good un.”
“Hilarious,” I tell Iva Lou. But I’m not laughing.
I call Jack, who heard the news from the principal, who is first cousin to Jack’s business partner, Rick Harmon, and is about to head up to the school. He’s furious and tells me that he will handle it.
As I drive back to town, I take a turn toward Wyandotte Avenue to assess the damage for myself. I’m not sure which house the band director lives in, but then I remind myself, don’t be stupid, just look for the two-story pile of coal in the backyard.
I find her house, and it’s even worse than I imagined. The mountain of shiny black lumps glistens in the afternoon sun like the diamonds they would be someday if left in the earth. The ranch house actually looks smaller than the pile of coal, but that’s probably due to my fury and perspective. There’s a car in the driveway (it too looks miniature compared to the coal pile), so I pull up and park. I see Spec’s Rescue Squad wagon parked near the coal. He makes his way around the side of the house and joins me, shaking his head. “It’s a humdinger.”
“Hey, Spec. What are you doing here?”
“Miss Benton didn’t know who else to call, so I told her I’d come and make the arrangements.”
“I can’t believe my kid did this.”
“She had her some help.”
“Don’t defend her, Spec,” I tell him gently.
“Oh, I ain’t. I ain’t. But you know how them kids is, they git that group-think goin’, and here’s the result of it.”
“It just makes me sick.”
“I talked to Delmer Wilson over to the coal company, and he’s ready to send a truck over whenever y’all figger out who’s going to pay for the labor.”
“I’d like to send Etta to a military academy.”
“Now, Ave.” Whenever Spec says this, it means fatherly advice is to follow. “You need to keep a cool head in a hot ’tater of a situation. Overreactin’ is as bad as no response. Remember what I taught you about responding to emergencies? Stay in charge and remain calm. Okay?”
Spec walks me to the front sidewalk, pats me on the back, and heads back to his wagon. My legs are weak as I take the steps up to the front door; I am so full of dread, you’d think I had pulled this prank myself.
Miss Benton comes to the door. She is wearing a windbreaker and white sweatpants and has a whistle around her neck. She has an aristocratic face—a fine nose and the high forehead of a leader. Her sharp jawline is softened by her auburn curls, pulled into a loose ponytail. She might be forty, but she is tall and lean with square broad shoulders, so she’s in that ageless category.
“Hi. I’m so sorry, Miss Benton.”
“It’s a mess,” she says quietly.
“We will punish Etta.”
“I just put sod in the backyard so it could take before the winter. Now it’s ruined.”
“We’ll replace it.”
“Well.”
“I’m really sorry.” I don’t know what else to say. She doesn’t invite me in, but then why should she? My daughter has ruined her property. Suddenly she turns away.
“Miss Benton, are you all right?”
She turns to face me, her eyes full of tears. “It’s just so . . . shitty.” She takes a deep breath. “You know I moved here from Richmond, the big city, and I thought, well, Big Stone Gap, in the mountains, it’s a small town. It’ll be fun, a new adventure. All my friends warned me, it’s a dead end to move to a place where there’s no life outside of school. But I love what I do, and on weekends I have the National Guard, so I thought I’d give it a shot. But this is just, well, it’s too much. I don’t mind not being liked, but I don’t want to be hated.”
“They don’t hate you!”
“Oh, okay. This is something that kids who like you would do,” she snaps.
I am standing face-to-face with a woman whose shoes I’ve been in, whose frustrations I shared for most of my adult life, and I want to tell her that I understand what it means to be single in a small town, to be
“Hilarious,” I tell Iva Lou. But I’m not laughing.
I call Jack, who heard the news from the principal, who is first cousin to Jack’s business partner, Rick Harmon, and is about to head up to the school. He’s furious and tells me that he will handle it.
As I drive back to town, I take a turn toward Wyandotte Avenue to assess the damage for myself. I’m not sure which house the band director lives in, but then I remind myself, don’t be stupid, just look for the two-story pile of coal in the backyard.
I find her house, and it’s even worse than I imagined. The mountain of shiny black lumps glistens in the afternoon sun like the diamonds they would be someday if left in the earth. The ranch house actually looks smaller than the pile of coal, but that’s probably due to my fury and perspective. There’s a car in the driveway (it too looks miniature compared to the coal pile), so I pull up and park. I see Spec’s Rescue Squad wagon parked near the coal. He makes his way around the side of the house and joins me, shaking his head. “It’s a humdinger.”
“Hey, Spec. What are you doing here?”
“Miss Benton didn’t know who else to call, so I told her I’d come and make the arrangements.”
“I can’t believe my kid did this.”
“She had her some help.”
“Don’t defend her, Spec,” I tell him gently.
“Oh, I ain’t. I ain’t. But you know how them kids is, they git that group-think goin’, and here’s the result of it.”
“It just makes me sick.”
“I talked to Delmer Wilson over to the coal company, and he’s ready to send a truck over whenever y’all figger out who’s going to pay for the labor.”
“I’d like to send Etta to a military academy.”
“Now, Ave.” Whenever Spec says this, it means fatherly advice is to follow. “You need to keep a cool head in a hot ’tater of a situation. Overreactin’ is as bad as no response. Remember what I taught you about responding to emergencies? Stay in charge and remain calm. Okay?”
Spec walks me to the front sidewalk, pats me on the back, and heads back to his wagon. My legs are weak as I take the steps up to the front door; I am so full of dread, you’d think I had pulled this prank myself.
Miss Benton comes to the door. She is wearing a windbreaker and white sweatpants and has a whistle around her neck. She has an aristocratic face—a fine nose and the high forehead of a leader. Her sharp jawline is softened by her auburn curls, pulled into a loose ponytail. She might be forty, but she is tall and lean with square broad shoulders, so she’s in that ageless category.
“Hi. I’m so sorry, Miss Benton.”
“It’s a mess,” she says quietly.
“We will punish Etta.”
“I just put sod in the backyard so it could take before the winter. Now it’s ruined.”
“We’ll replace it.”
“Well.”
“I’m really sorry.” I don’t know what else to say. She doesn’t invite me in, but then why should she? My daughter has ruined her property. Suddenly she turns away.
“Miss Benton, are you all right?”
She turns to face me, her eyes full of tears. “It’s just so . . . shitty.” She takes a deep breath. “You know I moved here from Richmond, the big city, and I thought, well, Big Stone Gap, in the mountains, it’s a small town. It’ll be fun, a new adventure. All my friends warned me, it’s a dead end to move to a place where there’s no life outside of school. But I love what I do, and on weekends I have the National Guard, so I thought I’d give it a shot. But this is just, well, it’s too much. I don’t mind not being liked, but I don’t want to be hated.”
“They don’t hate you!”
“Oh, okay. This is something that kids who like you would do,” she snaps.
I am standing face-to-face with a woman whose shoes I’ve been in, whose frustrations I shared for most of my adult life, and I want to tell her that I understand what it means to be single in a small town, to be
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