"Well, ma'am-"

"Jack Mac, please don't call me ma'am. I'm not your spinster aunt."

"Heck, you've hardly aged since high school," Jack Mac says, and he sounds like he means it.

"Thank you. Now, what were we talking about?"

"You."

"No, we were talking about you. You and?"

"You."

"Me?" What is he talking about? Me. Me as what?

"Miss Ave?"

"Jack, no 'Miss' either. That's just one step above 'ma'am' at the AARP."

"Ave Maria?"

"Great p.r.o.nunciation."

Then he begins. "We're both knee-deep in our thirties. You're all alone. You're an orphan, really. And I've got a good job. And when my mama pa.s.ses, the house will be mine. And I'm in pretty good shape. I eat too much and I drink a lot of beer sometimes, but my heart's good and I'm strong. I've got some money saved. I just bought a new truck. A'78 Ford pickup. Fully loaded. And I've been thinking that I'd like a home and family. A good wife. And when it comes down to it, at our age, there aren't a lot of us left. The never-marrieds, I mean. The field sort of narrows and the pool dries up, leaving folks who have already been married, and that comes with complications. I like simplicity and I think you do, too. So, I was wondering if you'd like to get married."

"Married?"

"Yes, ma'am. I mean yes." He corrects himself. Good. He's quick.

"You're proposing to me?"

"Yes, I am."

"Is there something the matter with you?"

"Excuse me?"

"Do you know anything about women?"

"I'd like to think I do."

"In the first place, I don't know you very well. I mean, we went through school together. You have a nice mother who suffers from hypertension. You play guitar very well." Why do I feel compelled to make a list? Why do I have to be methodical? Why do I have to make him feel comfortable? Can't I simply respond like a woman whose head is being blown off at this moment?

"You said I was a good dancer," he says directly.

"Yes, I did." I say this evenly, temperately, as if I were talking to a child who has left too many fund-raising jars on my checkout counter. I turn away from him to think for a moment. But I realize I don't need to turn away, I don't need to think; I understand everything all of a sudden, and it blazes through me like an electric shock and spins me back around.

"I don't need an answer right away," Jack Mac says softly.

"I can give you one, Mr. MacChesney. Sir. For you to a.s.sume that I'm spent, that I'm old and without possibilities or opportunities or dreams of my own, is appalling to me. I may appear to be a pharmacist in sensible shoes, okay, maybe I have holes in my socks, but there is a river inside of me. I'm not lonely. Or desperate. Or one bit sad. I don't need to be saved!"

"You don't understand," he says with equal force.

"I get this! I really get this! If you are sincere in this strange proposal, the answer is no. I don't love you. And I'm one of those kooks who think you ought to love the person you marry."

"Wait a second-"

"And if you aren't sincere, I think it's mean. It isn't funny to play on a woman's station in life. As though she is somehow responsible for being married or being alone! Sometimes things happen in life, the pieces move around so that the game can't go your way. Things like cancer and mental cruelty and fear. So don't think it's funny to dangle some happy thing like that-like joy can be invented in a second. It can't! I am happy alone. I don't need you or anybody else! I take care of myself. And it might seem dull to you, or pathetic, but what you think of me does not change my life one way or another."

"You don't understand."

"Let me lay it out for you. I could lose everything I have, and I may. But if you think my definition of security is a mate with a job and a truck, you don't know me very well. And if I were you, I would think twice about proposing anything to anyone you don't know very well."

I turn and walk briskly up the street. He's following me. I am sweating so hard, I get a whiff of sandalwood and lime from my neck and remember the jacket. I take it off and turn.

"Your jacket."

He takes it.

"One more thing. In the future, if you want to win a woman, don't tell her you've got a new truck. Most women don't care about new trucks. It's not a selling point. Good night."

About three blocks from my house, I realize that I walked a long way with Jack Mac, and this insight alone makes me more furious. Why was I walking with him, wearing his jacket, making small talk? I don't even like him. He yups and nopes and is altogether too quiet. I hate that! Those long quiet spells he lapses into, forcing me to talk, to fill the s.p.a.ces with personal stories and observations that I didn't want to share in the first place. The crust of that guy! Knee-deep in our thirties! You're the one knee-deep in old age, with your bald head! I still have some glimmers of youth around my edges; yours are gone, Jack MacChesney! Don't lump me in with you and your mother in a stone house in a holler!

I break into a run so I can make it home faster, and the nails from the roof loosen in my pocket and drop out onto the street. I know that I should stop to pick them up because they could rip somebody's tires as they drive over them, but even the thought of a blowout and subsequent three-car pileup can't make me stop. I want to go home. I want to lock my door and be alone with the only person in the world I can trust: me. As I turn my corner, I see Theodore's car parked in front of my house. Theodore is sitting on my front stoop. Beautiful Theodore who understands me! I run up the walk and throw myself into his arms. He holds me tightly.

"What happened?"

"I hate him, Theodore. I hate him!"

I sound like a twelve-year-old girl. I remember myself and sit up.

"Did he do something to you?" Theodore sounds like he could kill anyone who would harm me. He slips off his jacket and wraps it around me. He looks into my eyes. In the porch light, Theodore's face has a golden glow-sepia and stone. Strength in the features! How I love this face! This Irish face. The crow's-feet. The strong nose that tilts ever so slightly down. The chiseled jawline, an advertis.e.m.e.nt for his determination in all things. No man could be stronger in this moment than my very own Theodore Tipton. With him I can be honest, always.

"He asked me to marry him."

A moment pa.s.ses. Theodore pulls me close. "And what did you say?" His tone tells me he hopes I said no.

"I said no! Of course. Are you crazy? Why would I say anything but no?"

"I don't know."

"I don't want him!"

"It's funny-"

"There is nothing funny about this!"

"About a month ago, Jack Mac stopped me at the gas station," Theodore begins.

"What for?"

"He wanted to know if we were in love with each other."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't think about it. I get ribbed about you all the time, so I thought nothing of it."

Ribbed? Am I the town joke? I am so mad I almost forget to be embarra.s.sed.

"What a phony Jack MacChesney is! Mr. Respectful. Mr. Perfect Manners, all quiet and calm. Who's he kidding? It's all an act! How dare he run around upsetting people!"

"You mean you. He upset you."

"Yes, I mean me!" Me. Be concerned about me. I got myself good and scared tonight. In my fury I cannot cry, so I issue orders like a commando.

"Theodore Tipton, you are sleeping over tonight." I don't care if he wants to. I need him. I need to be held. I need rea.s.surance, the kind you can only find in the arms of a strong man.

"I think I should."

"You have to," I decide, not backing down from Furious Hill for a second.

"I have to?"

"Yes. I love you. I don't love anybody else. I'm tired of this. You need me. Just like I need you. I need my friend."

I can't see Theodore's face, so I can't read it. He just sighs deeply and we go inside.

Theodore sits in Fred Mulligan's easy chair as I straighten up the house. Headlight beams track across the walls. "He's gone," Theodore says, not looking up from the paper. Washing dishes, putting them up, sweeping, and straightening are my favorite things to do when I'm upset. I move around the living room and through the kitchen, back and forth like a pinball. I have a lot of nervous energy.

Theodore wants coffee, so I prepare the pot-we'll be doing a lot of talking tonight. When I look in the cabinet for the coffee, I find very little left in the canister. So I drag out the step stool to see onto a high shelf. There is a coffee tin at the back of the top shelf that looks like it came with a Christmas gift basket. I'm relieved. I need a cup of coffee right now. I pull the tin out. Theodore joins me in the kitchen and sits down at the table.

The tin is sealed around with clear tape. I grab a steak knife to unseal it and pop off the lid. There is no coffee in the tin. Just a bunch of letters. At first I don't think much of it: Mama was a pack rat. Of course she kept letters in cans. But from whom?

This thought makes me drop the tin. The letters shower all over the kitchen floor.

"What's all that?" Theodore asks.

"I don't know." He can tell from my tone that I'm afraid, so he helps me off the step stool and into a chair. He kneels down and gathers the letters. I look down at my chest. The utility pocket is moving up and down, up and down. The palpitations are back! I breathe deeply.

Theodore sits with me and gives me one of the letters. It is addressed to my mother, at P.O. Box 233, Big Stone Gap, Virginia 24219. At the bottom of the envelope, in handwriting, "USA." The stamp is Italian. The letter is postmarked April 23, 1952, right around my ninth birthday.

The return address is Via Davide, Bergamo BG Italia.

"Shall I read it?" Theodore asks.

"Go ahead."

Theodore unwraps the letter and scans it. "Ave. Honey. It's in Italian."

Theodore gives me the letter and I begin to read. It starts with "My dear Sister," and ends with "Your loving sister, Meoli." It's all about the goings-on in Schilpario and Bergamo. Aunt Meoli speaks of her twin, Antonietta, who is healthy and happy. There are details about cousins Andrea, Federica, and Mafalda. Comments about my mother's parents! My grandparents! An uncle had died. And then she writes that she has not seen Mario. That's all it says about him.

She inquires about me. Could my mother send pictures? Don't I have a birthday soon?

"What does it say? Honey? What does it say?"

"My mother has two sisters. Twins." I sit down on the floor. The letters are scattered all around me, filled with more shocks and surprises. I wonder how much more I can take.

CHAPTER SIX.

The town paper has issued a special (lavender!) supplement with a guide to all the events involving the visit of screen legend Elizabeth Taylor. She arrives Friday afternoon, October 23, 1978, around 3:00 P.M. She is staying at the Trail Motel in their deluxe suite (boy, is she in for a surprise). At 6:00 P.M. she and her husband will be taken to Railroad Avenue, conjunct to Shawnee Avenue (Main Street), and placed in an open convertible provided by Cas Walker's grocery-store chain. At approximately 6:15 the car will follow the marching band into the ballpark. The convertible will make two 360-degree trips around the football field on the paved running track, so that Elizabeth and her husband can wave to the crowds. At 7:00 the game starts: Powell Valley vs. Rye Cove. Elizabeth will watch the game from a specially constructed platform stage, provided by Don Wax Realty, near the home stands. (This stage has been used for band-compet.i.tion judges; Nellie decorated it special for this evening.) Then, the halftime show.

On Sat.u.r.day morning the Republicans are having a pancake breakfast-we'll skip that. Then, starting with hors d'oeuvres at 5:30 P.M., the library fund-raiser will commence. Iva Lou made sure that our table is right next to Elizabeth's!

The beauty of Nellie Goodloe is that she wants to do everything right. The entire weekend starring Elizabeth Taylor is in her capable hands, and she is planning it like a royal wedding. The library dinner takes the place of a reception (I'm sure Nellie's own wedding was less detailed). She chose the theme "Colors" for the decorations: violet in honor of Miss Taylor's eyes, and white because it is a good contrast. The Dogwood Garden Club is doing the centerpieces; the Green Thumb Garden Club is making a floral backdrop; Holding Funeral Home is supplying AstroTurf runners for the entry and their funeral canopy in case of bad weather; I am donating the candles; Zackie Wakin is providing napkins printed with E.T. and the date in gold; and the Coach House Inn is making Elizabeth Taylor's favorite meal (and their specialty): fried chicken, mashed 'taters, and collard greens.

There's been a slight amount of tension between Iva Lou and Nellie regarding the dinner. Iva Lou has a.s.serted herself in the dinner plans because she envisions herself as head librarian for the new facility. Of course, Iva Lou is no Nellie Goodloe; she couldn't care less about centerpieces, she wouldn't know a votive from a candelabra, or which side the small spoons go on in a place setting. Nellie, on the other hand, is the queen of etiquette. She went to Sweet Briar College and has a degree in home economics, so she brings a vast knowledge of elegant living to the Gap. Iva Lou wanted to do a barbeque. When she suggested this, Nellie nearly had a stroke; after all, you can't hardly ask the Queen of Hollywood to tie on a bib in Miner's Park and suck ribs. Nellie had to come up with a way to keep Iva Lou occupied, so she put her in charge of ticket sales for the dinner. Within several hours the dinner was completely sold out. Iva Lou unloaded every ticket. She knows a lot of businessmen, and evidently, they owe her favors.

Every detail of the planning for the pregame parade-in which Candidate Warner and Miss Taylor will ride through town in the convertible-must go through Theodore. He is in charge of everything from the Kiwanians who lead the parade to the drum section of the band that pulls up the rear. The cheerleaders traditionally ride on our town fire truck. Antic.i.p.ating problems, Theodore makes sure that Spec has our fire truck waxed and polished and that he has secured a backup truck in case of an emergency. Spec has one truck in his a.r.s.enal. If there is a fire somewhere in town between 6:00 and 6:30, the parade is ruined. A couple of years back there was a house fire during one of our pregame parades. The cheerleaders were tossed off the truck like turnips as the unit sped off to respond to the call.

With Elizabeth Night-as it has come to be known in these parts-a few days off, I stay late at the Pharmacy to catch up on my work. Pearl is out front vacuuming and dusting. I am worried but trying not to show it. I figure I'll wait until all the big doings are over to deal with my own problems.

Pearl wraps the cord to the upright vacuum cleaner around the holder, then wipes down the front of the machine with a dust rag. "Do you have a date for the Elizabeth Taylor dinner, Miss Ave?" she asks.

"I'm going with Mr. Tipton."

"He'll be the center of attention after he knocks 'em dead with his halftime show; that's for sure."

I nod and continue with my work. Pearl stands and looks at me.

"Do you need anything, Pearl?"

"Miss Ave, are you sure you want to give me the Pharmacy?"

"Yes. Absolutely. We're just waiting for the final paperwork and it will be yours. Why? Are you having second thoughts?"

"Don't you want to own this yourself? What if you get murried someday? I'm sure the place is worth something."

I smile at Pearl. I was waiting until the paperwork was finalized before I shared the scope of our transaction. She will be shocked when she realizes that we are part of a chain of Mutual Pharmacies. She won't simply own a building and its contents, but she will have a very valuable franchise to sell or keep, if she so desires. Pearl doesn't realize she's coming into some money.

"Pearl, I'm never getting married."

"Excuse me, ma'am, but how do you know that?"