Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [123]
“What do you mean, ‘Where’s My Ass’?” Otto asks.
“Look at ye, all y’all. Not a one of ye has an ass. I don’t know how your pants stay up.”
“It’s called a belt, Fleets,” Otto says with a chuckle.
“I ain’t never gotten a single complaint about my hind end,” Spec tells her, sounding hurt.
“Somebody down in Lee County’s bein’ nice. If old Twyla was honest …”
The mention of Spec’s girlfriend sends Otto and Worley into a giggling fit. Fleeta continues, “… she’d tell you the truth: it’s flat and square. Looks like somebody dropped a TV set down your drawers.” Fleeta goes into the kitchen.
“She’s on a royal tear.” Worley takes a sip of coffee.
“Jesus, does she have to get personal like that?” Spec dumps cream into his coffee.
“It’s only gonna get worse, boys,” Fleeta bellows from the kitchen.
I made a run over to Johnson City to pick up some olive oil Jack Mac ordered; he’s become quite the Italian chef. Sometimes he jokes he wants to open a restaurant, and I guess I glare at him so intently, he drops the subject. It never dawns on him that folks around here are not interested in sampling pesto made with fresh basil; they much prefer their own cuisine, biscuits and gravy and the like. The soda fountain at the Mutual is all the food service I can handle, and it’s strictly lunch fare. Pearl and I were surprised when we saw the profit sheets for 1989. With our local economy shot to hell, it’s a good thing Pearl is such a risk taker; the fountain did more business than the pharmacy.
As I cut through Wild Cat Holler and head back into Cracker’s Neck, I practice the opening to The Talk About Sex between Etta and me. There is so much to say on the subject, I wrestle with whether I should begin with the physical and segue into the emotions, or if I should just start out asking her about her feelings and what she knows already, or if I should make it a family meeting and invite her father into the discussion (I’m chicken to go it alone). It bothers me that I want Jack there. Why is this so hard? I want the sort of closeness I had with my mother. She was my protector and I was her defender. We never talked about sex, but I surely felt I could ask her anything if I wanted to. There weren’t any gaps in our relationship. I would have done anything for her. I didn’t test her, though, and I’m sure I saw the world as she did, so there were never any arguments.
As I drive up to our house, negotiating all the pits where the stones have settled on the road, I see Otto and Worley on my roof. This reminds me of the days when the father-son team used to come by my house down in town and repair everything that needed fixing. As I jump out of the Jeep, I see a third figure on the roof. My daughter.
“Etta, what are you doing up there?”
“Helping Otto and Worley.”
“I want you to go inside.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not safe.”
“It’s safe,” Etta says defiantly.
“I got an eye on her, Miss Ave,” Worley says without looking up.
“Me too,” Otto says to reassure me.
“Go inside anyway, Etta.”
Etta looks so small from the ground below. As she gingerly crawls across the roof toward the window, it reminds me of when she first learned to crawl and, instead of being thrilled that my baby was learning a new skill, I was terrified that she was beginning to move in the world without me.
“Etta! Watch it!”
The toe of Etta’s shoe got caught where a shingle has not been bolted. She tries to pry her shoe free, but she can’t. Her other foot hits a slick spot and she begins to slide toward the gutter. I can hear the buttons on her barn jacket catch on the shingles. Otto and Worley drop their tools and crawl toward her, but Etta’s weight against the slope of the roof makes her slide even faster.
“Ave, git the ladder! Git the ladder!”
The ladder is propped against the far side of the roof. For a moment, I’m frozen, thinking I can catch Etta if she falls. But I know this isn’t possible. The drop is almost twenty feet, time is passing, the fabric on her jacket