Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [76]
Jack called this morning; fully awake, he was much more animated and attentive on the phone. He had a long talk with Etta, and when she handed the phone over to me, I realized that even though she misses her daddy, she was happier than I had seen her in a long time. She is happy because she sees how happy I am. Don’t I remember when I was a girl and my mother was happy? I would do anything to see my mother smile. I remember when I brought Mama to our cast party at the Drama and she sang an Italian folk song for the crowd. I couldn’t believe that she had the courage to sing in front of all those people, and as I watched her, she became her best self, her most free and happy self. I’ll never forget her face that night. I wished her joy could last forever. She had so much sadness, I just wanted her to forget it all and laugh. And when she did that night, I knew that it was possible for her to have a life of joy. Etta knows I’m happy here, and it brings out the best in both of us. I must not forget that I have an insight into my daughter, because I was a daughter once too.
Jack tells me about the progress he and the guys are making on the rec center in Appalachia. He catches me up on the local gossip. Leah and Worley got married by the justice of the peace; everyone thinks Tayloe Lassiter is having an affair with the jeweler from down in Pennington Gap; and Zackie Wakin, concerned that he was getting robbed, ordered a detective kit from a magazine to trap the thief. He put a special invisible powder on everything in his store and hung a sign on the door that said he was out of town (“To throw ’em off but good,” he told Jack). Turns out someone was in the store at night—and when the police came and washed the powder with a special solvent and took the footprints, they belonged to Zackie. Evidently, Zackie is a sleepwalker. We have a good laugh over that one.
There is something different in my husband’s voice. His tone is warm but just a touch hollow. Sort of like: you’re there, I’m here, let’s not talk about anything too deep. But since I danced with Pete Rutledge, all I want to do is talk about deep things. One dance made me want to dig deep and live. How dramatic, but how true.
“Ave, were you drunk last night?”
“What?”
“When you called. Had you been drinking?”
“I had bitters at the disco. But that’s all.”
“How much?” Jack chuckles.
“I wasn’t drunk.”
“You’re on vacation. Live it up.”
Part of me wants to tell Jack everything, as I used to do, in the beginning. We’d lie in bed for hours, and I’d share things with him I had never told anyone. It’s different now. I’m not compelled to tell him everything, and I’m not sure why. When Jack hangs up, I am relieved. We ran out of things to say.
The rain is coming down so hard now, it’s making a river in the street in front of the house, and it’s dumping into the creek that feeds the waterwheel. The waterwheel whips around in a high-speed frenzy, throwing sheets of water everywhere. I get back to the glamorous life of Ornella Muti. Oh, the details.
Mafalda pokes her head into the study. “Ave Maria. You have a guest.”
Through the door from the living room, which connects to the kitchen, I see Pete Rutledge in a yellow rain slicker, standing in the doorway. He is so tall, he has to duck his head down; his shoulders barely fit in the frame. His blue eyes stand out against the bright yellow collar of the slicker. His hair is wet, and he hasn’t shaved. He reminds me of Clark Gable in The Call of the Wild, just a little. I wish I didn’t think this man looked like all my favorite movie idols, but in certain ways, and in certain lights, he does. He’s a little like my girlhood board game Mystery Date—which Etta still plays with her girlfriends—where the players spin a dial and a plastic door opens to reveal seven different specimens of young all-American manhood, one cuter than the next. I bite