Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [3]
“Did you remember my socks?”
“Are you nervous?”
Etta peels off her mud-splattered white kneesocks and pulls on the fresh ones. “Very.”
“Uncle Theodore sent you a present.”
Etta rips into the box. Her light brown hair hangs limp and straight. (I’m glad Fleeta can put it up in a braid tonight.) Her little hands are just like mine, made for work. Her face is her father’s, the straight nose, the lips that match top and bottom, and the hazel eyes, bright and round. Etta has freckles—we don’t know where those came from. Jack told Etta a bedtime story about freckles when she was very little, which she believed for the longest time: God has a bucketful of freckles, and when he’s done making babies in heaven, he lines them up right before they’re born and sprinkles freckles on them for good luck. The more freckles, the better your luck. Let’s hope the freckles do their job tonight. Etta holds up the corsage. “I shouldn’t wear it if Jane doesn’t have one.”
“Not to worry. He sent one for Jane and a boutonniere for Billy.”
“Just like a wedding,” Etta says. “But I ain’t never gonna marry Billy Skeens. No way. He’s too short.”
“He’s probably gonna grow,” I tell my daughter, sounding like someone else’s annoying mother. “And we don’t say ‘ain’t never.’ Do we?”
A horn blasts next to us. “Daddy!” Etta shouts, off the hook for her bad grammar. The van from Sacred Heart Church careens into a parking spot. My husband smiles and waves to us. Etta climbs out of the Jeep and runs to the van, where Jack has thrown open the door. She shows him her corsage, which he admires. I watch the two of them through the window as they laugh. They look like an old photograph, black and white and silver where the emulsion has turned.
Jack must feel me staring through the rain and motions for me to join them. He shoves the van door open, and I jump in and climb into the seat behind him.
“How was your day?” I ask.
“Fine.”
“Daddy, kiss Mama.” Jack kisses me on the cheek. “Why do they misspell ‘college’ in Kiddie Kollege?”
“I don’t know.” Jack defers to me.
“Maybe because it matches the ‘K’ in ‘Kiddie,’ ” I tell her.
“That’s a dumb reason. If you’re smart enough to go on a show called Kiddie Kollege, you’re smart enough to know that college starts with a ‘C.’ ”
Jack looks at me in the rearview mirror. The corners of his hazel eyes crinkle up as he smiles. He finds Etta’s know-it-all tone funny; I think her loud opinions are just nerves before competition. Or maybe it’s confidence. I’m not sure.
My family cheers when I announce I’ve brought along red pepper sandwiches. As I cross to the Jeep to get the cooler, Jack gets out to help me. He looks beautiful to me, fresh-scrubbed from the mine. He’s gotten better-looking as he’s aged. (Men are so lucky that way, and in others —don’t get me started.) His hair, which receded in his late thirties and looked like it might fall out, stayed in. It’s all gray now, but with his hazel eyes, it looks elegant. He lost some weight, determined not to be Fat and Forty. I smooth down my hair, which has frizzed in the rain.
“I’ve got it,” Jack says as he lifts the cooler over my head.
“What’s wrong?” I ask him.
“Nothing.”
“Something is wrong. I can tell.”
“Ave. Nothing’s wrong.”
“Are you sure?”
“I can’t talk about it right now. I’ll tell you later.”
“Tell me now.”
“No. Later.” Jack looks at me and then through the window at Etta. She looks out at us. “I don’t want to get Etta all riled up.”
“Okay,” I say impatiently. “But you can tell me.” Why won’t he tell me what’s wrong? What is he protecting me from?
“The mines closed.”
“No!”
“Yeah,” he says under his breath angrily.
“I’m sorry.” That’s all I can say? I don’t throw my arms around him? I don’t comfort him? I just stand here in the rain.
“I am too.” Jack turns toward the van.