Big Stone Gap Read Free Page B

Jack says and winks at me.
    “That girl is not built for heavy lifting.” Mrs. Mac looks at me and sizes me up; obviously, I am a girl built for heavy lifting.
    “Now, Mrs. Mac, you’re just a little territorial about your only son. I’m sure you’ll grow to love Sweet Sue,” I say, getting off this topic. Jack Mac looks at me, relieved.
    Mrs. Mac goes on a long run about some sewage problem up in the hollers that she read about in the weekly paper, the
Post
. It’s hard for me to read our local paper because there are so many misspelled words in it. Spelling happens to be one of the things I’m good at, so I take notice when it isn’t perfect.
    As Mrs. Mac loads up the table with eggs, grits (hers are homemade pale yellow, not the store-bought kind), bacon, honey, and Lord knows what-all, Jack Mac eats. For a mountain man, he has fine manners. Delicate almost. And no matter how his mama drones on, he listens intently, like everything she says is of the utmost importance. What kind of life do the two of them have up here in Cracker’s Neck? I wonder how he sneaks off to see Sweet Sue, how he maneuvers spending the night away from home, what he tells his mother. This is one of the obstacles the adult child faces while living at home with his parents. I went through it until a year ago, so I know it’s hard. Maybe he goes down and stays with Sweet Sue when her kids are with their father on alternate weekends. Maybe they make love in the car on some road somewhere, like down at the Strawberry Patch, or up to Huff Rock, where the teenagers go. Or maybe they meet at a hotel over in Kingsport, Tennessee, where nobody would know them.
    “Ave Maria, are we losing you?” Mrs. Mac says as she pours me coffee. I’m caught, I blush, and they both notice it.
    “She’s off in dreamland, Mama.”
    “No, uh-uh. I was thinking about the Pharmacy. You know, Fleeta gets an attitude when I stay away too long.”
    Jack Mac rises like a gentleman as I stand.
    “No, sit down,” I tell Jack, a little embarrassed by his chivalry. “Your food will get cold.”
    Mrs. Mac nudges Jack. “See her out, Jack.”
    “Thanks for the coffee. And let me know how you like that new pill Doc Daugherty put you on.”
    “I will, honey,” Mrs. Mac says as she waves me off with her spatula. “Y’all scoot.”
    Jack Mac is careful to let me precede him through the doorways. At the screen door it’s a little awkward because I reach for it first and so does he, and he brushes my hand. “For a coal miner, you’ve got mighty soft hands,” I tell him. He smiles. What possessed me to blurt
that
out?
    I’m on the porch now, and he stands in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling it from frame to frame. He reaches up and plucks the coil on the screen door like it’s middle C.
    “Not really. Touch the tips.” Jack Mac extends his right hand and with his left takes my fingers and touches his fingertips to mine.
    “You’ve got calluses.”
    “From the guitar.”
    “You’ve been practicing.”
    “Have to. Pee Wee Poteet and I have an unspoken competition. Guitar versus fiddle.”
    “I think you’ll win.”
    “How do you know?”
    “His wife smashed his fingers in the car door last night. I had to take him some painkillers.”
    “Poor old Pee Wee.”
    “It wasn’t an accident. His wife was in a jealous rage and went after him—” I stop myself. I am telling this man confidential things. I never tell confidential things!
    “I like your perfume.”
    “It’s just residual from Iva Lou,” I say, turning four shades of red gingham (the curse of pale-skinned girls).
    “Well, it’s mighty nice, wherever it came from.” I walk down the steps into the yard. The dogs circle.
    “Are any of these your actual dogs?”
    Jack Mac laughs. “No. They’re all wild. This time of year, when the rain stops and the leaves turn, they get scared ’cause they can’t find water. They know I’m a soft touch.” I look down at the dogs, and for a