chest. John Warner is married to Elizabeth Taylor of
National Velvet
fame, and they’re coming to town and Nellie wants Theodore to put together a tribute salute in her honor. The town wants to show off its best asset: the Powell Valley High School marching band. They want a doozy of a halftime show. I can’t contemplate all this right now. After tonight my life as it has been will be changed forever. I am a lover! In the scrap heaps of these hills of coal, someone found me. I am wanted! I have been waiting all of my life for this.
As folks sail by in a blur, talking and laughing, it occurs to me that they probably believe that Theodore and I, as close as we are, have a full relationship already. But since Theodore moved to town and we became friends, my mother had been ill, and I didn’t feel right spending time away from her. So Theodore and I have had friendship without romance. At first I thought something might be wrong, but now I understand. He was waiting. Waiting for my heart to settle down from its grief, so it could make room for him!
Now the years seem wasted, like a lifetime, and I want to shove bossy Nellie Goodloe down on the wood chips and gag her with the polka-dot scarf she has tied around her neck chuck-wagon-style. Doesn’t she understand that my body is filled with such longing that I have the strength to turn a truck over with my bare hands? That I have dreamed of wrapping myself around this man from the first day we met? Can’t she see that I’m a ripe plum that will explode if touched? I interrupt them, and I am not one bit sorry.
“Excuse me. This is something you two can discuss later. Good night, Nellie.”
I grab Theodore, and we walk out of the theater onto the street. “My house?”
“Great.” Theodore helps me into the front seat of his truck, which has now turned into a stately carriage that will take me from my dreams to a real place. He climbs in and puts his arm around me as we back out. I think to myself,
Time stops when we get what we want.
I haven’t made spaghetti since Mama died. I pull out her recipe book. When she found out she was sick, she wrote everything down for me. The writing starts out in good English, then loses its clarity. She tried to finish the task when she was really sick. At the end of the notebook, most of the recipes are in pure Italian.
“Cut up the garlic,” I tell Theodore. “The basil’s in the window garden. I’ll start the water.”
Theodore goes about his chores. I notice we’re not talking. Is this what happens to folks when things turn physical? Do kisses take the place of words? I think back on my past romances, all so long ago, and they seem insignificant, childish and silly—probably because they were. I wasn’t a real woman then, a woman who knew herself. A woman alone in the world, free. Now I am a woman without strings, guilt, or parents, and I don’t know what to say. How do I begin?
“How long have your parents been married?” I ask innocently.
“Forty-two years.”
“Are they happy?”
“They’re perfect for each other. He drinks and she hides it. Why do you ask?”
“We’ve never talked about it before.”
“It seems like we have. I think you know everything about me.”
“Have you ever been in love before?”
“Have you?” he asks, quite deliberately not answering me first.
This is a loaded question for me. I don’t guess that I have, although there was a nice Polish Catholic guy from Chicago—I met him at a craps table during a Mardi Gras fund-raiser at Saint Mary’s. I went with him for a year and a half. He wanted to marry me, but I couldn’t see it. When it was over I was sad, but I wasn’t broken-hearted.
“I guess I was. Once.” I pick up the garlic and swish it into the olive oil in the pan on the stove.
“Only once?”
“Yes.”
Theodore mulls this over, and I take a seat at the kitchen table and watch him chop some basil. I wonder if I like him there at the sink chopping. Does he
National Velvet
fame, and they’re coming to town and Nellie wants Theodore to put together a tribute salute in her honor. The town wants to show off its best asset: the Powell Valley High School marching band. They want a doozy of a halftime show. I can’t contemplate all this right now. After tonight my life as it has been will be changed forever. I am a lover! In the scrap heaps of these hills of coal, someone found me. I am wanted! I have been waiting all of my life for this.
As folks sail by in a blur, talking and laughing, it occurs to me that they probably believe that Theodore and I, as close as we are, have a full relationship already. But since Theodore moved to town and we became friends, my mother had been ill, and I didn’t feel right spending time away from her. So Theodore and I have had friendship without romance. At first I thought something might be wrong, but now I understand. He was waiting. Waiting for my heart to settle down from its grief, so it could make room for him!
Now the years seem wasted, like a lifetime, and I want to shove bossy Nellie Goodloe down on the wood chips and gag her with the polka-dot scarf she has tied around her neck chuck-wagon-style. Doesn’t she understand that my body is filled with such longing that I have the strength to turn a truck over with my bare hands? That I have dreamed of wrapping myself around this man from the first day we met? Can’t she see that I’m a ripe plum that will explode if touched? I interrupt them, and I am not one bit sorry.
“Excuse me. This is something you two can discuss later. Good night, Nellie.”
I grab Theodore, and we walk out of the theater onto the street. “My house?”
“Great.” Theodore helps me into the front seat of his truck, which has now turned into a stately carriage that will take me from my dreams to a real place. He climbs in and puts his arm around me as we back out. I think to myself,
Time stops when we get what we want.
I haven’t made spaghetti since Mama died. I pull out her recipe book. When she found out she was sick, she wrote everything down for me. The writing starts out in good English, then loses its clarity. She tried to finish the task when she was really sick. At the end of the notebook, most of the recipes are in pure Italian.
“Cut up the garlic,” I tell Theodore. “The basil’s in the window garden. I’ll start the water.”
Theodore goes about his chores. I notice we’re not talking. Is this what happens to folks when things turn physical? Do kisses take the place of words? I think back on my past romances, all so long ago, and they seem insignificant, childish and silly—probably because they were. I wasn’t a real woman then, a woman who knew herself. A woman alone in the world, free. Now I am a woman without strings, guilt, or parents, and I don’t know what to say. How do I begin?
“How long have your parents been married?” I ask innocently.
“Forty-two years.”
“Are they happy?”
“They’re perfect for each other. He drinks and she hides it. Why do you ask?”
“We’ve never talked about it before.”
“It seems like we have. I think you know everything about me.”
“Have you ever been in love before?”
“Have you?” he asks, quite deliberately not answering me first.
This is a loaded question for me. I don’t guess that I have, although there was a nice Polish Catholic guy from Chicago—I met him at a craps table during a Mardi Gras fund-raiser at Saint Mary’s. I went with him for a year and a half. He wanted to marry me, but I couldn’t see it. When it was over I was sad, but I wasn’t broken-hearted.
“I guess I was. Once.” I pick up the garlic and swish it into the olive oil in the pan on the stove.
“Only once?”
“Yes.”
Theodore mulls this over, and I take a seat at the kitchen table and watch him chop some basil. I wonder if I like him there at the sink chopping. Does he
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