Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [106]
“I didn’t know that.”
“You wouldn’t. He was born right around the time you was. I never got over it. Some folks think it turned me bitter. I don’t know about that.”
“Aunt Alice, will you do me a favor?”
She nods.
“When you get there, will you—could you—look out for my Joe?”
“Yes ma’am, I will.”
I hear the screen door slam. Doc Daugherty must be here. I kiss Alice on the forehead. What happens next is all a haze; Doc comes in with Bobby; and Spec takes his place by the door. I feel myself leave my body as I watch this scene with me in it. And I see something that I could not have known before this moment; I watch Alice let go. She lets go of her life, of her problems, her pain, and her secrets. A burden lifts off of her as she lays dying. A smile crosses her face, one of peace and duly earned solitude.
In her final moments, her thoughts were of her sons, Bobby and Calvin. Isn’t this the truth of any good mother? That in all of our lives, we worry only about those we brought into this world, regardless of whether they loved us back or treated us fairly or understood our shortcomings. As Alice lets go, so do I. I let go of my mistakes, the unattainable standards I have for my husband, my daughter, and myself, and my bitterness toward those who hurt me; mostly, I let go of my pride, which I thought had kept me whole but in reality almost ruined me. I was holding on so tightly to being right, to being perfect. There is only one lesson in all of this: let go. And when you think you’ve let go completely, let go again. Aunt Alice sailed out of here with such grace. She really did it right.
“She’s gone.” Bobby weeps and holds his mother. Doc Daugherty turns to me. But I already knew. I close my eyes and smile; Aunt Alice will find my son. She will make sure he’s all right.
Johnny Teglas over at The Post asked me to write Alice Mulligan Lambert’s obituary. And in so doing, I learned many things about her. She was a WAC in World War II; she took enough courses at Mountain Empire Community College to earn an associate’s degree in business (who knew?); and those weren’t her real teeth (I won’t put that part in the paper). But I do mention baby Calvin, and Bobby, of course. I type up the story of her life and seal it in an envelope. I holler to Fleeta back in the Soda Fountain that I’m leaving and will see her tomorrow. When I get outside, I feel the first cool breeze of autumn as it blows through. Monday is Labor Day.
I put the obit in the slot of the newspaper office. I think old Johnny’s in for a surprise when he reads about Alice Lambert.
When I get home, I smell fresh butter and garlic simmering; I follow the delicious aroma into the kitchen. Jack is barefoot, in his jeans and an old sweatshirt, making us dinner.
“Hi.” He looks up and smiles at me.
“What are you cooking? It smells divine!”
One of the bonuses of marrying Jack is that he is attentive in the kitchen. He’s a better Italian cook than I am now. I give him a big kiss.
“Linguini carbonara, with Virginia ham. Who’s Pete?” he asks casually.
“Pete who?” I try not to choke on the name.
“Pete Rutledge.”
“Oh, him. We met him in Italy.”
“Oh, the guy Etta talks about. The marble guy.”
“Really. She told you about him?” I say casually but my vocal tone gives me away: I squeak. That kid. Does she have to tell her father everything?
“Yeah.”
“Why do you ask?”
“He called.”
“That’s nice.”
“He’s in town.”
“What?”
“He’s here.”
I don’t know what to say. I figured the guy had a crush, we kissed, and that was it. What is he doing here?
“Ave, honey, tell me what’s going on.”
“Nothing’s going on. I love you.” Man, if blurting “I love you” isn’t a dead giveaway for guilt developed after an Alpine make-out session, I don’t know what is.
“Here’s his number. He’s at the Trail.”
Jack puts the number on the table, as though I should call Pete Rutledge right here on our phone in this house, this house where we, a newly devoted married couple, live. I do not want to make this call.
“I’ll call tomorrow.”
“Call him now. Invite him to dinner. I’m making plenty.