Big Stone Gap (16 page)

The crowd in the visitors’ section is filled with overflow from our stands. Rye Cove is a small village, much smaller than Big Stone Gap. When we play them, it seems pathetic to even cheer against them since they have no manpower at all in their stands and just as little on the field. We’ll beat them decisively tonight, and we should; after all, we’re the side that’s got the movie star.

The teams aren’t on the field yet. They’re lined up around the track to wave to Elizabeth Taylor. I look all around the park, and everyone is standing. There’s a buzz, but it is definitely reverential. The band curves off the parking lot and onto the track, a long Carolina-blue snake, precise and pliable. And then there she is! The convertible! With her! The car harrumphs over the parking-lot median and bounces onto the track; for a moment I worry Elizabeth and her husband will be thrown off of their backseat perch. But they hang on to each other and laugh. I’m in a perfect spot to get a real good look at her.

I haven’t heard this much cheering since we won the state championship in 1972. The stadium fills with sound that echoes into the black mountains behind us. The chanting: “Liz! Liz! Liz!” The occasional gut holler: “I love you!” cuts through the din, all of us, yelling, whistling, applauding, thrilled! Notice us! Over here! See me, Elizabeth! We’ve sure been watching you all these many years! Watch us!

The convertible rolls around the track slowly. On the front grid of the car is a sign from the Nabisco distributor that reads,
DON
’
T GO
’
ROUND HUNGRY
.
HAVE YOUR NABS
—short for Nabisco crackers around these parts. Cas Walker must have cut a deal with his distributors. I hope somebody explained to Elizabeth what Nabs are.

The convertible gingerly inches up to the fifty-yard line, where I am standing. Spec is behind the wheel. He sees me, and he knows I love old movies, so he practically slows to a stop so I can get a close-up look.

Elizabeth Taylor is exquisite. She is wearing a flowing emerald-green silk tunic and matching pants. The neckline is an off-center V, which is quite becoming. Her shoulder-length hair is pulled back into a low chignon, and she has a large yellow flower tucked over one ear. I am close enough to see into the car. She has kicked off a very pretty pair of matching green pumps. Her feet are bare, and her toenails are painted hot pink. But it is her expression, the sweet smile—not forced, genuine—that gets me. She is so happy to see us! Her eyes
are
violet! I look over at Nellie Goodloe, who seems relieved. The theme colors are a real homage now. There is something peculiar about Nellie; now I see what. She has rinsed her hair coal black. Poor old Nellie; be a leader, I want to tell her, not a follower.

Elizabeth is tiny, with delicate hands and feet, like a child’s. She is a little chubby, but on her—it just softens her, so it’s as though she’s a little blurry, not a hard angle on her. Three of the ladies from the Methodist sewing circle stand behind me. Their comments are not as generous. Joella Reasor, who has always battled a weight problem, comments to her friends, “All my life I wanted to look like her, and now I do.”

I see Theodore up in the announcer’s booth, which angles out over the home section. He is in the window, examining the field from on high. I give him a thumbs-up, and he waves to me. Then I look back to the convertible. Candidate Warner gives me a thumbs-up; I guess he thought I was signaling to him. I feel a little guilty. I’d never vote for him, since I’m a Democrat. But you know what? It doesn’t hurt anything to let him think I might. He smiles a big, beamy, vote-for-me smile, and I give him a thumbs-up too.

A team of folks helps Elizabeth and the candidate up to their seats. The football players take the field, but no one even notices the game. Luster Camp, a sweet soul of a man with a feeble mind, is our unofficial high school mascot. He takes his usual cheering spot in front of the home stands—tonight he’s in direct view of Elizabeth Taylor’s perch. Luster loves our team and leads very amusing cheers, but he isn’t exactly the ambassador we want to flaunt in front of a visiting movie star. Luster, however, is undeterred. It’s just another game night to him, and he’s got a job to do. The crowd looks down at him as a mother does to a child who is about to embarrass her deeply in public.
Please don’t,
they seem to be pleading with their eyes.

“Y’all. Y’all,” Luster shouts, “it’s time for a cheer!”

The kids in the stands usually cheer loudly for him, but tonight their silence sends a strong message:
Luster, sit down. Please don’t humiliate us in front of Virginia Woolf.

“Beans and corn bread got in a fight! Beans knocked the corn bread outta sight. That’s what Powell Valley is gonna do tonight!”

Elizabeth Taylor laughs and applauds as though the cheer is the funniest she has ever heard.

“One more!” Luster shouts. “Two bits, four bits, six bits, a dollah. All for the Vikings, stand up and hollah!”

Elizabeth applauds again. The crowd, taking their cue from her, stands and cheers. Luster bows deeply, then disappears into the crowd in his torn raincoat and porkpie hat. I doubt he knew Elizabeth Taylor was in the crowd.

I watch every moment of the second quarter tick off, hoping it will end and afraid for it to end. How on earth is Theodore handling this pressure? I want his show to be magnificent. We just can’t make any mistakes. The band empties out onto the track silently as the final seconds of the quarter pass. The teams run off the field. The band files past the home section and across to the goal line, one by one.

The announcer in the booth, who calls the game for local radio, blows into the microphone as we all look toward him.

“Ladies and gents. We got a show fer you tonight. Now we got the prettiest gal in Hollywood here, and this here show is full of all the stuff from her movies. So sit back and relax, spit out your tobacky, and let’s get happy! Here we go, folks, the Powell Valley Viking marching band!”

The crowd leaps to their feet, applauding and cheering. The pyramids are ready to roll. I see the shimmer of Tayloe’s Cleopatra costume from her hiding place under the visitors’ bleachers. She’s right where she should be. Then something very odd happens. The drum majorette blows her whistle. Not once, not twice, but four times. And then she waits and blows it again. She isn’t blowing it at the band—they are frozen in position waiting to begin. Their eyes are wide and full of horror. There on the twenty-yard line, several feet from where the band is to make its first formation, are King and Cora, the town strays, two large mutts, fed by all and adopted by no one. King has mounted Cora. Cora either senses the crowd or is through with King; either way, she does not want to be doing this right now. I can’t help but think that the dogs took on all of the nervous energy in our town and now have to release it. The urgent humping is rhythmic, almost saying,
Please let this be over. Let this show be over. Let it be over now.

Another hush falls over the crowd, and everyone looksto the queen for her response. Elizabeth Taylor is ignoring the dogs and chatting with her aide. Theodore is slumpedin the announcer’s booth. I look over at Pearl, who shrugs at me, wordlessly asking,
What are we supposed to do?
One ofthe referees can’t take it another second, so he trots out onto the field to separate the dogs. Spec runs after the ref shouting loudly enough for everyone to hear, “You can’t pull ’em apart, they’ll bite you, you stupid son of a bitch.” So we do the best we can in this terrible situation. We let them hump and we wait it out. This has to be the longest-lasting sex act on record. Finally, King depletes himself. He climbs off Cora and runs into the end zone with a gallop worthy of Secretariat. Cora slinks off into the shadows. The drum majorette blows her whistle. Finally. Finally. The show.

From the first pinwheel formation, the kids are perfect. They play the music so grandly, and what an arrangement! Seamlessly and beautifully, they rondelet through every major theme of every major Elizabeth Taylor movie. She stands and places her hands on the rail of the platform, leaning over the edge like she wants to be close to this majestic, loving salute. Then the flag girls pivot across the fifty-yard line, single file, and magically disappear under the pyramids. The three pyramids move into place and then BOOM! The lights in the stadium go out, the crowd cheers and whistles; and there in center field, surrounded by fire batons, is Tayloe Slagle, in full Cleopatra garb, including jet-black wig, posed Egyptian-style. Her figure is amazing; she is curvy but lean, just like Elizabeth Taylor when she was Cleopatra. Tayloe takes two batons and begins to twirl them like the pro she is. She twists and bends and tosses and catches and smiles, effortlessly, smoothly, and with such sass. The effect in this dark ballpark is dazzling. Pearl, who has run all the way from the other side of the track in the dark, comes up behind me, breathless. We stand and watch the show with awe. Even though we helped, we cannot believe how beautiful it is.

“She is so talented,” Pearl decides as she watches Tayloe.

“Yes, she is. But baton twirling is not a skill one needs later in life.” I don’t know why I think I always have to teach Pearl lessons. I am not the oracle of Big Stone Gap, after all.

The lights bolt back on; everyone is cheering. The band plays off and exits the field. They pass Elizabeth’s perch; she is weeping and throwing them kisses. Then the most amazing thing happens: She turns to the announcer’s booth and throws Theodore a kiss. And then she bows to him! She actually bows! I will never forget this moment as long as I live.

The Coach House Inn is the only real restaurant in Big Stone Gap. We do have the Bus Terminal Café and the Sub Sandwich Carry-Out, but they are strictly casual. There is Jackson’s Fish & Fry, but they only serve Sunday brunch. Punch-and-cake wedding receptions are held in the church basement fellowship rooms. So, all the rest of life’s events—holidays, Lions and Kiwanis club meetings, and family buffets—are held right here at the Coach House.

The building is a simple colonial-style redbrick square, with black shutters and a sloping white roof. A sign swings from the entryway: a black silhouette of a nineteenth-century coach driver whipping a team of horses with a fancy carriage behind him. The artist who painted the coach and driver is the same one who made my nurse in a rush. The eats are terrific. The food is fresh and delectable—salty, crusty, spicy, hot fried chicken (on Sundays it’s called Gospel Bird), with biscuits so light and fluffy, one person could eat a dozen. Nellie made the entrance look lovely. She borrowed the large ficus plants in brass urns from the bank, so when you enter the Coach House, you are completely surrounded by lush foliage. Edna and Ledna Tuckett, the town twins, now in their late sixties, are dressed alike in pale blue serge suits and hand out programs for the evening.

The programs are pretty; Nellie really has a knack. She is the doyenne of our Corn Bread Aristocracy. The program covers are made from lavender construction paper, with a tiny purple silk African violet glued on, framed by a small grosgrain ribbon. Inside, the agenda for the evening is laid out in a fancy calligraphy:

Welcome Candidate and Mrs. John Warner

Library Fund-raising Dinner
October 24, 1978 — 6:30 p.m.
The Coach House Inn

Invocation: Reverend Elmo Gaspar
Dinner: Chicken & Fixings
honoring the great career of screen legend Elizabeth Taylor
Aperitif: “Little Women” crabbies and punch
Salad: “Sandpiper” potato salad
Main course: “Cleopatra” fried chicken and “Butterfield 8” biscuits
Dessert: “National (Red) Velvet” cake and ice cream
Coffee & Tea

Introduction: Mrs. Nellie Goodloe, Chair
Remarks: Candidate John Warner

The back cover reads, “Compliments of the Dollar General Store,” then, in musical notes, its theme-song refrain:

 Who says a dollar won’t buy much anymore?
Every day is dollar day!
At the Dollar General Store! 

(I guess they paid for the programs.)

Theodore looks handsome in his gray slacks, navy blazer, and pale blue necktie that brings out his eyes (classic). I’m wearing a black cocktail dress with a peacock brooch of Austrian crystals. I put my hair up in a fancy do. Through the bay windows at the front of the Coach House I can see a few hundred dressed-up folks milling around. No alcohol allowed (technically), as this is a dry county (nonenforceable), but Nellie Goodloe has made sure there’s a champagne punch with lime sherbet. Nerves have calmed down considerably, but a touch of the spirits will soothe folks even more.