like me. And then, as we were getting pains in our stomachs from laughing so hard, the roof tore cleanly away from the house, leaving no jagged edges, as though it were the lid of a pot being lifted off. Then the sky above our house filled with fantastic colors, usually shades of rose and deep blue that striated and glistened and moved like iridescent folds of oil in water. And then Joe opened his arms … it was always the same … he’d look at me and smile and say, “I love to fly!” And he would lift off the petit-point rug in the living room and ascend up and out of the house and into the swirl of fantastic color overhead. And he would fly around in it. I would try really hard to fly so I could join him, but I couldn’t get off the ground. It was like my limbs had turned to stone. I would call to Joe but he had flown away. Sometimes in the distance, I heard his voice. And then the sky became a blueprint, the colors fading away like pencil lines, and it turned a flat blue like construction paper, with no movement and no depth, just a flat color, and I’d keep trying to fly, but no matter what I did, I couldn’t get off the ground. I even climbed the walls of the house, but I kept sliding back down onto the floor. And I kept climbing and then I’d slide. And I’d wake up exhausted, but I didn’t care. I was happy, because all night I had been with Joe, and it felt real. And it was, for the most part, a happy dream; he never cried or took a needle or slept. He was all mine, and we were together, mother and son, even though the background was skewed and strange; we were together.

“Ave?” The sound of Jack’s voice startles me.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” He sits down on the toy chest. He folds his hands and looks at them.

I know my husband. He’ll just sit there and look at me until I say something. Why is it always the woman’s job to pull the information from the man? Why can’t he tell me what he’s feeling? That’s just the way it is, and I’m certainly not going to try to change this worldwide
dynamic tonight. So I take a deep breath and look at him. “Where’d you go?”