Free Big Cherry Holler by Adriana Trigiani

Mac doesn’t miss one movement. I am officially sick to my stomach. Then, as if his conscience has bitten him on the ass for eyeing hers, he turns his attention innocently to the shooters at the spinning duck booth.
    The popcorn-ball eaters have left. I lean forward and drape myself over the back of the seat in front of me as though I have been shot and left for dead. (I don’t consider this too dramatic in light of all Iva Lou just told me!) Suddenly, as if marital radar alarms have gone off, Jack Mac feels my presence overhead and looks up at me. He smiles sheepishly. Well, maybe it’s not sheepish; I don’t know what it is, but whatever it is, I haven’t seen that smile on his face in a long, long time. It’s the kind of smile he gave me on Apple Butter Night, the night he first proposed to me. I lean back in my seat and exhale a long, deep breath toward the ceiling. (I must have been holding my breath the entire time!) The big black spider swings overhead, its crooked legs caught in the ropy web.
    I’d rather die than let my husband think I saw him flirting with the Blond Mystery Woman, so I wave to him from my perch and survey the gym floor as though I’m looking for someone. He looks up at me, confused. I want to stand up and scream, in front of the entire Halloween Carnival, “Yes! Yes! Yes! I’m spying on you!” Instead I smile and give a thumbs-up to the decorations. Spec joins him. Jack points up to me. Spec motions for me as he taps the red emergency cross on his orange vest. As I run downstairs to join them on the floor, I’m hoping the kids didn’t have an accident in the Spookhouse; the tile floor in there can get slick.
    “We got a call up in Wampler Holler. Let’s go.”
    “What happened?”
    “Not sure. Police radioed me,” Spec tells me, handing me my gear.
    “Honey, look after Etta,” I tell Jack, and go with Spec. I look back as we leave. God, he looks good to me all of a sudden in his white cotton shirt and his oldest jeans. (Are all men better-looking when other women want them?)
    Spec takes a road up to the holler that I’ve never been on before.
    “So what’s going on?”
    “We’re cuttin’ through Don Wax’s farm, goin’ to the old Mullins homestead.”
    Most of the Mullins family (no relation to Fleeta) has moved out of our area; some to Kingsport, others north to “O-high” (I don’t know what the industry is in Ohio, but lots of our folks have gone north to whatever awaits them there). All that’s left of the Mullins family is its matriarch, Naomi, who still lives in Wampler Holler. I love this holler; it cuts into the mountain in the highest point in the cliffs, and it has a great view of East Stone Gap and the dairy farms that make up this side of Powell Valley. As Spec speeds along the ridge, I figure it’s a real emergency—Naomi must be close to ninety years old. She still comes to town to trade on the first of every month; her face has not a wrinkle, and her hair is still coal black—must be that Cherokee blood.
    “Is Naomi all right?”
    “I ain’t got no details, Ave, so don’t ask me. The Fraley boy from the next house over was gittin’ some firewood out of her barn and saw something and called it in.”
    “Fine, Mr. Testy.”
    Spec smiles and keeps his eyes on the road. It’s just like old times, with Spec’s complaining and my prying. As we approach the Mullins log cabin (which has since sprouted extra rooms and been covered in aluminum siding), we are stopped by burly Tozz Ball, a deputy in the Big Stone police department. He directs us to pull into the clearing next to the neighbors, take our gear, and approach on foot. Spec and I make our way on a small footpath that leads to Naomi’s front porch.I see a group of men, most from neighboring Norton’s rescue squad, looking in the windows on the side of the log-cabin portion of the house. Spec and I join them. One of the men turns to us and motions us to be quiet.
    “Lordy mercy,” Spec says