Home to Big Stone Gap by Adriana Trigiani
I poke my head into the small makeup room. Iva Lou sits at the mirror, pressing the narrow glue strips of her false eyelashes to the tips of her eyelids. She can’t see me; her eyes are closed. I should go, but I can’t. I look at her for what seems like a long time. Finally, she opens her eyes and flutters her new, lustrous black eyelashes. Iva Lou does not age: her heart-shaped face, hot-pink Cupid’s-bow lips, and lake-blue eyes are every bit as alluring as the day she drove the Bookmobile into town for the first time. Iva Lou does not wear her pain, suffering, and tragedy; rather, she throws it off like a light overcoat and never looks back. She leans in to the mirror and smiles, liking the effect.
“Have a good show, Iva Lou.”
Startled, she looks at me. “How long you been standin’ there?”
“Just now.”
She stands and smooths the skirt on her costume. “This has been a lot of fun. Thanks for having me in it,” she says formally.
“You’re a great baroness. Have fun!” I chirp. I want to leave on a high note; after all, Iva Lou has a performance to give. But I’m so sad about our friendship. We haven’t spoken at all since we argued. I just can’t pick up the phone. I’m not sure why.
She smiles and grabs her fur capelet for her entrance.
I weave through the actors in their positions backstage. I give Ravi Balu a pat on the back; Greg Kress gets a Ricola lozenge from my pocket; and various nuns get high fives. As I perform these rituals, I think about Iva Lou. Maybe our friendship is like other kinds of relationships that have a life and then, for whatever reason, end. If that’s to be the case, then it’s an enormous loss: there’s a hole in my life where she lived. Although every day I have a moment when I wish we could reconcile, somehow, as time passes and the distance grows, it seems more improbable that we can work things out. We have a new manner with each other, cordial and polite, much as we behave with strangers. It’s too bad. Maybe Iva Lou and I know everything about each other, and we’ve reached a place where we can no longer be useful to one another as confidantes. It happens. I just never thought it would happen to us.
Iva Lou brushes past me as I give Tayloe some final direction. She doesn’t look back at me as she takes her place. Rather, she keeps her eyes steady on the stage.
As I go out the stage door, I meet Theodore in the hallway beside the auditorium. He tells me, “I’m going to say hello to Iva Lou.”
“No, you won’t! It’ll cause another nun stampede!”
He agrees, smiling, and we walk together up to the light booth in the back of the theater.
“We got us a packed house,” Otto says as he opens a pack of Nabs (cellophane-wrapped peanut-butter crackers). He offers them to Theodore and me. We politely decline. Chomping on a cracker, Otto gets behind the follow spot. Theodore and I sit on two rolling stools, well under the beam of light Otto engineers.
“Cue the orchestra,” I tell Otto.
Otto takes a red bandanna out of his back pocket and waves it at Virginia Meador, who nods back. Her reading glasses slide down to the tip of her nose. She motions to the musicians to begin, and then she puts her long, tapered fingers on the piano keys. As the orchestra plays the overture, the audience sings along to the familiar tune.
Theodore rolls his eyes. “Oh, boy, this production is going to be hokey from Muskogee.”
“Welcome home, Theodore.”
The curtain rises on the cathedral set. As the nuns enter, singing a kyrie, the audience bursts into applause. Only Liz Ann Noel drops character and winks at the audience, causing a titter that spreads through the house. Then it’s all business as the nuns sing their lungs out.
Theodore watches intently, as though it’s the first play he has ever seen. No matter how grand a Broadway production, or how small a community-theater presentation, he is a student of the lively arts. Theodore is not jaded; he says he learns something new with every show he sees. I wish I could say I do the same.
I scribble notes throughout the first act. Occasionally, Theodore leans over and gives me a tip. Maria: project more. Captain Von Trapp: watch the ends of your phrases, you’re dropping them. Rolfe: a little less prim, give me more emotion. And so they go.
During the scene at the ball, Carolyn Beech’s costumes shine: 1930s drop-waist dresses in jewel tones. Iva Lou is stunning in a floor-length emerald-green sheath and tiara. She slides all over the Captain like a parlor snake, and he loves it.
In most productions, at the conclusion of “So Long, Farewell,” it’s usually Liesl who carries Gretl up to bed. Instead, I had the Captain carry her up so that I could secure a moment between Maria and the Captain on the landing at the top of the stairs. I thought it more effective than leaving him on the floor below with the Baroness.
Theodore and I watch as the Captain carries Gretl to the top of the stairs. The Captain puts her down; she runs up the landing and disappears into her room. As the door closes, the Captain turns back to Maria. He makes a gesture toward her. Maria, in her sweet white eyelet dress, looks down, embarrassed. Then the Captain looks to the hushed audience. He pivots to face the Baroness below and extends his hand as if to say, “You are the woman for me.” Iva Lou smiles up at him. The smile unglues my poor actor. He pivots, his heel catches on the top step, and he tries to regain his footing but cannot. The pitch of the stairs catches him and thrusts him forward like one of those blow-up birthday-party clowns that’s been slugged. He throws his arms up in the air to regain his balance. The audience gasps.
The Captain’s body plunges forward. “Holy shit!” he hollers. He reaches for the banister, but it is too late. He goes down on both knees, leans back on his rear end, and makes like a sled. The only sound we hear in the stunned theater is the whap, whap, whap of his legs as they hit the steps and propel him down to the stage floor. Finally, he hits bottom with a splat.
The paralyzed party guests suddenly come to life and surround him. Tayloe looks up to us in horror. Blackout and curtain.
“Jesus. That was bad.” Otto turns off the follow spot. “You’d better go and check him. I think I heard a femur snap.”
The audience chatters nervously. Otto pulls on the house lights. Theodore and I run out of the booth, down the stairs, and around to the hallway through the wings to the stage. Greg, our Captain, is lying on the floor with a nun’s wimple under his head for a pillow. There are two perfect seams where the fabric wore away on the front of his trousers as he peeled down the stairs. “Are you okay, Greg?”
“I think I blew out my knee.”
“Can you walk?”
“I can try.”
Theodore and I help him up. He cannot straighten his right leg. We set Greg back down on the floor.
“We’d better get him up to Lonesome Pine. Doc Rock can check him,” I tell Peanut Rogers, the laid-back head of our stage crew, who is getting an associate arts degree up at Mountain Empire Community College. Peanut, around thirty, is tall and thin, with a head of loose brown curls. He’s got the pep of a turtle.
“I’ll get the Nova.” Peanut slowly heads for the stage door.
“Wait! My dad’s in the audience!” Ravi Balu volunteers.
“Well, run and fetch him. We need a doctor!” Sweet Sue tells him. Ravi heads for the house.
“How was I doing?” Greg asks. His thick pale blue hair is sprayed into a George Jones bouffant. Not a hair moved as he plummeted; it’s still a perfectly formed stage helmet. Our captain is a good-looking man, with a high forehead and a determined chin that leads his profile in a scoop. He oozes strength, even though he’s turning peaked under his pancake makeup.
“In the show?” I can’t believe he’s asking. He must be in tremendous pain.
“Yes, ma’am. In the show. How was I doing?”
“Very well. I thought you were doing great.”
“Me too. I was feeling it. I was finally feeling like the Captain, and then this had to happen. Hubris. That’s it. Hubris. I got too big for my pants, and I paid fer it.”
“It was
“You don’t think so? I was so tickled when Nellie told me I was gonna be the Captain. This part meant the world to me. I got to come here every night for two months and rehearse. It gave me something to do, something to look forward to. I love to sing and perform. It wears me out down to my bones. I’d go home and fall into bed, so tarred I could hardly move. I loved being spent like that. Nothing like being in a show. Nothing.”
“We’ll get this knee taken care of, and then you’ll be back on the boards,” I lie.
“I hope so.”
The nuns push Dr. Balu onto the stage, taking his program from him. He kneels next to the Captain. He tears the pant leg to expose the bad knee.
“Goddammit, Doc. Tear on the seam! On the seam!” Carolyn shouts.
“This is life and death!” Peanut hollers back at Carolyn in a moment of unbridled energy. He pulls her away. “Screw the pants!”
The Captain’s knee has swollen to twice its size, looking like a bowl of Fleeta’s cherries jubilee at the Pharmacy.
“Call the Rescue Squad,” Dr. Balu instructs us. “Right away. We need a stretcher. You should not bend this knee, Mr. Kress, and you cannot walk on it.”
The next day Fleeta scrapes down the open grill at the Mutual’s. Theodore slides onto a stool at the counter while I open the pharmacy.
“What’ll it be, Ted?” Fleeta is the only person on earth who can get away with calling Theodore Ted.
“How about biscuits and gravy?”
Fleeta beams. “Can do.”
“I’ve traveled the world, Fleets, and nobody makes biscuits and gravy like you.”
“You’re darn tootin’. I was trained by the master. Shorty Johnson spent the better part of her life in the kitchen. What with her sons, Roy and Shep, hungry around the clock, she mastered the great Southern dishes, that’s for sure.”
SHORTY JOHNSON’S BISCUITS AND GRAVY
Serves 4 (Double these recipes for hearty appetites!)
BUTTERMILK BISCUITS
2 cups all-purpose flour*
2 teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
¾ teaspoon salt
1/3 cup Crisco, chilled
¾ cup buttermilk
COUNTRY SAUSAGE GRAVY
1 pound loose pork sausage meat (or diced links)
3 tablespoons flour
2 cups whole milk
Salt and pepper to taste
For biscuits: Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Into sifted flour*, stir baking powder, soda, and salt; then cut in Crisco until mixture resembles coarse meal. Add buttermilk. Stir lightly until ingredients are moistened. Form dough into a ball and transfer to a lightly floured work surface. Knead about 6 times (too much kneading will make tough biscuits!). Roll to ½-inch thickness. Cut into 2-inch disks with biscuit cutter (or inverted drinking glass). Arrange on a lightly oiled baking sheet so that the biscuits are not touching. Bake 16 minutes or until biscuits have risen and are golden-brown.
For gravy: While biscuits are baking, prepare sausage gravy by browning sausage in a heavy, well-seasoned iron skillet over medium-high heat until cooked through, stirring frequently to break up meat. Using a slotted spoon, transfer browned sausage to a bowl and set aside. Discard all but 3 tablespoons of pan drippings. Return skillet to medium heat. Sprinkle flour into drippings and whisk 2–3 minutes until lightly browned. Whisk in milk. Increase heat to medium-high and stir constantly, 2–3 minutes, or until it begins to bubble and thicken. Return sausage to gravy, reduce heat, and simmer 1–2 minutes, until heated through. Season with salt and pepper to taste. (Use lots of black pepper!)
NOTE: Gravy can be prepared using drippings from fried bacon, chicken, steak, or pork chops too! For those on a budget, you can even make gravy from fried bologna drippings!!!!
*If using unbleached self-rising flour, omit the powder, soda, and salt.
I line up three mugs on the counter and pour each of us a cup of coffee.
“So, Ted, what happened with your love affair up in New York?” Fleeta asks earnestly.
“Didn’t work out.”
“Let me tell you something. Love is a many-splendored thing until it’s over.”
“You got that right, Fleets.”
“Damn shame.” Fleeta stirs the gravy on the stove. I’ve never had biscuits and gravy in all these years, but it smells so good, I might try it this morning.
“Sure is.”
“Nellie Goodloe came in last night. I’ve never seen the woman so depressed. Even that damn Christmas sweater she was wearin’ looked down in the dumps. Twelve lords a-leapin’ looked like they’d rather lie down.” Fleeta sighs. “What are you gonna do about the show?”
“Well, Reverend Mutter offered us the Methodist Church, so we could perform it as a concert, since our Captain can’t walk,” I answer.
“Great idea.” Theodore puts cream in his coffee and stirs. “We did that with Godspell back in the seventies, remember?”
“My Sound of Music cast almost tied me to a stake when I suggested it,” I say.
Theodore shrugs. “Can’t blame them. They’ve worked hard.”
I think aloud: “We could put him in a wheelchair!”
“Terrible idea. Nobody would be thinking about the show—they’d be focused on that knee of his. Ted, why don’t you step in?” Fleeta pours the hot gravy over the biscuits. “Back in the day, you was a thespian. That’s Greek for ‘actor,’ you know. Hell, you used to tear it up as the Red Fox in the Drama. Plus, you can sing as good as anybody around here. Why don’t you just go on and suit up and be the Captain?”
“My acting days are over.”
“Listen here. Many great people are called upon late in life to do an encore. Think about it. Why, Charley Pride is still going strong in Branson; Johnny Mathis surfaces every now and agin in Vegas. Loretta Lynn just made a record. Hell, if they can do it, you can.”
“It’s a crazy idea, Fleeta,” Theodore says firmly.
“You’re far easier on the eyes than Greg Kress. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s when I go to a show and the leading man doesn’t do it for me. What is the point of going to a show if it don’t give you the flutters? When I look at Greg Kress, I don’t focus on his face and manly form—I think of accountants, which he is in real life, and then I think of bills, which I hate, and then taxes, which skeers me, and then and there, the entertainment value of the play goes right in the crapper for me. But you, you got the debonair thing. I could look at you for two hours and not tire of the scenery.”
“Thanks, Fleeta.” Theodore enjoys the compliment and straightens his posture on the counter stool.
“Save the day!” I chime in.
Fleeta raps her knuckles on the counter. “You ought to do it.”
“I came here to rest.”
Fleeta puts her hand on her heart. “You owe it to the people of Big Stone Gap.”
“I do not!” he protests.
“Sure you do,” I say. “Think about it. This is where you got your start. And now you’re a world-renowned director. You perfected your craft right here. It’s time to give back.”
“For Christsakes, it’s Christmas, Ted. What’s a ding-dang holiday without an act of Christian charity?” Fleeta cracks her knuckles.
Theodore smiles and takes another sip of his coffee. He looks at me. “You set me up.”
“Sorry. I thought that if the plea came from Fleeta, you might consider helping us out. Well, would you? Please?”
“Don’t railroad me,” he says. Fleeta places the hot plate of biscuits and gravy on Theodore’s place mat. He puts his napkin in his lap. “I never make any major decisions on an empty stomach,” he adds.
“Mr. MacChesney, please lift your hands over your head.” The nurse demonstrates, and Jack follows her lead. As he sits up straight on the examining table, his legs dangle over the side like those of a boy who’s gone fishing on the pier up at Big Cherry Lake. Whenever we come to t
“Good. Thank you. The doctor will be in shortly.” The nurse smiles and goes.
Jack sighs. “I hate these checkups.”
“Me too.” I take his hand. “But we have to stay on top of it.”
“I did fine on the stress test.”
“I know.”
“And I’m feeling good.”
“We want to keep you that way.”
Dr. Smiddy pushes the door open, still giving the nurse instructions about another patient.
Jack extends his hand. “Thanks for seeing us so close to Christmas.”
Dr. Smiddy smiles. “The holidays can be stressful.” He seems like a giant next to Jack. He checks Jack’s blood pressure, the usual stuff. Then he sits down on the stool with the wheels and looks up at us. “Your PET scan came back.”
“Anything of interest?” Jack tries not to sound nervous.
“Well, your heart looked good—we don’t see any further blockages.”
I clap my hands together. “Great.”
“But now we need to keep an eye on your right lung.”
“What’s the matter with it?”
“You’re a miner, you know.”
“Don’t tell me I have black lung.”
“You show some signs of it, though it is in no way advanced. But we’re thinking that maybe the shadow on your lung, along with the blockage in your neck, combined to cause your problem a couple of months back.”
“But black lung won’t kill him, will it?”
The way I ask the question makes Jack burst out laughing. “Easy, Ave.”
“I didn’t mean to cut to the chase, or maybe I did. I know that black lung is a chronic condition that can lead to other problems, and I just want to make sure that Jack doesn’t show signs of those other diseases,” I say.