Big Stone Gap Read Free Page A

it.
    “Come on back. I made corn bread.”
    I follow Mrs. Mac to the kitchen, a sunny, spacious room with exposed oak beams on the ceiling. I hear a noise behind me. Praying that it’s not another dog, I slowly turn and look, first low, then eye level. It’s not a dog. It’s a man. Mrs. Mac’s son, Jack MacChesney, in his underwear, a faded-to-pink union suit that sticks to him like a leotard. We look at each other, and both our faces turn the color of his underwear before it faded—bloodred.
    “Jesus Christmas, Jack. Put some clothes on,” Mrs. Mac demands.
    “Yes, ma’am,” he says to his mother, as if on automatic. “Good morning, Ave Maria,” he says to me, and goes. I can’t help it, I watch the man go. He has a fine, high rear end. I wish I did. I pull my belted CPO jacket down over my flat behind and follow Mrs. Mac into the kitchen.
    Mrs. Mac and I cross the kitchen to the big table by the windows, where she pours me a cup of hot black coffee that smells like heaven. She serves me fresh cream and snow-white sugar, which I dump into the mug. “So what’s happening in town?” Mrs. Mac asks. She has a mountain-girl face—a fine nose you could draw with a compass, shiny green button eyes, Cupid’s-bow lips, smooth cheeks. You can tell that she was a great beauty in her youth, and she still is.
    “Is ‘Nan’ short for anything?” I ask her.
    “What? You mean my name?” Mrs. Mac cuts the corn bread in the iron skillet into neat triangles. “My mamaw’s name was Nan. My middle name is Bluebell because that field was covered with ’em when I got born.” She points out the window with her spatula to indicate the field in the back.
    “Nan Bluebell. Pretty. What was your maiden name?”
    “God-a-mighty, you got a lot of questions this here morning. Gilliam. Nan Bluebell Gilliam.”
    “I like it,” I say as I sip my coffee.
    Jack stands in the doorway. He lingers there for a moment, as if to assess the situation. Or maybe he doesn’t want to interrupt our conversation. In town he is known as Jack Mac. He’s a little over six feet but seems shorter because he’s all neck and torso. His face is round and soft, with a determined chin. He has thin, straight eyebrows and hazel eyes. He has even lips—the top and bottom match (very rare)—and a nose that suits his face; it’s a strong nose, one that doesn’t break where it’s connected between his eyes but shoots out like a clean wedge. He has a defined jawline, which means he goes after what he wants in life and gets it. Jack Mac is dressed now, in a flannel shirt and old blue jeans. His hair is slicked down wet; in the sunlight it is gray and going. Jack Mac and I are the same age, but he looks a lot older than me. I don’t think he said two words in four years of high school; he’s one of those quiet types.
    Mrs. Mac pours her son coffee. “Sit down, youngun,” she says to him with great affection. “I was just asking Miss Ave here about the goings-on in town.”
    “Jack Mac ought to know more than me. After all, musicians get all the dirt.”
    “We do, eh?” Jack Mac says and laughs. “You’re the big director, you’re in charge of the flow of information.”
    Jack Mac is referring to my “job” (volunteer, of course) as director of our musical Outdoor Drama,
The Trail of the Lonesome Pine
. A mountain love story, or so the poster says. The Drama was put together sixteen summers ago. There’s a lot of dramatic and musical talent in the area, so local leaders decided to capitalize on it. We figure tourism will be a good business alternative if the coal mining dries up. The Outdoor Drama draws audiences from all over the mid-South.
    “Well, I don’t want to say anything,” I begin ominously, “but a certain Sweet Sue Tinsley is quite smitten with a certain picker in the pit band.”
    “Mercy, Jack, are you still seeing that little slip of a thing?” Mrs. Mac arches her eyebrow, annoyed.
    “Mama, I’m proud to say I am,”