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owns the place, ahead of time. She laughed, as she’s been down this road with every girl in Appalachia.
    Dave’s Department Store has been around for years and carries a variety of clothes, from miner’s overalls to chiffon mother-of-the-bride dresses that Julia picks up on buying trips to New York. The juniors’ section is more hip and, for our area, fairly cutting-edge. Etta skims past the bras on their small plastic hangers and goes to look at shoes. Iva Lou and I look at each other. “I know what to do,” Iva Lou whispers.
    I watch Iva Lou as she fawns all over a pair of loafers Etta likes. As Etta tries them on, Iva Lou tries on her boots, and then they place both pairs on the checkout counter. Iva Lou leads Etta over to the accessories, showing her a small purse that clips on a belt and matches the loafers. Then Iva Lou stacks several packages of panty hose by her boots. The checkout counter is filling up. Iva Lou stops and admires a lace bra on her way to the juniors’ section and makes Etta look at it. It’s too mature for Etta, but I don’t interrupt; I’m hoping Etta will choose a more appropriate style. She does. She takes a sporty bra off the rack and shows Iva Lou, who guesses Etta’s size and hands her several in that range. Then Iva Lou takes the lacy one to try on herself; Etta goes behind one changing curtain, Iva Lou behind another. Lord love her, Iva Lou is making this fun. My friend is the most natural mother in the world and has never raised a child.
    “Ma, I’m done,” Etta hollers to me from the checkout desk.
    “Where’s Aunt Iva Lou?”
    “She’s still trying things on.”
    I look down at Etta’s stack of items as Julia rings them up. Three tasteful cotton bras with a piqué trim are hiding under the T-shirts Etta wanted.
    “Iva Lou?” I say through the curtain of the dressing area. She doesn’t answer. “Are you in there?” She still does not respond. I look around the store. It’s empty, near closing time. “Iva?” I ask again. I peek through the curtain. Iva Lou is inside, sitting on the bench with her head in her hands.
    “What’s wrong?” I ask her.
    “I’m just draggin’, honey-o.” Iva Lou looks up at me. Under the fluorescent lights, I see through her makeup that she is exhausted.
    “I’m sorry. Did Etta wear you out?”
    “No, it’s not the shopping. I’m tarred all the time.”
    “What do you mean, all the time?”
    “Around five o’clock every day, I just need to set down and rest.”
    “Have you been to the doctor?”
    “Doc Daugherty said it’s gettin’ older. That I need to slow down. The usual BS.”
    “Oh, please.”
    “What else could it be?”
    “A million things.” I sit down on the floor next to her. “You may have an insulin problem.”
    “I don’t have the sugar.”
    “Could be you’re vitamin-deficient.”
    “That could be, ’cause I never do take no pills.”
    “We can get you over to Holston Valley Hospital for them to do a complete workup on you.”
    Iva Lou stands. She doesn’t argue, which tells me that she’s hurting.
    “We’ll get to the bottom of this, okay?” I reassure her. She pats me on the shoulder, then breathes deeply, peels back the curtain, and walks to the checkout.
    “You girls can do some shopping.” Jack looks up from watching the news.
    “We needed everything we bought. Right, Etta?”
    “Yep.” Etta takes her shopping bags and goes upstairs.
    “I’ll bet,” Jack says, going back to his program. The phone rings. Jack doesn’t make a move for it (he never does), so I pick up in the hallway.
    “Ave?”
    The familiar voice sends a surge through me. “Pete?”
    “How are you?” he says in a tone that makes me feel like I need to sit down.
    “I’m doing fine,” I tell him. Pete Rutledge has gone from my Italian Summer Crush (okay, old crush, it’s been five years since I romped with him in a field of bluebells above Schilpario in the Italian Alps) to family friend.
    “Me too.