Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [103]
“She’s dying.”
Fleeta, Iva Lou, and Pearl sit with this new information for a moment.
“Better send Reverend Bowers over there so she can repent, or she’ll be frying like hot lard in the outskirts of hell,” Fleeta says as she brushes potato-chip crumbs off of her smock. “I only say send him ’cause he’s known to make house calls.”
“Fleeta, make her some fudge. And Iva Lou, she needs some books to read.”
“I don’t believe my ears,” Iva Lou exclaims.
“Me neither.” Fleeta shakes her head.
“Find out what medicine she needs and give it to her for free,” Pearl says quietly.
“I hope that when I’m sick and distended and bloated and full of the cancer, you send me some medicine for free. I work in this joint, and all I ever git is a ten percent discount.” Fleeta ashes her cigarette into the sink.
“And all the Estée Lauder you can poach.” Pearl winks at her.
Etta is in full swing with her schoolwork and her new social life, which includes gathering her girlfriends together to paint their nails and make crank calls to boys. It’s very annoying, but I try to be patient. I remind myself that this is just another phase of child rearing, no different from dealing with teething or mouth breathing. The entry into the Boy Years sure can get loud.
Jack comes home from work in a great mood.
“Let’s go to the Fold tonight,” he suggests.
“I can’t. I have the Lip Gloss Girls in there for a slumber party.”
“Is Fleeta around?” Jack asks.
“I hate to ask her again.”
“She loves Etta.” Jack picks me up and spins me around.
“Is that your hand on my ass?” I ask my husband.
“I think so. And I hate to tell you, but that situation is only gonna get worse.” He kisses me.
“Okay, okay. I’ll call Fleeta.”
I call Fleeta. Of course, she complains a little, she wants to see a story on 20/20 about granny dumping, but I promise her we get better cable reception up here in the holler.
So she comes.
The Carter Family Fold is overflowing with folks. It’s just the right time of year to gather up in the Carter family’s barn and listen to music and dance. Jack wanted to come because he heard on the job that one of the Stanley Brothers was showing up. And indeed he did, so the music is glorious. I never heard such fine fiddling. We dance so much and so hard, my denim shirt is soaked.
Lew Eisenberg has turned out to be the best clogger in Southwest Virginia. He shows me a two-step that reminds him of the hora he did at his bar mitzvah many years ago. We have a good laugh over that one.
“Honey, you need to towel off,” Iva Lou says to me as I collapse on the bleachers.
“I’m having a ball,” I tell her.
“How’s it going with your husband?”
“Very well, thank you. It’s good to have him back.”
“Are you kidding? It’s great. It’s the best of all things. It’s the triumph of true love over base lust. It’s a story of forgiveness and redemption, honey. You want me to go on?”
“No.”
“Then I won’t. I’m doin’ my own brand of celebratin’ tonight. Lyle stopped drinkin’ again and we are flush solid, honey.”
“Good for him and good for you.”
“Maybe there is something to astrology. You know, maybe the planets do line up and everybody has good vibes at the same time.”
“That’s totally possible.”
The Methodist Sewing Circle is gathered by the door, chatting furiously.
“Jesus Christmas, what has got them so agitated?” Iva Lou wonders.
“Somebody probably came up with a better apple-butter recipe.”
The Sewing Circle stops chattering. Their little circle widens and fans out.
“Or not,” Iva Lou says in a tone that forces me to look up. “Oh my,” she says quietly.
Karen Bell stands in the doorway wearing black leather pants, a white blouse, a chain belt, and a white cowboy hat cocked on the back of her head. She rolls her pink lips together as though she’s trying to bite off a bit of chapped lip. She looks worried, and the groove between her eyes is deep. Of course she’s worried. I’m here, aren’t I? I look around the room for my husband; he’s not here, but he said he was going for a chili dog. I wonder if she’s looking for him. I can see from one look at the Methodist Sewing