"Honey, there's potential, and then there's bulls.h.i.t dreaming. I think you got a case of the bulls.h.i.t dreams, if you know what I mean."

Fleeta grazes the big feather duster over the vitamins, barely tickling them.

"What I meant to say was that we could transform Pearl into a great employee if she was trained by a master."

"I told you I don't want to work no more." Fleeta lights up a cigarette and thinks for a moment. "But if you're gonna throw away all I done built up here, I'd better rethink my position. All right, I'll work part-time for ye." I am so thrilled, I hug Fleeta, who stiffens like a telephone pole. I've never hugged her before; we're both surprised.

"Three days a week and fifty cents more an hour."

"You got a deal."

"What? I'm no tail twister?" Fleeta says with a smile.

"You ain't no Haystacks Calhoun."

"No, I guess I ain't. But given the right circ.u.mstances, I might be able to take him." Fleeta chuckles to herself.

Pearl shows up for work the next day in her best outfit: a smock top and eyelet-trimmed bell-bottoms. Her hair is in a low ponytail. She looks neat, but that doesn't stop Fleeta from eyeing her up and down. Pearl's work life at Mutual begins with a shipment box haul. Fleeta and I have a system. Fleeta unloads and prices items, I break down the boxes and bring them to the Dumpster behind the store. Fleeta does product placement and displays because that feeds her creative side. She gives Pearl a dirty look when Pearl artfully places shampoo bottles in a shadow-box display. I decide it's a good idea to separate the two of them during this training period; Fleeta is an old cat with well-defined territories and the claws to protect them. Pearl joins me, already full of suggestions on how to make the box haul a more expeditious process. This kid is smart, and it's not bugging me.

"I want to thank you for the job. It's really gonna help me and my mama out."

"I'm happy to have you. And don't worry about old Fleeta. She's mean on the outside but marshmallow on the inside."

"Not like Tayloe and them girls up to school. They's mean to the bone."

"Ignore them."

"I try, but it ain't easy to hide when you're the fattest girl in school."

"You're not the fattest girl in school."

"I'm pretty sure I am."

"No, you're the girl with the best after-school job." This makes Pearl laugh as we throw empty boxes into the Dumpster. "Besides, those type of girls talk about everybody. Even each other."

"You know what they're saying about you?"

"Me? Why would they talk about me?"

"They say you're a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, that Fred Mulligan wasn't your father."

"People say that?"

Pearl nods that they do. How naive of me. I thought that no one talked about me in that way. I never spread stories, so I figured none were spread about me. But in a small town a good story bears repeating, even mine.

"Well, Pearl. They're right."

"They are?"

"Yep. I guess my mama came over from Italy pregnant and Fred Mulligan married her because back in those days you had to get married if you were having a baby. Only thing, my mama didn't tell me herself; she left it in a letter. I got it after she died."

"Aren't you mad about it?"

I guess I look off for a long time, because Pearl asks me again. I don't know how to answer her, because it's not like me to ever get angry about anything.

"If I was you, I'd be mad."

"You would?"

"Your mama shouldn't never have lied to you about your papa."

"Well, she did, and there's nothing to be done about it now."

Then Pearl asks me the question that would forever change my life.

"You gonna find your real father?"

"My real one?" I ask quietly. The word real sounds so new.

"If he's alive, are you gonna find him?"

Who has time to think about Mario da Schilpario? I'm busy. I have the Pharmacy, deliveries, the Rescue Squad, the Drama, and the Kiss.

"You gonna marry Mr. Tipton?"

"Don't tell me people are talking about that, too."

She nods; they are.

"Well, Pearl, I don't think it's anybody's d.a.m.n business who I marry, or who my father was, or what size my underwear is."

"Good for you. Now you're mad!" Pearl says this with great pride.

She's right. I'm mad. But what she doesn't know, and what I don't know, is I'm just getting started.

Ethel Bartee's Beauty Salon is tucked behind the post office in a trailer. I take the back alley from the Pharmacy and cut through the loading zone to get to Ethel. She fixed the trailer up real nice with window boxes overflowing with red geraniums. The tip end of my braid is like crispy straw; I need a haircut.

The door is propped open with a drum of pink shampoo. Ethel is putting up Iva Lou's hair.

"Can you take me for a quick trim?" I ask sweetly.

Ethel, stout with a perfect bubble hairstyle that matches her shape, looks up over her bifocals as she finishes winding Iva Lou's last curl around a plastic roller.

"I guess so," she says, annoyed.

"I should've called."

"Yes, you should've. But you know I ain't the type to turn n.o.body away." Ethel gives me the critical once-over. "Especially not no one who needs a clip. I got two comb-outs before I can git to you, though." Ethel indicates her customers under the dryers.

"I can wait."

Iva Lou rises. "I'm gonna sit outside and let it dry in the sun, honey. It'll save you on your electric bill." Iva Lou c.o.c.ks her big head full of jumbo curlers, giving me a signal to follow her outside.

"Ethel's cranky." Iva Lou lights up a cigarette. "I heard," she says, looking at me directly.

"Is everybody talking about it?" I ask.

"Let's put it this way. I make six stops in the Gap. It was the topic of conversation on each one." Iva Lou points her cigarette toward the trailer door. "And the two biddies under the dryer bubbles had themselves a field day before you dropped by."

For a moment I am overwhelmed by it all. I figured my paternity was my business. I lean back on the steps and close my eyes.

"You know what?" Iva Lou says brightly. "I think it's exciting news."

"You do?"

"Follow me on this. All your life you was one thing. And now you can be something else if you want! Somebody completely different. You can actually start yourself over from scratch. Turn yourself into what you have always wanted to be!" Iva Lou continues with her Knute Rockne pep-up, and I sit up and shift so I can see the back of my pharmacy. The building looks in even worse shape from here. The mortar between the bricks is chipped, leaving s.p.a.ces. They look awful. I make a mental note to get them repointed. It annoys me, though. I shouldn't have to fix them; they had a lifetime guarantee.

Closing night of the Drama signals the start of the Powell Valley High School football season. My theater life winds down and Theodore's kicks in, as he is responsible for designing and executing home-game halftime shows. The fans are as compet.i.tive about the shows as they are the football games. Every year we wonder how Theodore will top himself, and every year he does. Our downtown stores are festooned with flags in our high school colors, bright Carolina blue and ruby red. Zackie hauls out an eight-foot papier-mache Viking, spray-painted silver, letting anyone pa.s.sing through town know that we are "the Vikings, the Mighty, Mighty Vikings."

Nellie Goodloe finally got a meeting with Theodore and impressed upon him the importance of Elizabeth Taylor and John Warner's visit coming up at the end of October. All eyes will be on us to deliver a weekend to remember. There is an excitement in the air anyway, as it is fall, our most luscious season. The mountains around us turn from dark velvet to an iridescent taffeta. The leaves of late September are bright green; by the first week of October they change to shimmering gemstones, garnet and topaz and all the purples in between. The mountains seem to be lit from the ground by theatrical footlights. Autumn is our grand opera. It even smells rich this time of year, a fresh mix of balsam and hickory and vanilla smoke. Friday nights are football-game nights, and Sat.u.r.day nights find everyone in town over at the Carter Family Fold.

The Fold is famous because the originators of East Tennesseestyle bluegra.s.s music are the legendary Carter Family, led by Mother Maybelle Carter. She had a bunch of daughters, one prettier than the next, including June Carter, now married to Johnny Cash. Yes, it is their homestead and a magnet for bluegra.s.s celebrity (like the great Stanley Brothers out of d.i.c.kenson County), and every once in a while somebody famous from the Carter Family does pa.s.s through, though that's not why we go there. We go there for the live music and dancing. You can eat there too-chili dogs and fries, the best anywhere. I usually go with Theodore; and ever since we didn't have s.e.x, we're seeing even more of each other. The storm cloud of my l.u.s.t has pa.s.sed for now, so he's safe and I'm back to normal.

We enter the Fold, an old barn with flap sides, which are opened to the night air. The Fold is like a gypsy amphitheater-it has the feeling of a place that could be packed up and moved quickly overnight. And indeed, during the daytime when you drive by, you could mistake it for any old weathered barn in a field. But at night she comes alive. Folks sit in rows around the concrete dance floor on bales of hay. The bandstand is high and set back against a permanent wall rigged with electricals for when WNVA Radio broadcasts shows live. A colorful mix of j.a.panese lanterns and old Christmas lights dangles over the stage. I love the crazy-quilt mess of it; it is homespun yet dramatic. I enjoy the wondrous sight until the sound of my Aunt Alice Lambert's voice ruins it. I turn to look at her and find she is busy examining Theodore from the tip of his shoe to the top of his head. Her lips are pursed so tightly, they look like two red firecrackers looking for a match.

"So, A-vuh Maria"-she, too, misp.r.o.nounces my name-"Hit finally come out!"

"What?" I ask, squinting up at the lights.

"The truth. You know what I'm talking about, girl." I never imagined Aunt Alice would approach me on this subject.

She senses she caught me off guard and uses it. "This changes everything. Don't it?" she snarls. "My brother's estate?"

"Your brother died thirteen years ago and left everything to my mama." I say this pleasantly, like I'm commenting on the weather.

"It ain't right. You ain't his. You never was-"

Before she can gear up, I turn and look her directly in the eye. "I am not going to discuss my business with you. Ever. So if you'll excuse me, I'm here to be with my friends and have a good time. Good night."

I can see her mouth-Well!-as I walk away. I've had time to think about what Pearl said and what Iva Lou implied. I guess there were signs all along that I wasn't Fred Mulligan's daughter, but for me it was just something I never questioned. He seemed like my real father. Of course, I liked my mother more, loved her more, but I thought that was because I was an only child and a girl. I figured every child liked her mother more than her father. I wasn't completely unaware something was wrong, though. I do remember whispers at family functions, the fact that my first cousins never played with me, the teasing that went on at school about my first name (feriner-sounding). But I never put it all together. I hope I figure out why I didn't. I'm angry with myself for being such an idiot.

Otto and Worley spot us.

"Want to see my snake head?" Worley asks. Before I can say no, he pulls a small jar out of his back pocket and shows me a fresh snake head, floating aimlessly, with a permanent grin and threadlike tongue, which bounces against the gla.s.s.

"I got three more of 'em at home. Caught 'em up at the Roaring Branch."

"Why did this one make the cut?"

"He had the longest tongue." Worley throws his head back and laughs hard.

"Dance with me, Miss Ave?" Otto asks like a gentleman.

"Later, Otto. I got some business to tend to right now."

Otto and Worley move off in time with the music. Theodore goes off for our chili dogs. Lew Eisenberg sits alone on a bale of hay licking a blueberry Sno-Kone.

"I got a bone to pick with you," I say to him.

"You can't make me feel worse than I already do. I'm stuck in a barn with hay up my a.s.s. What can I do for you?" Lew says pleasantly.

"Everybody in town knows about my business. I think Inez is the leak."

Lew licks his Sno-Kone and looks off to the chili-dog stand, where Inez lays hot dogs on the grill. She is talking a mile a minute; from here we can only see her bright pink mouth moving. She looks angry, her eyebrows knit into one black V. I see my dreadful Aunt Alice with her, as well as the other ladies of the Band Boosters Club. The epicenter of the town gossip fault line rips open cellophane bags of hot-dog buns and shakes them onto the counter.

"What happened to my life?" Lew asks, and licks his Sno-Kone. "I was so happy on Long Island. Alone. All alone. I had my little practice, my little apartment, my little problems. I like things little, Ave Maria. Little, I can hide in. Instead, I've got this." He flails his arms around. "I lie awake every night and wonder what went wrong."

"I don't know what to say, Lew." And I really don't. We don't usually talk personally like this, and it's making me slightly uncomfortable.

"One mistake." I believe Lew is referring to Inez's unplanned pregnancy. "One mistake and . . . this. Inez was such a nice, quiet girl. So lovely. So soft. Like a picture. Now she's impossible. When she isn't talking, she's eating, but any way around it, that mouth is going 'round the clock."

"You have to think back and remember why you fell in love with Inez in the first place."

"She had a great body." A moment pa.s.ses. "A sleek, tight, little English race car of a body. She was the TR-6 of Big Stone Gap. She could've been in a magazine." Lew looks at me. "Is that terrible of me to say?" He sighs. He really misses the old Inez.

"You're just being honest." Then we look over at Inez, completely unaware that we are talking about her. Gossips never think anybody is talking about them. "Do you think she knows how you feel?"

"I cannot tell you one thing that has gone through that woman's mind in five years. I would know a stranger better." He sighs.

"I bet she knows. Maybe that's why she eats so much." I'm annoyed at myself for going down this road with Lew; this is not what I wanted to discuss with him. As out of touch as he thinks he is, he reads my mind.

"What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

I don't answer him because all I see are lovers on the dance floor. Fleeta and Portly nuzzle as though they have just found each other after having been put to sleep for a hundred years. Girls I went to high school with are out on the floor, dancing close with husbands they've been married to since we were kids. They look content. (So much for the advice "Don't marry young.") Rick Harmon, a rugged tugboat of a guy, All District Shot Put in high school, now a miner, places his hand on his wife Sherry's behind as they're dancing. She casually removes it, and they laugh privately. Worley dances with Nellie Goodloe, who waves his snake head away with a shudder. I look all around for Theodore. I want to dance. I want to be out there on the floor, gliding. Forgetting. But I can't find him in the crowd. I think he may have wandered out into the field and kept walking, never to return. He'll disappear like everything else. My heart begins to race in a way it hasn't since I pulled an all-nighter at Saint Mary's, drinking pots of black coffee and knocking back NoDoz. I put my hand on my chest and look down. My hand moves up and down against my blouse.

"You all right?" Lew asks.

"I don't feel well."

"What are your symptoms?"

"My heart is racing." I keep my hand on my chest, and as suddenly as it came, the rapid beating stops.

"That's an anxiety attack," Lew says, and swats a fly away from his gla.s.ses.

"I've never had one before."

"Welcome to the club. Once you have one, you never know when they'll strike. Part of getting older."