Home to Big Stone Gap (13 page)

“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 an accident. You’re not being punished.”

“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 the doctor, my husband looks so vulnerable, all I want to do is protect him.

“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.

Dr. Smiddy looks down at the chart. “Like emphysema.”

“Yes, like that,” I say.

“We don’t see a progression. Of course, it’s new. We’ll keep an eye on it.” He asks Jack, “Have you had any trouble breathing?”

“Nope.”

“Pain?”

“None.”

“You want to avoid any allergens. I would stop clearing asbestos pipes when you do construction, and you need to stay away from anything involving small particles.”

“My wood shop?”

“Wear a mask.”

“Okay, Doc.”

Dr. Smiddy wishes us a merry Christmas and then goes. Jack and I look at each other. We were not expecting to hear this news.

“I have to die of something someday, Ave.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“My daddy lived with black lung for twenty years.”

“I know.”

“And in the end, he had a heart attack and died in his sleep. I’d take that.” Jack jumps off the table and goes behind the screen to dress.

“You’re going to be fine,” I tell him. I want to reassure my husband, but saying it aloud helps me believe it too.

In tan lederhosen and a green felt alpine hat, Theodore Tipton strides downstage for the finale of
The Sound of Music.
He removes the hat and launches into “Climb Every Mountain.” The years fall away from Theodore as he sings. Even I, who know him in real life as well as anyone, see the utter and complete transformation from the man I know into Captain Von Trapp. Theodore is so gifted, you believe him. Yes, he’s standing on a stage floor dusted in Ivory Snow soap flakes, and yes, those are fake trees on the backs of the Shawnee Avenue Bridge Club, but it doesn’t matter. When he speaks, you listen, and when he sings, you soar. He loves Maria, and their marriage will last forever. As the Von Trapp children encircle him, Tayloe does her best Julie Andrews and looks up at her Theodore with a combination of admiration and lust. (I have to say, as much as Tayloe avoided love scenes with Greg Kress, she’s thrown herself into them with Theodore.)

The children sing in perfect harmony. Otto, one hand steady on the follow spot, uses the other to wipe away a tear. The orb of white light quivers a bit, and Otto quickly puts both hands back on the levers. There is not a dry eye in the house. The audience rises to its feet as Otto hits the spotlight to black. The upstage lights silhouette the Von Trapp family. Curtain.

For the curtain call, Virginia Meador and her orchestra launch into a high-spirited rendition of “How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?” As the layered drapery of red velvet pulls away, the cast locks arms upstage, then they walk downstage. They take a group bow, and each of the major characters steps forward to take a separate bow.

Iva Lou gets the most applause as she does a deep curtsy without faltering. For curtain call, she changed into a completely new ensemble not seen in the show. She wears a winter-white floor-length satin slip gown and matching marabou high-heeled slides. (I guess the Baroness will go on to new and greater heights once the Nazis are defeated.)

I get a twinge in my gut as the crowd cheers for her.

The Fox house, the historic landmark home of Big Stone Gap, is a rambling clapboard house with many rooms and a wrap-around porch on a grassy plot right off of Main Street. Whenever people in town need a nice catered dinner or a party, this is where they are likely to end up. This was the home of the famous author John Fox, Jr., who wrote
The Trail of the Lonesome Pine.
His office and study are intact in a sweet little room off the garden. There is a red leather wing chair where he did his reading; a turn-of-the-twentieth-century oak desk with a swivel seat where he did his writing; and the jewel of his study, a typewriter, a glorious old-fashioned black enamel box with bright white letter keys.

The large kitchen is in the grand old Southern style, with walk-in pantries, a cooling porch, and a fireplace. Many of us have tried to copy the layout in our own homes: it features counter space in a full rectangle around the room. In the center, a long old farm table with benches is perfect for any job that requires an assembly line.