Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [44]
“Ave. Yoo-hoo.” Iva Lou pokes me back into the present.
“I’m sorry.” I look at Pearl, whose face wears an expression that I’ve never seen before. It’s motherly. She knows what I’m thinking. Pearl always knows. “You know, I would love to have you both to Christmas dinner.” I turn to Iva Lou and Fleeta. “And you too. Lyle. Dorinda. Baby Jeanine. Everybody.” I turn back to Pearl. “Your mom. Otto and Worley.”
“Hell. Let me check my calendar.” Fleeta searches her pockets for her cigarettes. “Yup. We can make it.”
“Are you sure?” Pearl asks. She knows that I haven’t celebrated Christmas in a big way since Joe died. I put up a tree for Etta, but we haven’t had a party or a big dinner.
“Yeah. I think it’s time. Lots of things to celebrate this year. Jack’s new job. The Soda Fountain. Lots of good stuff.” I look at my friends, reassuring them that this is something I really want to do. They all agree to come; we’ll talk about what they can bring later. Even if you throw a dinner in the Gap, it’s potluck. We live to get out our pans and fill them with our best dishes. Pearl and Dr. B. move on to the Roaring Twenties room.
Iva Lou watches them go. “They’re so sweet. Like a romantic postcard.”
“From somewheres in the Middle East.”
“Jesus, Fleeta.” Iva Lou turns to her.
“What?”
“India is not in the Middle East. Git yer facts straight.”
“It don’t matter. The man knows he’s black.”
“Indian,” Iva Lou corrects her.
“Black. Indian. Brown. They’s all ferriners. What’s the damn difference?” Fleeta, having had enough of the Victorian era, heads into the antebellum room. Etta runs in from the hallway.
“Mommy, I barely touched Mrs. Arnold’s gingerbread house and the roof caved in!”
“I told you if you touched anything, we were going home.”
“I just ate a little piece of the top.”
“You ate the roof? Etta, you have to go apologize immediately.”
“Let it go,” Iva Lou says, as Etta is heading off to make amends. “It’s not a big deal. Patsy Arnold needs to get a grip. You’d think her gingerbread house was the Sistine Chapel.”
I work through the crowds and down to the main floor, where the gingerbread houses are on display. I see Patsy in the corner, repairing the hole in the roof of Santa’s workshop with an icing bag.
“Patsy, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. Corey Stidham tore off the door and ate it before Etta had at the roof.”
“Are you sure?”
“Hon, it’s a compliment. The thing is supposed to look good enough to eat.”
I head through the house looking for Etta. I go to climb up the back stairs and see her sitting outside on the porch, which serves as a loading dock for the Tolliver House.
“I told Mrs. Arnold I was sorry.”
“I’m sorry I yelled. But there are judges coming around, and people work hard on their crafts.”
“I want to go home.”
“But we haven’t seen all the rooms yet.”
“I don’t care.”
“Why?”
“I hate Christmas.”
“Come on, Etta.” I take my daughter’s hand. “I want to show you something.”
In the study, there is a display of handmade quilts by local artists. The quilts are donated by families to the John Fox, Jr. Museum. Two of Etta’s Grandmother MacChesney’s creations are on display. There is a colorful drunkard’s-path pattern; a king-size quilt with bright cotton paisleys; red, blue, and pink ginghams; and florals in soft pastels. A red, white, and green checkerboard with a white background covers the largest wall in the room. There is a card next to her quilts: NAN GILLIAM MACCHESNEY, 1907–1978. I point out the card to my daughter.
“Okay,” Etta says, bored. To her, this room is a bunch of colorful old blankets that smell like cedar hanging on sticks.
“See the stitch work? How tiny? And how there are layers and layers of it? It took her close to a year to make one of these. And she was fast.”
“How come you don’t quilt?”
“I don’t know. I can sew a little.”
“Your mama sewed too.”
“Yes, she did.”
Etta walks off to look at the diorama of the Outdoor Drama. I think