you mistake for it. At the end of the day, Pearl Grimes will be so beautiful, she’ll wipe the floor with you.”
All is silent in the store except for the creaking of the spin stool June Walker is sitting on as she leans into the mirror to examine her creamed face.
“You are so weird, Ave Maria Mulligan,” says Tayloe. Finally, somebody pronounces my name correctly. Tayloe and her twirlers go. Pearl continues with her demonstration.
I come out from behind the counter and stand in the doorway and watch them walk up the street. And I don’t know how to pinpoint what I’m feeling exactly, but for some reason I see myself at sixteen walking away from myself. I know it’s not me out there on the street, but it is, in the image of those girls, walking away getting smaller and smaller, and disappearing. For the first time in my life I feel the thread of who I am unravel. I am one of those people who swears she knows herself well, who in any given situation can be described and counted on to behave in a certain way. I never yell at people, nor do I make speeches. When things get tense, I usually make a joke, so everyone will feel at ease. But something, beyond defending Pearl, beyond standing up for what is right, compelled me to speak. Where did she come from? Who is this voice that isn’t going to make nice anymore, but will tell the truth? It isn’t Fred Mulligan’s daughter. I think of Mario da Schilpario, my father, the man in the picture. Why have I tried to put him aside, thinking him dead, gone, uninterested in the likes of me? But suddenly I know—and I am as sure of it as I am sure of myself standing here—that my father is alive, and he is well, and I must find him. I put my hand on my chest, expecting another anxiety attack to come, but it does not. Practical Ave Maria must go. Me. The never-married town pharmacist who is never caught without her first-aid kit. Me. So responsible she carries two spare tires in her Jeep instead of one. Me. Who has double insurance on everything because she’s afraid one of the companies will go out of business and leave me penniless after a flood. Me. The girl who built her life so carefully so she’d never have to ask anybody for anything. I have had it with me. Whoever I was! Get mad, Ave Maria! You’re alone in this world. You were abandoned. Let that anger fuel the job you must do. Find him. Find your father!
I walk out of my store and into the street. I breathe deeply right down to my toes. I walk to the Bookmobile. I have a job for Iva Lou.
CHAPTER FOUR
It is quiet in my living room except for the sound of Theodore and Iva Lou turning pages as they read. I’ve never had Iva Lou over to my house. I don’t know why. When Mama was alive, I didn’t have friends over much. Mama ran her sewing business out of the house, so people were always stopping by anyhow—maybe it didn’t dawn on us to formally entertain. Fred Mulligan hated having company. Mama had better have seen her last customer before he came home. Even after he died, she kept that schedule. When I came home from work, everything was put away. That must have been so hard for her. She was social. Mama loved people. She never knew a stranger. After she died, so many folks came up to me and thanked me for her kindnesses: girls, now women, who wore prom dresses that Mama had made for free. Brides who needed wedding gowns with extra fabric in front because they were a little pregnant and didn’t want to show for the occasion. She’d never complain; she’d just make the adjustments.
Fred Mulligan, however, had boundaries in all things. He could never make his customers his friends. I think he felt he couldn’t make a profit from friends, so he simply never made any. Or maybe nobody wanted to be friends with him. Anyway, it feels right and glorious to have Iva Lou and Theodore sitting in my living room, eating chess pie, surrounded by stacks of books, all special orders from Clinch Valley College, a
All is silent in the store except for the creaking of the spin stool June Walker is sitting on as she leans into the mirror to examine her creamed face.
“You are so weird, Ave Maria Mulligan,” says Tayloe. Finally, somebody pronounces my name correctly. Tayloe and her twirlers go. Pearl continues with her demonstration.
I come out from behind the counter and stand in the doorway and watch them walk up the street. And I don’t know how to pinpoint what I’m feeling exactly, but for some reason I see myself at sixteen walking away from myself. I know it’s not me out there on the street, but it is, in the image of those girls, walking away getting smaller and smaller, and disappearing. For the first time in my life I feel the thread of who I am unravel. I am one of those people who swears she knows herself well, who in any given situation can be described and counted on to behave in a certain way. I never yell at people, nor do I make speeches. When things get tense, I usually make a joke, so everyone will feel at ease. But something, beyond defending Pearl, beyond standing up for what is right, compelled me to speak. Where did she come from? Who is this voice that isn’t going to make nice anymore, but will tell the truth? It isn’t Fred Mulligan’s daughter. I think of Mario da Schilpario, my father, the man in the picture. Why have I tried to put him aside, thinking him dead, gone, uninterested in the likes of me? But suddenly I know—and I am as sure of it as I am sure of myself standing here—that my father is alive, and he is well, and I must find him. I put my hand on my chest, expecting another anxiety attack to come, but it does not. Practical Ave Maria must go. Me. The never-married town pharmacist who is never caught without her first-aid kit. Me. So responsible she carries two spare tires in her Jeep instead of one. Me. Who has double insurance on everything because she’s afraid one of the companies will go out of business and leave me penniless after a flood. Me. The girl who built her life so carefully so she’d never have to ask anybody for anything. I have had it with me. Whoever I was! Get mad, Ave Maria! You’re alone in this world. You were abandoned. Let that anger fuel the job you must do. Find him. Find your father!
I walk out of my store and into the street. I breathe deeply right down to my toes. I walk to the Bookmobile. I have a job for Iva Lou.
CHAPTER FOUR
It is quiet in my living room except for the sound of Theodore and Iva Lou turning pages as they read. I’ve never had Iva Lou over to my house. I don’t know why. When Mama was alive, I didn’t have friends over much. Mama ran her sewing business out of the house, so people were always stopping by anyhow—maybe it didn’t dawn on us to formally entertain. Fred Mulligan hated having company. Mama had better have seen her last customer before he came home. Even after he died, she kept that schedule. When I came home from work, everything was put away. That must have been so hard for her. She was social. Mama loved people. She never knew a stranger. After she died, so many folks came up to me and thanked me for her kindnesses: girls, now women, who wore prom dresses that Mama had made for free. Brides who needed wedding gowns with extra fabric in front because they were a little pregnant and didn’t want to show for the occasion. She’d never complain; she’d just make the adjustments.
Fred Mulligan, however, had boundaries in all things. He could never make his customers his friends. I think he felt he couldn’t make a profit from friends, so he simply never made any. Or maybe nobody wanted to be friends with him. Anyway, it feels right and glorious to have Iva Lou and Theodore sitting in my living room, eating chess pie, surrounded by stacks of books, all special orders from Clinch Valley College, a
Similar Books
