Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [35]
“Pretty good,” Theodore says as the band marches off the field. “Let’s go.”
We leave the booth and head down what seems to be secret stairs into the belly of the stadium. We come out into daylight on the ground level of the field; the plastic passes hanging around our necks on chains give us immediate access everywhere. Security guards nod respectfully at Theodore; VIPs lean over the side of their boxes and yell, “Good show! You’re the man!” Theodore takes my hand and leads me up a tiny set of stairs to the base of the band box. I look up, and as far as my eyes can see, this orange and white checkerboard reaches to the top of the sky. The band major and Theodore huddle, and the band members watch with interest. Then the captain blows his whistle, and they launch into “The Tennessee Waltz.” The crowd goes wild. Theodore looks all around the stadium slowly, and for a moment, backlit by the orange and white musicians, with a breeze blowing through his hair, he is just a little bit Greek god, but surely all artist. He takes me in his arms and we spin to the music.
We have a lazy Sunday, and too soon it is time for me to get on the bus and head for home. I have an extra duffel bag full of UT paraphernalia and stuff Theodore bought for Etta—puzzles and games and an origami kit. Etta knows about international crafts because of Theodore. He is far from an absentee honorary uncle.
“I want you to remain calm,” Theodore tells me as he hugs me good-bye.
“Promise you’ll come for Christmas,” I tell him, not letting go until he promises.
“I will be there. I’ll bring the eggnog.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I climb onto the bus and sit in my usual seat, right behind the driver. Theodore circles around and taps on the window. I use both hands to slide my window back.
“You’re not old. You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I tell him, meaning it, restored after a great weekend. I’m not crazy, I’m okay. I’m just human. I get scared, and I can be comforted. That’s the miracle of Theodore Tipton. He makes it all better.
As the bus pulls away, I’m not sad. Christmas is just a few weeks away. I want to go home. I miss Etta terribly. And being away from Jack, even with all of our problems, made me long for him. I haven’t kissed him like I meant it in a long time. I will, though, as soon as I see him. I can’t wait.
As the bus makes its descent into Big Stone Gap through the Wildcat, I am filled with anticipation. The apricot sun fades behind the blue mountains in twilight. The trunks of the trees, knotty and twisting toward the sky, wet with rain, look like they’re embroidered in shiny black pearls. They make a fence down either side of the road; I feel protected, but I can see the mountains beyond spilling away in layers down the sides like cake batter. There is an awesome beauty to the Appalachian Trail, where the Blue Ridge meets Tennessee. Soon I will be inside the mountain again, inside the Gap, home.
Jack is waiting for me at the bus station. I am sitting on the edge of my seat like a kid, full of stories to tell. I want to tell Jack everything. I want to tell him how I went away so afraid and how I’ve come home full of hope again. I wave to him from the window, and he waves back. Etta isn’t with him; how romantic! I stand with my bag before the bus can make a full stop. The driver’s flinty brown eyes narrow in annoyance, and I lurch forward when he brakes. I thank him as I charge down the steps toward my husband. I throw myself into his arms and cover his sweet face in kisses. He accepts the kisses but doesn’t kiss me back.
“What’s wrong?” I ask him.
“Did you have a nice weekend?” he asks me without emotion.
“It was great. Is something wrong with Etta?” Now I’m worried. Why is he acting so strange?
“Etta is fine. She had a good time at the