Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [49]
“Well, I don’t much care. Jesus is Jesus.” Fleeta takes a stand.
“Well, I’m half Baptist,” Etta says, looking at her daddy. “ ’Cause you’re a full Baptist. So I will say a prayer in half and half. Bow your heads. God, the Baptists thank you for the turkey. The Catholics thank you for the cake …”
“And I’d like to thank the ABC store for the whiskey. Amen,” Lyle says, finishing Etta’s prayer. Etta makes the sign of the cross with me and shrugs. The phone rings. Etta excuses herself to go and answer it.
“Tell whoever it is we’re eating dinner, Etta,” I yell as I pass the gravy to Pearl.
“Probably one of ’em phone-solicitation deals,” Fleeta grumbles.
“On Christmas?” Dorinda wonders.
“That’s the best time. They know yer home.” Fleeta takes the last drag off her cigarette, then dips the butt into her ice water. It is so quiet, I hear the sizzle. Then she places the soggy butt on her bread plate.
Etta runs back into the room. “It’s for you, Mama.”
“Who is it?”
“It’s Captain Spec.”
“I bet that Edens boy shoved another button up his nose. That boy is forever cloggin’ up the holes of his head with somethin’ or another.”
I excuse myself and go to the phone in the hallway. I barely hang up the phone before running in to tell our guests, “I have to go. I’m sorry. There’s a fire at the Trail Theatre.” Chairs push away from the table, and our group moves into action, putting out candles, grabbing their coats and purses, gloves and hats. “Hell, we’ll all come,” Fleeta says. “It could spread to the Pharmacy.” Instead of arguing with Fleeta, I turn to Iva Lou. “Watch Etta for me, honey, will you?”
“I’m going too, Ma!”
“Don’t worry. She’ll stay with me,” Iva Lou promises.
“I’ll drive you,” Jack says, helping me gather my gear.
By the time we reach town, four fire trucks have parked in front of the theater. Black smoke billows out of the second story; flames pour out of the lobby below. Jim Roy Honeycutt, his white hair askew, is pacing behind the fire trucks, distraught.
“What happened?”
“My prints! All my movies is in there! From the beginning!”
I leave Jim Roy with his wife and duck under the hoses, which are being pulled off their giant spools and up to the building. A fireman from Appalachia taps the hydrant in front of Gilley’s Jewelers. Barney and his son work furiously, emptying the window display into a sack. The sight of them tipping the velvet necks modeling pearls and chains reminds me of Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief. The chug and grind of the ladders as they extend to the roof drowns out Spec, calling to me. Jack, who is helping a volunteer fireman with an unwieldy hose, motions to me to go to Spec.
A crazy series of loud pops, followed by billows of black smoke, comes from the building. Cinders from the ornate wooden molding cascade from the building in small sprays of orange.
“Must’ve hit the storage room. The oil and popcorn has gone up,” Spec tells me. How strange to smell the popcorn burning outside. Jim Roy’s popcorn was so good, folks would stop in and buy a sack even if they weren’t staying to see the movie.
“There’s a man inside,” a fireman shouts to us. Spec and I move in with our oxygen and gurney.
The streets are filled with onlookers, including all the merchants. Zackie gathers them together, and the postmaster from across the street manages the crowd, pushing them back and onto the Post Office steps.
Then, in a cloud of gray smoke, the captain of our Fire Department emerges from the side door to the ticket booth, carrying a man over his shoulder. Spec and I help him place the man on the gurney. He is not breathing; we administer oxygen. Doc Daugherty joins us and takes over.
“Who is he?” I ask Spec. I’ve never seen this man before. Spec shrugs.
Across the street in front of the Pharmacy, our Christmas dinner guests stand in a huddle watching. Pearl grabs Fleeta’s hand as she watches Dr. Bakagese help a fireman who has taken in too much smoke. The crowd points and sighs as red sparks blow off the roof and out into smoke, disappearing into