Big Stone Gap (30 page)

Once I arrive at the church, I forget all the prenuptial distress. For Jack and me, this is a simple ceremony, where we will have the great honor of promising, in front of our loved ones, to be true. This thought calms me. We are having a private mass with Jack’s Aunt Cecelia and our closest friends. There will be no hoo-ha down the aisle or any other grand touches. Jack and I will enter together. The witnesses are Theodore, Iva Lou and Lyle, Aunt Cecelia, Pearl, Leah, Rick and Sherry, Fleeta and Portly, Otto and Worley, Lew and Inez Eisenberg, Zackie, and Spec.

Jack Mac pulls up in his truck and jumps out. He runs up the walkway and meets me in the vestibule.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells me. You wouldn’t think so if you’d seen me an hour ago with four pounds of Max Factor heaped on my face. I smile at my groom.

It’s the strangest thing—no one cries. There is just joy, simple and unadorned, in this little chapel with the quiet priest. Tomorrow, April 29, 1979, is my thirty-sixth birthday. How did I get to this place? Who knew?

After church, we’ve planned a dinner for everyone in town at the Coach House (yes, we’re having the same fried chicken, ’taters, and slaw combo that was served on Elizabeth Taylor Night).

When we cut our cake—thank you, Edna and Ledna Tuckett, for the coconut confection—Zackie emerges from the circle around us.

“Miss Ave Maria . . . I mean, Mizriz MacChesney . . .” The crowd cheers. I look at the faces of Rick and Sherry Harmon, Nellie Goodloe, June Walker, and Mrs. Gaspar. They couldn’t be happier for me. How lucky I am.

“We wanted to do something special for you and Jack Mac,” Zackie says. “So we put together a little fund-raiser.”

Iva Lou and Lyle emerge from the kitchen carrying a four-foot pickle jar stuffed with coins and bills. The crowd cheers again. There is a sign inside the jar:
HONEYMOON OR BUST
.

“We want to send y’all to It-lee. We hope this will help.”

Iva Lou and Lyle place the giant pickle jar at our feet. Pearl and Leah present us with a giant congratulations card signed by everyone at the reception. I look around the room. Most folks are crying. I am, too.

Jack and I spend our first night as a married couple in his stone house on the hill. I open all the windows; it is warm and the breeze is full of honeysuckle and jasmine. My husband comes to bed.

“There’s something I never told you,” he begins. My heart starts to race; a thousand possibilities float through my mind, all of them horrible, like he has three months to live, or he has a second family tucked away up in Insko, or that he’s been in debtor’s prison.

What has happened to me? I get so afraid now. I never used to. Why am I more vulnerable now than I was when I was alone, in charge of everything? I lived by myself in the middle of town, for God’s sake. I checked my own oil, lit my own furnace, caught mice. I had a routine: running a home, a business, the Rescue Squad, the Drama. I was never scared then. So much for strength in numbers, I think as I look at my husband, now that we are a family.

“The fall before your mother got really sick, I went down to your house to pick up some mending. And she was sitting in the living room. She invited me to sit down, and I did. She told me some things about herself, general things, like where she was from in Italy, how she taught herself English, that sort of thing. As I was about to leave, she walked me to the door. She told me that she was dying, and if I wouldn’t mind, could I look in on you once in a while to make sure you were all right. I promised her I would.”

What can I say to him? Surely he knows what this means to me. My mama picked him first, way before I was ready, back when I was afraid to. I wonder if she knows how happy I am in this moment. Though I have no proof, something tells me she does.

We cuddle down into the covers, me on my side, my husband lying next to me, on his side, holding me. He places his arm around my waist like the bar on a roller-coaster car. I am locked in for the night. We have had a long day and a lot of cake, and we are very tired. My husband tells me he loves me, and I tell him that I love him. He kisses the back of my neck and goes to sleep.

As he sleeps, I think about Reverend Gaspar and I hear him say that word,
faith
. I haven’t been able to figure out what he meant that night in the ambulance until now. I don’t think he was talking about faith in God. I think he was telling me that he had faith in me, that he believed I could help him. Maybe he even thought I could save him. That’s why his eyes were so clear and his voice was so strong as he lay dying. He had a revelation. He knew that the great mysteries in life can only be solved person to person. We can pull each other through. He figured it out at the end of his life; I am so glad he shared it with me in the middle of mine. Maybe I can be of some use now. Maybe I can be of some good to one person. I hope that person is Jack MacChesney.

The trip to Italy that was to change the course of my life has become a honeymoon. I made Jack take a leave of absence from the mines so we could spend the entire summer in Italy. My husband is a very good traveler. He’s not too persnickety about seeing everything; he’s loose about missing trains; he doesn’t get upset when a museum is closed or a church on our itinerary is locked. He speaks Italian with a mountain twang; sometimes I have to walk away because it is so funny. He ignores me and persists. The Italians love him because he tries so hard.

We landed in Rome and have been touring the countryside north by train. There is no way for me to scientifically explain the light here, as I am ignorant of such matters. But I swear to you, the sun is hung differently. There is a peachy golden haze over Italy that makes green fields more vivid, gives brown earth a depth and people a romantic glow. I point it out to Jack, and he tells me that I’m drunk in love with the place and it is coloring my perceptions. I don’t think so. I think there is something different about the light. When the sun goes down, the sky turns a vivid blue-black, the stars seem closer, and the edges don’t fade out toward the horizon. The same saturated blue hems the skyline that nestles the moon. It is no wonder the Fortuny family makes fabric here. They have a different canopy of velvet overhead to choose from each night. All they have to do is look up and copy.

Of course, we cannot wait to get to Bergamo, my mother’s family home, for a two-day visit, and then on to Schilpario, where Mario and Nonna live. Mario is scheduled to come down the mountain and pick us up to take us to his home. I cannot explain the deep joy I feel. My husband is sleeping next to me on the train, and I am sailing through the place I come from. There may not be a greater feeling on earth.

The train pulls into Bergamo. I wake Jack and begin yanking suitcases down from the bars overhead. We brought so much American crap for the relatives. They had time to get home and decide which items they missed, so I am loaded down with cigarettes, Bic pens, staples and staple guns, Moon Pies, Goo-Goo Clusters, and giant plastic paper clips. I didn’t question their choices; I just went out and bought in bulk and loaded a trunk.

Two of my cousins, Mafalda and Andrea, are there to meet us at the station. Their happy faces move alongside the train until it makes a full stop. I hang out the window; they see me and run to our exit steps to wait for us. I don’t think anybody has ever been so happy to see us. They negotiate the cumbersome bags, leaving me to carry nothing but my new leather-bound journal, which my husband bought me in Florence.

The train station is on the outskirts of town, on a side street nestled in some trees. Andrea and Mafalda load our luggage into their small car, we squeeze in, and we’re off. Andrea drives very fast, and Mafalda chides him to slow down. We take a sharp right turn that leads us to a C-shaped street that connects to the town circle. Mafalda points out the newspaper office, the government building, the church. Bergamo looks just like the picture in the book Iva Lou found at the university library. Nothing has changed. The Fountain of Angels, the cobblestone streets, the upright shoe-box-shaped houses painted subtle pastels, the little park, the outdoor cafés—they are all the same! There is only one change that I can see: The car has replaced the horse and carriage.

The Vilminore family lives in a four-story house in the middle of a block on Via Davide. Zia Antonietta, Zia Meoli, Zio Pietro, and my cousin Federica are waiting for us in front of the house. My aunts cry when they see us. They can’t seem to let go of Jack, who doesn’t seem to mind their heartfelt, sturdy embraces. The family home is neat and spare. Everything is white but the floor, which is made of glossy dark brown planks. Mafalda takes us up the stairs to our room, a good-sized simple room with a sleigh bed and a matching settee. The bed is piled high with white coverlets, just the way Mama liked. Mafalda tells us to rest, they will see us for a light supper later. Before she goes, she tells me that this used to be my mother’s bedroom.

While Jack unpacks, I lie down on the bed and look up at the ceiling, smooth and white. The window and door frames are painted an almond color. It’s the same white and the same almond trim in my mother’s bedroom in Big Stone Gap. My mother may not have talked much about Italy, but she surrounded herself with details that reminded her of her home.

We lie down for a nap and wake at about seven o’clock. The sun has set; we are surprised that we slept so long. The kitchen table is set for the two of us. Zia Antonietta serves us a delicious thick soup with greens in it, and soft bread with a hard, chewy crust. There is lots of creamy butter, and good, rich red wine. Italians eat their biggest meal at noon; this supper is perfectly sized, just enough for us to feel full but not stuffed.

When we are done eating, Zia Antonietta tells us to get our sweaters, and we go for a walk, or
la passeggiata
, as they say here. We walk a short distance to the main piazza in Bergamo Bassa, where folks stand in small groups chatting. Others sip coffee in the cafés on either side of the fountain. There is laughter, and the children run and play. The people here are so animated; they raise their voices to make a point, they use their bodies for emphasis; they are so full of life and comical! It is no surprise that the commedia dell’arte theatrical tradition started here in the fourteenth century. Everyone seems to have a divine sense of humor. Zia Antonietta tells us that this goes on every night. “It is soothing to laugh before sleep,” she explains in Italian. Jack thinks it’s the best idea he has ever heard. Zia Antonietta points to a rim of light above the city; in the twilight it looks like there are pillars and some buildings. “Alta Città. That was the ancient city Bergamo Alta. Now it is very desirable real estate. Our university is there. Mafalda will take you tomorrow if you like.”

“Why did the city move down here?” Jack wants to know.

“War. Rock slides,” she explains. She sees me frown. “But that was many centuries ago. Don’t worry, Ave Maria. Don’t worry.”

We join Zia Meoli and Zio Pietro. My uncle takes Jack off to show him something; Zia Meoli and I go for a walk, just the two of us. Zia Antonietta leaves the group and returns home up the side street.

“Where is Zia Antonietta going?”

“Home.” Zia Meoli shrugs.

“Isn’t she going to stay and have some fun?”

“She likes to do her chores.”

“Now?”

“Yes. She prepares the table for breakfast tomorrow, and then she goes to sleep.”

“Why does she prepare the breakfast?”

“That is how we do it. Antonietta never married, so she runs the family home.”

That was me,
I think to myself as we walk along. I took care of everything. I was so busy, I didn’t think about what I was doing or where the years were going. I just did what was expected of me. I wonder if Zia Antonietta is the town spinster. Zia Meoli must read my mind.

“My sister likes to take care of us.”

“She seems happy.”

“She was to marry, many years ago. The third son of seven of a family in Sestri Levante, on the seacoast. Then the war came and he died. She did not want to marry anyone else. She had many suitors. But her heart was broken, and that was the end of all that for her.”

I feel better that Zia Antonietta had a great love, even though he died. But I can’t help but wonder what it is about these Vilminore women; do they only ever love one man their whole lives, even if they marry another like my mother, or never marry like my aunt? Are they so clear-sighted about their great loves that there is no room for any other, ever? It seems that once their hearts were unlocked, they should have remained open to the possibilities of new love. Maybe the Vilminore girls are just one-man women.

Jack is waiting for me when we return to the house. I kiss my relatives good night, and Jack and I go to our room.

We sink into the layers and layers of feather-filled mattresses. We sink so deeply we can’t find each other. My mother tried to re-create this effect in America, but she couldn’t. Jack, used to sleeping on hard American mattresses, is afraid his back will go out in all this softness. I pound the top mattress flat to find my husband’s face.

“Thank you for marrying me,” I tell him. He looks confused, like
Here she goes again, my strange wife
. “No. Really. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome . . . I guess.”

“I like being married to you.”

“Good. Because you promised to stay with me forever.”

“I know. But now it seems like time is flying by; I’m not going to have enough time with you. I just know it.”

“Why do you worry about stuff like that?”

I don’t think he wants my answer. Because I worry about everything! I worry about Zia Antonietta, whose lover died before she could marry him. I worry that her entire life is doing dishes and sweeping without love to break the tedium! I worry that happiness can’t stay; I know it is just like the Deep Sleep, it is just a phase, a time, and then you come out of it and start all over again. I worry that the joy in my heart will become so ordinary to me that I will forget how sad I was without him and I will take him for granted and start nagging him and turn him away. I worry that I’m too old to have children. I worry that coal dust is sifting like black sand in the bellows of his lungs and he’ll get emphysema and die an untimely death. I worry that when we die, he’ll go first and I’ll be left all alone again. I worry that when I die and go to find him in heaven, he won’t be there. He will have changed and I won’t recognize him and then I’ll be traipsing through all eternity reliving the first thirty-five years of my life when I could not love anyone.