Izzy drove five miles per hour under the speed limit, with the freedom of having no particular destination and no one around to hurry her. After about thirty minutes of aimless cruising, she finally drove to the Whole Hog and idled in the parking lot before she cut the engine. She walked behind the restaurant, smoke forever rising from the chimney, and stared at Mr. Tannehill’s trailer, which Mr. Bonner let him have rent free so that he could tend to the smoker at all hours. The trailer was dark, but she took a deep breath and allowed herself the rare luxury of intrusion, of needing someone. She knocked on the door and it was a full minute before Mr. Tannehill, still wearing his gray coveralls, appeared in front of her, his eyes wide at the sight of her. The only detail that suggested she had interrupted a private moment was that the front of his coveralls was unbuttoned enough that she could see a yellowing undershirt beneath it.
“What in the world are you doing here, Izzy?” he asked her, looking past her as if some irresponsible person had put her up to this.
“I’m in a bad situation, Mr. Tannehill,” she said. “I don’t know what to do.”
Mr. Tannehill had an expression that suggested that he did not want to know her trouble but could not figure out how to politely deny her. Finally, he readjusted his baseball cap and then gestured toward the restaurant. “Well, come check the pig with me,” he said, but she held up her hands and replied, “I better not. The smell of barbecue is making me sick these days.”
Mr. Tannehill considered her and then shook his head. “That is a bad situation, then,” he said. “Do you mind sitting on the steps here? I haven’t had another person in this trailer since I moved in and it’s a damn mess.”
They situated themselves on the steps and Mr. Tannehill said, “I figured something was going on with you when you didn’t turn up today. You’ve been out of sorts lately.”
“I’m pregnant, Mr. Tannehill,” she said.
“Oh lord, Izzy,” he said, shaking his head. “I was hoping you just needed to borrow some money.”
“I’m only a couple months along. I haven’t told anybody else.”
“Well, everybody else will find out soon enough, I reckon,” he replied. They sat in silence; Mr. Tannehill took off his cap and held it in his hands, fiddling with the band.
“I’m really, really scared,” Izzy said.
“I understand why, Izzy,” he said. “It’s a hard thing even in the best of situations.” He paused, and she noticed that he was blushing, fighting with himself to be polite but to also be her friend. “I imagine,” he said and then stuttered for a second before righting himself. “I imagine you know who the daddy is?”
“I do,” she said.
“And he’s gonna help out?” he asked, and Izzy shook her head.
“It doesn’t seem like it,” she said.
“And you,” he stuttered again, and then coughed. “Sorry about this, but I’m just wondering if you still think you want to keep it.”
“I do. I definitely do, however I can manage it.”
“Fair enough,” he replied. He looked at Izzy, his eyes the most unknowable shade of dark brown, not a flicker of emotion behind them. He reached for her and pulled her into an embrace, an awkward but generous hug. Izzy fell into it and closed her eyes.
“There are worse things in the world, Izzy,” he said. “You’re a good person and that baby will be lucky to have you. You’ll be a good momma, you can bet on that.”
She did not cry because she knew how embarrassed Mr. Tannehill would be to witness it. He had done her the kindness of this conversation, of his support for her desires, and she would not ask for more than that.
Having told another person, the burden of secrecy lightened by even an ounce, she could allow herself the expectation, however unsupportable, of a happy future. It made her, for the first time in weeks, ravenous. It made her want to eat the entire world and let whatever nutrients it held seep into her child. “I’m hungry,” she said.
“Only thing here is barbecue,” he said.
“I’ll eat it,” she said, staring down whatever made her sick.
They stood and walked to the back entrance of the restaurant. Mr. Tannehill made her sit at the card table while he heaped a plate with barbecue and topped it with two slices of white bread. He placed it in front of her and she asked him for the East Carolina–style barbecue sauce that no one in Coalfield seemed to prefer. Mr. Tannehill brought her a Styrofoam cup of the sauce and she built herself a disgusting sandwich, the bread soaked through with vinegar, and took such a large bite that it demolished what was left in her hands. She chewed and chewed, finally swallowing, and when she looked up from her plate, Mr. Tannehill was sitting across from her, smiling. “Eating for two now,” he said.
“How many times do you think I’ll have to hear that?” she asked him.
“More times than you want, I guarantee you that. Unwed pregnant girl, folks don’t know how to talk to her in anything other than bland platitudes.”
“This is gonna be hard,” she said, not wanting reassurance, simply reminding herself of what she was getting herself into.
“You’re tough,” he said, and then he pushed away from the table and busied himself with wood and smoke.
She ate and ate and, only minutes after she had finished, she fell asleep at the table, listening to the faint sounds of Mr. Tannehill shuffling around the smoker, tending the fire, keeping all things in order.
chapter three