Milk Glass Moon (9 page)

Pete puts down the water bottle and scans the crowd as though he’s looking for someone. I want to dive under the seats in front of me, but I don’t, and I’m glad when I see the look of total surprise on his face as our eyes meet.

Pete lectures extensively about the marble mines in Italy—his favorites are located in Bari, near the Adriatic Sea—and describes the mining process in detail. After the talk is over and the enthusiastic applause has subsided, a group of students gathers around the podium. Pete listens to their questions, but he keeps looking up at me, as if to make sure I’m still there. I indicate that I’ll wait for him in the lobby. After a minute or two of nervous pacing in the lobby, I am tempted to bolt, to run back to Theodore’s; okay, I’ve seen Pete Rutledge, he’s the same, still gives me butterflies and that’s all I wanted to know, now I can go back and let this infatuation or whatever it is go. I decide to slip out. He won’t miss me a bit; he’s got a roomful of fans. Just as I’m turning toward the door, I feel a hand on my shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Pete stands in the doorway, folding his speech into a tube, which he bangs against his thigh.

“I was just going to get some air.”

“No, you were leaving.” Pete takes my hand and kisses me on the cheek. “You look beautiful.”

“Great lecture.”

“Glad you could make it.”

“I’m interested in indigenous Italian marble.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. I was particularly enlightened by your description of the new mining techniques.”

“You were.”

“I was.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Very,” I blurt. I should have lied. I certainly didn’t intend to have dinner with him. I just wanted to say hello and get back to Theodore.

“I want the whole story. What you’re doing here, how long you’re staying, especially how long you’re staying.” He smiles
that
smile, and I think I’m going to pass out (maybe it isn’t him, maybe I’m really hungry). I casually put my hand on the frame of an enormous painting by the door and lean against it. The security guy shoots me a look. I pull my hand away.

“Professor Rutledge?” A beautiful girl in her early twenties approaches us. She has gorgeous red curls that spiral out in every direction, a sprinkle of freckles on her nose, and a body that, well, I’ll never see the likes of in
my
mirror.

“I’m Sharon Hall. I’m in the architecture school here.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you. I’d like to interview you for our newsletter.”

“Sure.”

“Where can I reach you?”

“Um, you know what? Call the office and leave me a message, and I’ll get back to you.”

“Great. Great. Sorry I interrupted.” She smiles at me warmly. “And thank you so much.” She smiles demurely at him (redheads always have great teeth).

“I didn’t know architects looked like that,” I say after she’s walked away.

“They don’t generally,” Pete says, laughing.

As Pete and I walk through the Village, I tell him why I’m here and what I’ve been doing since I landed. Every time I try to get him to talk about what’s going on in his life, he somehow eases the conversation back to me. When we reach the public library on the corner of Sixth Avenue and West Tenth Street, Pete finds a small X carved into the sidewalk cement and makes me stand on it.

“Now look up. See the owl?”

“I see a clock.” In a bell tower, there is a beautiful clock with four faces, each pointing in a different direction.

“Look again.” Pete stands behind me and casually puts his arms around me; as I look up a shiver runs through me.

“I see it!” The two clock faces form the eyes, and the roof the head, of the owl. “Etta would love that.”

“Show her next time.” Pete rattles the wrought-iron gate on Patchin Place, a series of small brownstones painted in yellow and white separated by a small cobblestone street. “This is where e. e. cummings lived.”

“The Patchin Place poems!”

“That’s right. Greenwich Village has been home to a lot of great writers. Bret Harte lived up the street; Eugene O’Neill down a ways. This is the biggest advantage of working at NYU. I’m in the middle of literary history. It’s romantic, isn’t it?”

It’s bad enough that I’m thinking romance, worse that he’s pointing it out to me, but that’s Pete: a perfect man in a romantic setting (I wonder, does he
plan
these settings?).

“Here we go.” Pete takes my hand and leads me up a small staircase into a quiet bistro filled with mahogany antiques, odd chairs with needlepoint seats, and benches along the wall. The only light is coming from a refrigerator case that holds some of the most ornate pastries I’ve ever seen: tortes layered with frosting, éclairs festooned with tiny pink roses on their chocolate sleeves, a strawberry napoleon with stripes of custard and jam nestled between paper-thin crust.

“They have real food too.”

“This
is
real food!” I insist.

“Let’s go in the back.” Pete takes me to the garden room and points to a booth in the farthest corner. We sit down, and though the wood is old and mottled, it’s comfortable.

“You like this place?”

“I love it.” The waiter places a basket of bread and butter on the table. “And I love fresh bread!” I tear off a piece of bread.

“You’re an easy woman to make happy. So, how’s Etta? How’s Jack?”

“She’s fine. He’s fine.”

“I like him, you know.”

“I know. But hey, he’s a great guy. Why wouldn’t you like him?” I rush to promote and support my husband like the good soldier I am.

“I usually don’t like the competition.”

I ignore his flirting and bite into the bread, so Pete redirects the conversation (thank God). “I saw your dad last time I was in Italy.”

“He told me. It was so nice of you to visit.”

“He’s an interesting man. There he is living in a mountain village, but there’s nothing about him that’s small-town. He reads, and he’s interested in the bigger universe. He wants the place to grow yet maintain its charm. He’d be a kick-ass urban planner if he lived in the States.”

“Sometimes I wish he did.”

“Do you ever want to move over there?”

“I couldn’t. Jack’s construction business is going really well, and I have the Pharmacy, and Etta’s in school—”

“I’d like to drop everything and move there tomorrow,” Pete says convincingly.

“Why don’t you?”

“Complicated.” He smiles when he says this, and it makes me laugh.

“How so?”

“I’m getting married.”

Now, I’m a bad actress and I know it, so I smile supportively even though his news is the last thing I expected to hear. “Oh,” I say instead of “Congratulations.”

He doesn’t wait for me to thaw, just tells me his love story in technical steps, as if he’s describing how to dig a quarry. “You know, I’ve lived with a couple of women, and it never seemed right. And then I met Gina about a year ago. She’s divorced, has a thirteen-year-old son. At first I wasn’t interested at all. She’s not my type. She’s small and blond and analytical. But we hit it off. She’s smart, and she’s caring. And she’s into commitment. She wants a family structure for her son, and I can’t blame her. It’s important.”

“When’s the big day?” I must have said this too loudly, because a man at the next table looks over at me.

“We don’t know.”

“Oh.”

“Well, what do you think?”

“I’m thinking what took you so long?”

Pete throws his head back and laughs. “Well, there was just one thing holding me back.”

God, do I need to hear this? Do I need to hear how hard it will be for him to give up women, as various and delectable as the French pastries in the display case? “What’s that?” I ask, knowing the answer.

“You.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand.

“Me?” I pull my hand away, not just to defuse the tension but also to support my head before it hits the table like a slab of marble.

“Yeah. But I can’t have you. So what can I do?” He picks up the menu and begins to read it.

“Pete?” The tone of my voice makes him put down the menu and look at me. “Did you ever see
The Ghost and Mrs. Muir
?”

“Gene Tierney.”

“Yeah. And Rex Harrison.”

“What about it?”

“Sort of like you and me. You’re like the sea captain.”

“Wasn’t he dead?”

“He was the ghost who lived in the cottage Gene Tierney rented from his estate. And he didn’t want anybody living in the house, so he haunted the tenants. But Gene Tierney fell in love with him, even though he wasn’t real. He was unavailable to her just like you’re unavailable to me and I am to you.”

“But I’m real.”

“I know. But I’m already married, and I love my husband. So, truthfully, you might as well be a ghost. You know, we get one lifetime, and we make choices. And we can’t have everything we want. Gina sounds wonderful. And you care about her. And you shouldn’t think about what you’re going to miss out on, but what you
have.
”

“You make a lot of sense.” Pete looks away for a moment.

Now, what I can’t tell him is that I liked the idea that he was an eternal bachelor, an Unattached International Bon Vivant tied to no woman, no vows, and no country. I liked knowing he was out there traveling the world, collecting rock samples, and occasionally thinking of me. Ciao to my Plan B. As we eat, I make him laugh with stories of home. We talk about poetry and architecture and Italy. We have many things to cover (this was always the case), so we zigzag from subject to subject, feeding the hunger we have for each other’s conversation, knowing that we may never visit alone like this again.

As Pete walks me back to Theodore’s, we don’t say much, which is weird because there’s still plenty we haven’t covered. When we arrive at the building, we stand under the awning and look at each other. It isn’t normal gazing, it’s as if we’re studying each other, wondering what this means, what we mean to each other. I get very still inside myself, so still I can feel my breathing. I take my hands and place them on Pete’s chest. Why I’m doing this, I don’t know, but in the quiet, I feel his heart beating, and it reassures me.

“I’ve got to go.” Pete looks down Fifth Avenue as though he’s seen something in the distance that is calling him. He starts to say something else and stops.

“What?” I ask.

“If someone had told me that this would be the story of my romantic life, I would’ve laughed,” he says with a smile.

“I’m sorry.” For some reason, in this instant, I feel that it’s all my fault.

“It’s all right. It’s timing.” Pete puts his hands in his pockets.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Sure.”

“When I’m sad, I think of you.”

Pete looks at me carefully. “Why?”

“Because.” I close my eyes as though the words I need are written on the front page of my mind. “Because you see the girl in me.” It’s true. Nobody remembers her anymore. She got lost on the road of responsibility and within the natural process of aging (ick). When Pete Rutledge tells me I’m beautiful, I believe him. And boy, do I need to hear it. I need to
know
it. When I’m with him, I’m not taken for granted, I’m not just a pharmacist or a wife or a mother, I’m me, the real me. I’m celebrated. It’s something that even the best husband can’t deliver; it must come from the unfamiliar, or the new, or memory itself. That’s the trade-off we all make in the security of commitment: excitement for comfort.

“Good night, Ave.”

“Bye, Pete.”

I watch him as he walks down the street. He turns. “Ave?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell Jack I’ll send the samples this week, okay?”

“Okay.”

Pete turns the corner and is gone. But just like Gene Tierney, I have a funny feeling that this is not the end of this fantasy. This is not the end of Pete Rutledge.

CHAPTER FOUR

“Don’t ask. Let me get into my pajamas,” I tell Theodore, who perches on the couch like a cat waiting to be fed. “I can’t believe you stayed up this late. Are you that curious about Pete Rutledge?”

“What can I say? I love a soap opera. I’ll get the wine.” Theodore jumps up and goes into the kitchen.

“I could’ve gotten into Big Trouble,” I tell Theodore on my way to the bedroom. “But I didn’t.” As I change, Theodore hollers from the kitchen, “Boy, are you lucky. You had the ‘my best friend the gay guy is waiting for me upstairs’ excuse.”

I take a glass of wine from Theodore and gulp it down.

“Now, give me all the details.”

“Where’s Max?”

“Never mind him. He’s home. Exhausted. Come on. What happened?”

“Well, I went to the lecture, and then we walked around, and then we went to the Caffe dell’Artista on Greenwich Avenue.”

“The cannoli there are as good as foreplay.”

“No kidding.”

“Go on.”

“And he told me that he was going to get married.”

“No.”

“To a nice woman named Gina with a son.”

“He didn’t hit on you at all?”

“Yes, he did. Sort of. A little. And I was very happy about it, okay?”

“Don’t get mad at me. I’m only asking the questions. Does he love the Gina woman?”

“He didn’t say that. He said Gina wanted a commitment, and that her son needed him, you know, it was like a Red Cross deal. He’s saving them or something.”

“Uh-oh.”

“And then he told me that—”

“Let me guess. He loves you but he can’t have you.”

“Yes! That’s it! That’s exactly what he said!”

“This is too good.”

“It’s terrible.”

“It’s perfect.”

“How is it perfect?” I pour myself another glass of wine.

“You know that there’s a great guy out there who adores you, and you never have to clean up after him or feed him or wonder if he’s out catting around, or any of the bad stuff. You get only the good stuff. Who said fantasy is better than reality?”

“Everybody says that.”

“Because it’s true. Once you fall in love, and you’re
in
love, the magic gets used up. That’s not to say that the day-in and day-out routine of love isn’t totally reassuring, of course it is. But it’s flannel sheets instead of satin.”

“Jack and I are definitely flannel. But it’s more complicated than that. Pete helped me get over Joe’s death. And because that bond was so strong, I had to decide if I was going to stay married to Jack. In my marriage, there’s the world before Joe died, and then there’s the world after. And sometimes at night, when it’s just Jack and me, we talk about how everything changed after Joe, which we could never do until I went away that summer with Etta and met Pete. He helped me see where I was in my life. In a way, he even helped me to see that Jack was the right man for me.”

Theodore doesn’t say anything. What can he say? I just admitted that Pete Rutledge was, in a very real way, responsible for my ultimate happiness because he made me look honestly at myself and decide where I belonged. I chose Jack MacChesney, and maybe I’ll always wonder what might have been. But who doesn’t?

I cry all the way through the Columbus Day Parade. When the float made of red paper roses carrying Miss Italy drifts by, I see youth and beauty and possibility and feel at odds with myself. When the cornet band of old Italian men with handlebar mustaches marches by playing “Oh Marie,” I think of my mother and her Louis Prima records, and how she never got the man she wanted the most. I wonder if there is some old village curse on the women in my line. I hope Etta avoids it. Somehow I think she will, as she has the MacChesney feistiness. I don’t think an evil-eye curse would get my daughter down.

When I was growing up, my mother and I were the only Eye-talians in Big Stone Gap. I thought we were the only ones in the world, because we were so removed from life beyond the Blue Ridge Mountains. But I was wrong. There were lots of us out there, and today I’m surrounded by them. I feel at home among the strong features, the prominent noses, the thick hair, the posture, the pride, all the characteristics I think of when I think of my father in Schilpario, or my mother. Sometimes her face flashes before me. I see her by the sink, or in the garden, or kneeling before me as she pins up a hem. I remember her smile and how she made me feel safe. I see her in these young women, in the strength of their dark eyes.

I want to run into the middle of the parade and tell everyone, “I am one of you! I belong here!” My dream since childhood, to belong, to be part of a bigger family, a family that looked like me and felt the things I did. And here they are, thousands of them, on the sidewalks cheering and marching down the street. Finally, I fit in the world, and yet I’m still alone. I look around, and I’m the only person crying.

When the plane takes that first dip out of the clouds and into the clear, I see the Blue Ridge Mountains roll out before me in full autumn. The trees have turned bright yellow topaz; there won’t be much orange or red tint to the leaves this year because of the Indian summer. I am happy to see these mountains again, to be home, where my husband and daughter wait for me. Southwest Virginia is an uncomplicated place for a complex person, and I miss it whenever I go.

I bought Etta lots of little things, not to make up for the punishment but to let her know that she was in my thoughts the whole time. I have a goal this fall: I want to get on good footing with my daughter. I want to understand her. I want her to understand me and why I parent the way I do. I hope she learned that when she does wrong, there are consequences. Now we need to work on her compassion. I know it’s in there, I just have to help her find it.

“Yoo-hoo. Girl! Over here!” Iva Lou waves to me from beyond the checkpoint. I don’t hide how thrilled I am that she came to pick me up. “How was it?” she asks as she gives me a big hug.

“Theodore is so happy. He’s in his groove.”

“I want to hear all about it.” She lifts an eyebrow, and I know her next question is about Pete Rutledge. “So?” she says, dragging out the “o” until I answer.

“He’s getting married.”

“I knew you’d see him!”

“I saw him.”

“Are you sad?”

“No.”

“How did he look?”

“Better than ever,” I tell her.

“Of course he does. That’s how they keep us hooked. The rats.”

As we wait for my luggage, I notice that Iva Lou is fidgeting nervously. And she seems to be chatting loud and fast as she gives me the Gap update since I’ve been away—the manic chitchat is not her style.

“Are you okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

“No. Something is not right.”

“Oh, Ave.” Iva Lou exhales deeply and buries her hands in her jeans pockets.

Immediately I think of Iva Lou’s husband. “What is it? Lyle?”

“No, no. He’s okay. It’s me, hon, and it’s probably nothing.”

“What, then?”

“You know how I’ve been draggin’. Not myself.”

“So you went to the doctor. And you did your tests, right?”

“Yeah.” Iva Lou takes a deep breath. “They found something.”

“What did they find? And where?” I know in moments like these, it’s best to collect the facts and not show any panic. Iva Lou needs reassuring; her eyes are filling with tears.

“On my breast. A lump. It’s about the size of a pea. But it was hard, so they did a biopsy.”

“Okay. What did it show?” I know all about this stuff, as I went through it with Mama.

“It was malignant.”

“God.”

“Malignant. Can you imagine?” Iva Lou taps her foot.

“First of all, don’t panic.”

“That’s what my doctor said.”

“They can get you better.”

“He said that too. I went to that new wing at Holston Valley. They have a comprehensive breast center. They’re very up-to-date over there, so if anybody can help me, they can.”

“What’s the next step?”

“They told me they caught it early, but I still have to move quickly.”

“That’s good news.” By the time they found my mother’s breast cancer, it was too late. It’s as if Iva Lou reads my mind.

“I been thinkin’ about your mama a lot.”

“Yeah, but that was a long time ago, Iva Lou. And Mama didn’t want to be aggressive in her treatment. She didn’t want chemotherapy or any of that. She felt it best to let nature take its course, and that was a huge mistake. There was so much they could’ve done, and she might still be here if she had listened to the doctors.”

“Well, I’m determined not to die.”

“Good.”

“I mean, I feel fine otherwise. I’m just so ding-dang tarred all the time. It just drains you, and maybe it’s the mental part of it, but I ain’t myself. I git home around seven, and I’m in bed by eight. It’s crazy. I’ve always been a night owl, and now I’m acting like a shut-in senior citizen. That ain’t like me!”

“It sure isn’t.” I put my arm around my old friend. “I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

“I know you will. Now, tell me about that Radio City. Did you get me an application to be a Rockette like I asked ya?”

I don’t answer her. After all, what is a trip compared to what she’s going through? We stand there a long time and finally look up and realize that all the other passengers have left. We’re alone, and my luggage is circling around the carousel waiting for me to claim it.

“Let’s go home,” I tell Iva Lou.

Iva Lou and I ride most of the way home talking gossip and funny stories. Iva Lou isn’t one to dwell on her problems, so we make light of things. I give her a big hug and tell her everything is going to be fine as she lets me out in front of my house. She’s anxious to get home to Lyle, and I’m happy to be back in Cracker’s Neck, surrounded by these old mountains, whose every ridge I know and every path I’ve followed. It’s so peaceful here, I think as I stand on the front steps and look out over the dark field that leads to the lower road into town. New York is magical, but I missed the sound of the wind and the low rustle it makes through the trees before the leaves fall.

“Hello, beautiful,” my husband says to me as I drop my bags in the front hall.

“I’m going away more often,” I tell Jack as he takes me in his arms and kisses me.

“Nope. Not without me. I wanted to fetch you, but Iva Lou insisted—”

“No problem.” Iva Lou asked me to keep her problems confidential, and though I’d like to tell Jack, I’ll keep my word.

“Where’s Etta?”

“Upstairs. She has a slumber party tonight.”

“That’s right. It’s Tara Kilgore’s birthday.”

Shoo comes down the stairs. I stoop to pet him, but he sniffs and walks away. “Not everybody around here missed me.”

“She did,” Jack says and points up the stairs.

“Seriously?”

“We did a lot of talking while you were gone. You may see a little difference.”

The door to Etta’s room is open. She is packing her overnight bag, taking the neat pile from her bed and stuffing it into the duffel.

“Hey, Etta!” I stand in the doorway. She smiles at me (good sign). I go to her, and she hugs me (even better).

“How was New York City?” she asks, then continues packing.

“It was great. I made a list of all the places I’m going to take you when we go back. And Uncle Theodore sends his love. Now, tell me, what’s new?”

“Let’s see. While you were gone, I got an A on my geography test. I was the only one in class that knew all of Asia Minor. And we had to take Shoo to the vet. He had a respiratory problem. He stayed out all night when it rained.”

“He seems fine now.”

“He is. We gave him drops. And Dad made polenta.”

“How was it?”

“Hard. But you know how he is about his cooking, so I ate it anyway.”

I smile. Maybe there is more compassion in Etta than I realize.

“You know, Ma, Miss Benton ain’t so mad anymore.” Etta corrects herself. “Isn’t so mad.”

“She isn’t?”

“No, she was sort of laughing about it at school on Friday. We were complaining that we had an extra practice, and she said after the coal incident, she was adding in seven more practices a week. After we got the coal picked up, Dad went and put down new sod. I helped.”

“Good. I’m glad she’s feeling better.”

“You ain’t mad at me anymore, are you?” Etta asks without looking at me.

“Only when you use ‘ain’t.’ ” I sit down on the bed. “Is Tara having a big party?”

“Six of us. Her mom asked Ethel Bartee to come over and teach us how to do manicures. Mrs. Bartee is not real patient, though. She did our hair for the band photo and went so fast it hurt when she teased it. I’m sure she’s gonna get over there and try to show us stuff and then just give up and give us the nail polish to do it ourselves.”

Etta zips her bag and sits down next to me. She doesn’t say anything, but it isn’t awkward. Our conversations are funny to me. Often she answers a question in one word or a quick sentence, but I always feel that she wants to say more. Sometimes she even takes a breath like she’s going to and then stops herself.

“I got you a present in New York.” I give Etta a preteen makeup kit I got at Saks. There’s nothing conspicuous in it: sheer lip gloss, a facial cleanser, and a perfume that smells like vanilla.

“Cool!” Etta digs through the kit. “Thank you!”

“And, most important, this.” I give Etta a hardcover copy of
Harriet the Spy.

“My own book! Now I don’t have to check it out all the time.”

“Give the other kids a turn to read it, right?”

“Thanks, Mom.” Etta gives me another hug, and it’s worth everything we’ve been through. As I hold her, I wish for a second that I had another lifetime just to be her friend instead of her mother.

When I get home from dropping off Etta at the slumber party, Jack is waiting for me on the front steps with a picnic basket.

“What’s that?”

“I’m taking you out to dinner.”

“You are?”

“Yeah. I found this chef. He’s ornery, but he makes real good fried chicken, and his biscuits are almost too good to eat, they’re so fluffy. And he recommends this Tuscan wine, a robust red, and he swears it puts his wife in the mood.”

“Really. And where did you find this chef?”