Milk Glass Moon (21 page)

I make an excuse that my coffee needs a warm-up, but my eyes are stinging with tears. “When Spec survived his bypass, he came down to see me afterwards,” Twyla continues. “We felt so lucky that he had dodged death. And I had it in my mind that I was going to break it off that day, but when I saw him, I couldn’t do it. So here we are.” Twyla reaches for her purse and pulls out a small square of tissue paper. “He said when he died, he wanted you to have this. When he came back from Florida, he went to the doctor, who told him that he had more scar tissue than heart left. Spec took this as a sign that he may not have a lot of time, so he began to settle things.”

“He never said anything to me.”

“Spec was too proud to admit any weakness. That’s the one thing he saved for me. He could talk to me when he was afraid.” She gives me the tiny package, and I hold it for a few moments, not wanting to open it; knowing that if I do, Spec really is gone.

“It belonged to his mother,” Twyla tells me.

I carefully unfold the paper and pull out a fine gold chain with a fairy stone dangling from it. A fairy stone is a small brown wooden cross, delicate, squat, and square. Every girl in our mountains gets one at some point in her life as a gift, from either her parents, a friend, or a beau. There is a story behind how these fairy stones came to be. We are told that there is a valley in the neighboring Cumberland Gap where there is a grove of dogwood trees, and on Good Friday hundreds of years ago, the birds in the trees wept, and when their tears hit the ground, they changed into fairy stones. And until the end of time, the birds will cry every Good Friday until their sorrow is released on Judgment Day. This is an old Scottish myth brought here by the immigrants, but it has never died.

“I never had a fairy stone.”

“Now you do,” Twyla says softly and smiles.

I shake Twyla’s hands as she goes. She promises to be careful driving home, and we make murky plans for lunch sometime down the road. I know as I watch her back down the road that I will never see her again. We met when we had to, and our business is done. She took a big risk in coming here. I’m sure Spec shared my troubles with her and that she knows how I feel about fooling around. But I guess that now I understand, specifically because of Twyla, how these things happen. It’s not like she planned this; how could she know that it was where the road would lead? As I turn out the lights and lock the doors, I feel unsure and full of questions. I am at a point where I need answers, and there is only one man who can provide them.

Jack is lying on the bed watching TV when I come up. He quickly turns it off. “What was that all about?”

“That’s the famous Twyla Johnson.”

“I figured that when she introduced herself.”

“She gave me this fairy stone that belonged to Spec’s mother.” I lean in and show Jack Mac the necklace around my neck.

“She is an attractive lady.”

“Spec liked beautiful women. It’s so sad, though. There was no place for her today.” As I undress, I think of her perfect suit and shoes and bag, and how there was a time when a woman never left her house without shoes that matched her bag, an appropriate hat, and gloves. Twyla Johnson is one of those women who live in a bygone era and refuse to give up the artifice. Maybe that stubborn nature kept her in a relationship with Spec. “She loved him very much, she told me.”

“Complicated, isn’t it,” Jack says.

“Well, we went through it.” I sit on the bed and look at Jack, who turns the color of the red throw pillow propped behind his head.

“We did,” he admits.

“Yes, we did.”

“Uh-oh,” he says flatly. This makes me laugh.

“I always told you that I didn’t want to know the nature of your relationship with Karen Bell.”

“It’s so far in the past.”

“It seems like a lifetime ago.”

“It does. And it is. We’re happy now, and that’s what matters.”

“I learned something tonight that left me peaceful about all this stuff.”

“What’s that?”

“Spec and Twyla were friends. Outside of the romance part, which I’m sure was there, there was a friendship. A kinship. Spec wasn’t a big communicator, and I’m glad that there was someone he could unload on who would listen. She was a sounding board, someone he could talk to. Isn’t that the most important thing?”

Jack doesn’t answer me. “Let’s go to bed, honey,” he finally says, softly.

“Jack.”

“What?”

“There’s something I didn’t tell you about when it happened. I thought it was best not to say anything at the time. I saw Karen Bell at Holston Valley when Iva Lou had her surgery.”

“She wasn’t important to me, Ave,” Jack says quietly.

“Yeah, but she listened to you when you needed somebody to talk to. I wasn’t there for you. She was. That’s the truth.”

Jack considers this for a moment and then nods in agreement.

“That was really how you became friends, right?” I ask him.

“I don’t even remember.”

“Did you make love to her?”

I’m expecting Jack to bite my head off or roll over and dismiss my question, but he doesn’t. He looks off for a moment and then looks directly into my eyes. “I’ve never lied to you, Ave Maria.”

“But we have skirted issues sometimes. I need to
know
now, honey.”

I’m not nervous in the pit of my stomach asking this, maybe because I feel secure in my husband’s love for me now. Maybe I want closure. Or maybe I want to understand Spec. I do know I won’t rest until Jack tells me what really happened.

“I didn’t make love to her,” Jack says simply.

I know that he is telling me the truth. I would like to tell him that it doesn’t matter anymore, because I know now what we have in this marriage. Sex is sex, but deep emotional commitment makes a soul mate.

Jack continues, “She helped me through a rough patch. That was the extent of it. Now, I’m not going to lie to you. She fell in love with me, and I was very tempted, and I wasn’t sure you wanted me. So I thought about that, and I decided that if you left me, I would have to go on. And I went into a sort of survival mode where I figured out scenarios that could happen. I think like that, analytically. But you came home when she began to really press me to leave you.”

“Oh my God.” The nerve of that woman, I’m thinking. I should’ve slapped her at the hospital instead of giving her a big ole hidee-hello.

“That summer you were gone, Spec came to see me.”

“Why?”

“To scare the hell out of me. One night I came home, and he was sitting on the porch steps. He must have been waiting there for a couple of hours. Well, he got up and put out his cigarette and motioned for me to come closer. When I got about a foot in front of him, he reached for me with those giant hands of his and he took me by the collar, yanked me to about an inch from his nose, and he said, ‘You hurt Ave Maria and I will kill you.’ ”

“No!”

“He meant it too. He told me that he didn’t want me to mess up your life.”

I lean back on the pillows and think about this for a moment. Spec Broadwater was more than my friend. He looked out for me like a good father, offering protection and asking nothing in return.

I get up off the bed and go to the bathroom.

“Wait a second.”

“Yeah?” I turn to him.

“What about you and Pete Rutledge?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Something went on there, didn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Etta told me that you and he were close that same summer.”

“Etta said that?”

Jack nods. “Were you?”

I don’t know which is worse, that my husband is asking the question or that my daughter noticed something and felt it was important enough to tell her father.

“He’s a friend.” I try to sound casual.

“He is now.”

“And that’s all he was back then.”

“Etta wouldn’t make up a story. What happened between you two?”

“You know, I don’t really know.”

“Now who’s skirting the issue?”

“I didn’t make love to him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I figured that.”

“How?”

“I’m married to you.” Jack smiles, and in his smile I see relief.

“What does that mean?”

“You never create a new mess without cleaning up an old one first.”

“Oh.” I go into the bathroom and brush my teeth.

Jack joins me in the doorway. “When we were young, the thing I wanted the most was to get to here.”

“Here in Cracker’s Neck?”

“No. Here. To this stage of our lives.” He continues, “I want to get old with you. Real old. And then, when the time comes, I want to die in your arms.”

I put down my toothbrush and pull my husband close. I realize that I have exactly what I have been looking for all of my life. When you honor someone, he owns you. Jack MacChesney owns me, and maybe that’s the only part of love that lasts.

The lunch crowd at the Mutual Pharmacy is proof that life goes on after someone dies. Spec’s seat at the counter is left empty (at least for now). Otto is on the stool next to Spec’s. Fleeta pats his hand as she refills his mug with coffee. This is the first sign of public affection I’ve seen Fleeta give Otto; I guess it’s true that grief binds folks together. Fleeta takes a break to join Iva Lou and me in a booth for a cup of coffee.

“I heard you had a visitor.” Fleeta cocks her head toward me.

“Who?” Iva Lou wants to know.

“Twyla Johnson.” Fleeta drags out “Johnson” like she’s singing it.

“You’re kidding.” Iva Lou’s eyes widen.

“Where’d you hear that, Fleeta?” I ask her.

“I ain’t tellin’.” Fleeta chomps on a straw. “I guess we can expect her to start sneakin’ up to the cemetery of the nighttime and puttin’ a lone rose on his grave. That’s how they do it, you know. The other woman. She wants the wife to know that she ain’t the only one.”

“That’s an awful lot of effort to make a point.” Iva Lou cuts her brownie with her fork.

“Well, don’t you think an extramarital affair is a lot of work?” Fleeta sniffs.

“Too much for me. Why do you think I gave it up and got married?”

Fleeta turns to me. “So. What did she say?”

“She said that she and Spec were just friends.”

“Oh, come on.” Fleeta laughs. Then she studies me for a moment and asks, “Really?”

“Swear to God. She said Leola was the great love of Spec’s life and that she could never hurt another woman or take their daddy away from his children.”

As Fleeta considers this, her stress-lined forehead smoothes out like polished marble for the first time in years. “Twyla Johnson is a goddamn saint,” Fleeta says reverently.

“I think so.”

“You know, Spec could piss me off worse than a blood relative. But I liked the man. I knew he was a good egg. I didn’t want to think he was like all the other men, you know, that hit fifty and run around the county with their tongues hangin’ out, looking for action.” Fleeta gets up and goes behind the counter.

Iva Lou looks at me. “That was a crock of bullshit and you know it,” she says quietly.

“And it’s the story you repeat every time you stamp a book and someone inquires about the nature of Spec and Twyla’s relationship. Okay?”

“You got a deal.”

April is a month of great celebration in the MacChesney home. Jack is in the kitchen making homemade spaghetti. He’s putting together a special supper for our seventeenth wedding anniversary.

“Happy anniversary!” Theodore sings.

“Thank you very much. Where are you?”

“At the office. I got your message about Spec. Jesus, that was fast.”

“I know. How’s Max?”

“Still cookin’.”

“When am I going to see you again?” I ask Theodore sadly.

“Anytime. What’s the matter with you?”

“It’s just so depressing around here. Etta just got her driver’s license. Pearl is moving to Boston with her husband. And I really miss Spec.” I could go on, but I stop.

“Lots of changes in Cracker’s Neck Holler.”

“Too many,” I tell him.

“You need to look at what you have, not what’s missing. You have a good man who loves you, and if that’s all you get, you’ve already won the lottery,” Theodore promises me. He fills me in on his life, and I do feel better. When Theodore talks about Max, I hear such happiness in his voice. Max brings out things in Theodore that I have never seen before, all of them positive. Love hasn’t changed Theodore but has made him more open and willing to take chances.

Jack has already written in our anniversary book. I still haven’t had a chance. Usually I’m the one pushing
him
to write in it. This tradition of writing to each other every year has served us well; we look in it and see each other’s thoughts as our marriage has grown, and there is always something that we have written in the past that helps us in the here and now. This year his passage is simple but slightly arty. At the top of the page he glued a picture that Sergio took of us kissing on the banks of Lake Como. Next to that he affixed a small wild rose he plucked from the bushes outside our room at the Villa d’Este. Then he wrote:

Dear Wife:

When I was young I thought seventeen years was a long time. And now I know it is just the beginning.

With all my love, J.

He has left the book next to my place at the table to remind me to write in it.

I’m using the good china tonight, and feeling in a generous mood. I invited Etta to bring her new boyfriend to dinner. He’s a senior at Appalachia High School, an honor student who plays basketball. He has an old-fashioned name: Robbie Ramsey (his parents were not inspired by the Old West, as were so many other parents of his generation, judging by all the Austins, Dakotas, and Cassidys in Etta’s class).

I hear the motor of Tara’s cranky 1988 Dodge Dart coming up the road. Etta jumps out, and Tara toots lightly on the horn as she backs down the mountain.

“I’m home!” Etta calls out.

“Come on back,” I holler.

“Where’s Robbie?” I ask when I see Etta is alone.

“I decided not to invite him.”

“Why not?”

“I just like it when it’s the three of us sometimes.” Etta shrugs and goes to wash up. When she returns to the table, Jack serves his excellent meal. At the end of it, our daughter presents us with a gift, a first edition of
The Trail of the Lonesome Pine,
the novel by John Fox, Jr., that our Outdoor Drama is based on. “I thought you guys would like it. Since you used to direct and Dad used to play in the band.”