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Authors: Adriana Trigiani
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Etta’s last chance to visit New York City, he reminded me. And both Jack and I feel it’s more important to stand by the punishment than to let her think we can be softened up with a few nicely made beds. I keep a picture of Pavis Mullins in my head at all times to remind myself that once children think they can get away with something, they’ll continue to try.
Iva Lou volunteered to chauffeur me to the airport—I got a great fare, and I’ll be in New York City by suppertime. Etta has a football game, where Jack is working the Band Boosters’ refreshment stand; Conley Barker, who runs the taxi service, is unavailable because he also announces home games for the radio, so Iva Lou generously volunteered, even though she loves Powell Valley football and hates to miss a game. I apologize for putting her out.
“It is no problem. So, you gonna see that hunk from New Jersey when you’re up there?” Iva Lou adjusts the rearview mirror and looks at me. The road to the Tri-Cities airport is hilly, and I get butterflies as Iva Lou sails over the bumps.
“Who?” I play dumb.
“Pete Rutledge.” Iva Lou draws his name out slowly.
“I don’t know.” I’m lying, of course. I would like to see Pete, my what-if fantasy. What married woman doesn’t have a Plan B? You know, the handsome man from the past who, if the circumstances were different, would be the Man of the Present. Pete was very romantic and very interested four summers ago in Italy, but of course, I was married. So I safely placed him on a back burner, to lift the lid on
that
pot only when I was mad at Jack or bored with my life or stressed by my daughter. Pete Rutledge is like a good old movie that I return to in my mind’s eye when I need a lift. In those moments I tell myself that if anything ever happens to Jack, there is always Pete. I do feel guilty about it, but I consider it Practical Fantasizing: when I’m being taken for granted or I get bogged down by drudgery, I can return to that field of bluebells and imagine what might have been.
“I thought New York and New Jersey were as close as Coeburn and Norton.”
“They are.”
“So he’s right
there,
and you’re right there. Did you pack your high heels?”
“What for?”
“So you can walk all over him.”
“Don’t you think I have enough to worry about?”
“Yeah, you do, honey, I’m just messin’ with you.” Iva Lou laughs.
“We’re talking about me, not you. I’m not a flirt.”
“Hmm. So you been thinkin’ about how to get away with something.”
“Absolutely not. I have a good husband, and I don’t need any excitement.”
“Oh, honey-o, excitement is the only thing worth livin’ for.” Iva Lou stops at the light outside Gate City. “But I’ll make sure that things are as dull as dirt in the Gap. I’ll keep an eye on your husband while you’re off
not
gettin’ excited.”
“Not necessary.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. We just hired him to build us some storage units at the library, should keep him busy about a week.” Iva Lou winks at me.
“Isn’t that funny—the exact amount of time I’ll be gone.”
“Uh-huh. We murried gals got to stick together and form a shield around our men,” Iva Lou says with a resolve I haven’t heard since she went before the county to request a new Bookmobile (she got it).
As I board the plane, I look back and wave good-bye to Iva Lou. I have no problem leaving my life in her hands, none whatsoever.
CHAPTER THREE
The first rule about living in New York City (according to Theodore Tipton) is that no one ever picks up a guest at the airport. Never. Apparently, La Guardia Airport is a zoo, and it’s up to the guest to get in the taxicab line (I’m not taking the bus; Theodore’s instructions were too confusing), tell the driver your address, and sit back and hope he doesn’t take you on a hayride to Connecticut or beyond.
I went digging into my mom’s trunks for my wardrobe for this trip. I found a
Iva Lou volunteered to chauffeur me to the airport—I got a great fare, and I’ll be in New York City by suppertime. Etta has a football game, where Jack is working the Band Boosters’ refreshment stand; Conley Barker, who runs the taxi service, is unavailable because he also announces home games for the radio, so Iva Lou generously volunteered, even though she loves Powell Valley football and hates to miss a game. I apologize for putting her out.
“It is no problem. So, you gonna see that hunk from New Jersey when you’re up there?” Iva Lou adjusts the rearview mirror and looks at me. The road to the Tri-Cities airport is hilly, and I get butterflies as Iva Lou sails over the bumps.
“Who?” I play dumb.
“Pete Rutledge.” Iva Lou draws his name out slowly.
“I don’t know.” I’m lying, of course. I would like to see Pete, my what-if fantasy. What married woman doesn’t have a Plan B? You know, the handsome man from the past who, if the circumstances were different, would be the Man of the Present. Pete was very romantic and very interested four summers ago in Italy, but of course, I was married. So I safely placed him on a back burner, to lift the lid on
that
pot only when I was mad at Jack or bored with my life or stressed by my daughter. Pete Rutledge is like a good old movie that I return to in my mind’s eye when I need a lift. In those moments I tell myself that if anything ever happens to Jack, there is always Pete. I do feel guilty about it, but I consider it Practical Fantasizing: when I’m being taken for granted or I get bogged down by drudgery, I can return to that field of bluebells and imagine what might have been.
“I thought New York and New Jersey were as close as Coeburn and Norton.”
“They are.”
“So he’s right
there,
and you’re right there. Did you pack your high heels?”
“What for?”
“So you can walk all over him.”
“Don’t you think I have enough to worry about?”
“Yeah, you do, honey, I’m just messin’ with you.” Iva Lou laughs.
“We’re talking about me, not you. I’m not a flirt.”
“Hmm. So you been thinkin’ about how to get away with something.”
“Absolutely not. I have a good husband, and I don’t need any excitement.”
“Oh, honey-o, excitement is the only thing worth livin’ for.” Iva Lou stops at the light outside Gate City. “But I’ll make sure that things are as dull as dirt in the Gap. I’ll keep an eye on your husband while you’re off
not
gettin’ excited.”
“Not necessary.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. We just hired him to build us some storage units at the library, should keep him busy about a week.” Iva Lou winks at me.
“Isn’t that funny—the exact amount of time I’ll be gone.”
“Uh-huh. We murried gals got to stick together and form a shield around our men,” Iva Lou says with a resolve I haven’t heard since she went before the county to request a new Bookmobile (she got it).
As I board the plane, I look back and wave good-bye to Iva Lou. I have no problem leaving my life in her hands, none whatsoever.
CHAPTER THREE
The first rule about living in New York City (according to Theodore Tipton) is that no one ever picks up a guest at the airport. Never. Apparently, La Guardia Airport is a zoo, and it’s up to the guest to get in the taxicab line (I’m not taking the bus; Theodore’s instructions were too confusing), tell the driver your address, and sit back and hope he doesn’t take you on a hayride to Connecticut or beyond.
I went digging into my mom’s trunks for my wardrobe for this trip. I found a
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