Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [18]
“Did she eat?”
“I heated up the spaghetti.”
“Did you make broccoli?”
“No.”
“So she didn’t have anything green?”
“She had that green banana for dessert.”
“Not funny. I’m tired. I’ve been working all day, and I’m really really tired.”
“I get it. You’re tired.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m in the middle of a meeting.”
“You’re in the middle of a party.” Why am I doing this? I want him to have a good time with his friends, don’t I? Jack stares at me with disbelief.
“We got sidetracked.”
“Sorry I interrupted the fun.”
Jack looks back at me as he goes. I don’t look up at him. I sit down at the kitchen table and cry. I just have a nice little self-indulgent cry. I want to feel good and sorry for myself. I came home to a mess, a child fed supper with no greens, and noise and beer and company I didn’t want to see.
I check on Etta, who does not look up from a cartoon show. I kiss her and walk back through the old kitchen onto the back porch, through the creaky screen door, and out into the black field behind our house. It’s cold, but I don’t turn back for my coat.
The moon hangs between the mountains like a searchlight, making a path through flimsy clouds. I breathe deeply. The cool night smoke fills me with calm. The mountains, knit together seamlessly, form a black velvet fortress around me. The dark sky lightens to a shimmer of silver on the mountaintop, like a window shade that cannot reach the sash to keep out the light. The details are clean—bare branches with fluttery edges like curls, and strong black veins in the trunks and branches of the mighty pine trees. I am so small here.
There’s a stump from an old weeping cherry tree in the back field that overlooks the side of Powell Mountain. When I sit on it, I’m nearly on the edge of our cliff, which gives way to a ravine and then the valley below. It’s a wild, dark tangle of shrubs and branches and overgrown footpaths. When I first lived here, it scared me to come out back alone. But as time passed, I became less afraid and began to explore the MacChesney woods. I’m not afraid of falling off mountains anymore (at least when I’m on foot). And something about these old hills reassures me.
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting; it must be a while, because my hands are freezing. I hear the hum of motors starting in the field out in front. Jack’s meeting must be over. I don’t know why, but the sound fills me with dread. I feel a big argument coming on with my husband, and I don’t have the energy to fight. I go inside and up to Etta’s room. She finishes the second chapter of Heidi, reaches up to turn out her light, and dutifully lays her head on her pillow. There is a catch to her breathing—her nose is stuffed up, probably from the first cold spell of the season. I have to remember to give her something for that tomorrow. I give her a kiss and tuck her in.
Instead of going to the living room to collect beer bottles (great), I go to the sun porch and fold a load of laundry. When I’m done, I straighten up the rest of the kitchen and look in the refrigerator, making a mental note that we’re low on lettuce. Enough procrastinating. The men left over half an hour ago, and the house is quiet. Time to go to bed. The light on the nightstand sends a warm glow up the walls of our room across from the kitchen. On the surface, everything seems safe, normal. I walk around the bed and see that the bathroom door is open, but I don’t see Jack.
Shoo the Cat is asleep on the bench in the hallway in an empty box Etta uses for Barbie school. I look out the window. Jack’s truck is there. Good. He didn’t go out with the boys. I go to lock the front door, and through the small pane, I see him sitting on the porch steps, leaning back on his elbows. His legs drape down the stairs and are crossed at the ankle.
“I’m locking up.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“It’s chilly out there.”
“I like it.”
I almost turn to go to bed, but something tells me to go to Jack. So I