Icy Sparks (14 page)

A hamburger, gray-colored as if it had been boiling in water for hours, an ice cream scoop of lumpy mashed potatoes, a thin, shriveled pickle, and two old candy canes, probably left over from last Christmas, stared up at me.

“Good, huh?” Maizy asked.

I eyed her and shrugged my shoulders, wondering how on earth she thought this meal was good, but her wafer-thin body gave her away; not once in her life had she eaten good-tasting food. Closing my eyes, I imagined Matanni and Patanni spooning up soup at the kitchen table. During the winter, Matanni made different kinds of soup each week. This week, she would be fixing butternut squash and apple cider soup. The apple cider was made from the tart Winesaps that grew behind our house. She'd measure out three cups of homemade cider then two cups of Essie's whole cream. Then she'd add them to the bubbling, cooked squash. After which she'd plop in three dollops of butter. When the bowls were filled, Patanni would urgently bring his spoon toward him, dribbling soup down the front of his shirt. Matanni, on the other hand, would leisurely dip her spoon away from her. Her mama, she always said, had taught her manners. Sitting in front of this lump of gray meat clumped between two pieces of starchy white bread, I longed for my grandmother, for the steamy mist that clouded my face as I brought a spoonful of her soup to my mouth, for that warm heavy feeling in my stomach after I finished it.

“You're not a real kid,” Maizy's voice interrupted my reverie. “All children like hamburgers.”

“Come this way,” Delbert ordered, clutching a boy's hand—the large, big-boned boy whom I had seen marching in the yard when I first arrived. With his crew-cut, jutting jaw, and seedy black eyes, he appeared older than the rest of us, fifteen maybe. His shoulders rippling like plowed furrows, the boy strutted across the floor, following Delbert.

“Gordie, sit here,” the aide said, patting the top of the table. “See how clean it is.”

“Did Gordie go crazy when the music started?” asked a large man in a white uniform from several feet away.

“Naw, Tiny. He was just fine,” Delbert answered, steering Gordie to his spot at the table. “He didn't butt nobody or nothing. Just me afterwards.”

I stared at Tiny—six feet tall, barrel-chested, and potbellied—and wondered how he got his name.

“That's good,” Tiny said. “We're making progress.”

Gordie sat down rigidly, his spine pressed against the back of the chair. Carefully, he unfolded his napkin, placed it over his knees, and stared, steely-eyed, in front of him. Then a muscle in his face twitched, and the eerie flicker of a smile passed over his mouth.

Now, leaning against a sofa, Tiny nodded knowingly at Delbert, who, in turn, nodded back. I sat up in my chair and looked at the three of them.

“Look at him, Tiny. He's obsessed with Ruthie's forehead.” Delbert pointed at a pretty teenage girl, around thirteen, sitting at the end of the table. “I'll be relieved when her transfer comes through.”

I turned my gaze to the girl, whose hair was cut short and curled under like the pictures Miss Emily had shown me of bobbed hair in the Roaring Twenties. She gripped a large spoon in her left hand, mechanically scooped up a mound of mashed potatoes, and shoveled it between her full, pink lips. Yet, even before she swallowed it, she was dipping her spoon into the potatoes again. Gordie, I noticed, was following the spoon's metallic glitter as it traveled from the potatoes to her mouth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Whenever she swallowed, his mouth, opening and closing like a fish's, mimicked hers. Potatoes oozed from the sides of her lips. They were smeared like paste down her chin. Watching her, Gordie glared.

“He's studying her,” Delbert said, slowly lifting up the tray. “I'm moving him over there”—he pointed with his little finger at a card table set up in the far right-hand corner of the room.

“That's why I set it up,” Tiny said, winking. “Lately he's been going after Ruthie.”

Delbert had turned toward Tiny and was turning back to grab Gordie's arm when suddenly the boy jumped up, squared his shoulders, and charged like a bull over the top of the table in a beeline toward Ruthie's forehead.

“Gordie!” Delbert yelled, lunging for him.

But it was too late. With one loud
pow,
Gordie's forehead had already slammed into hers. Like a rubber band popping, she snapped back in her chair. “Owwooooo!” she bellowed, springing forward, pounding the table with her fists. “Owwooooo!” she cried, flipping her plate, mashed potatoes like miniature parachutes falling to the floor.

Frantic, Delbert surged forward, casting his arms like a net way over the table and stopping Gordie's head—which was poised to butt again.

“Gordie!” Tiny skimmed across the polished floor and grabbed the boy's arms from behind. “Cut it out!”

“Owwooooo!” Ruthie cried, before leaning to one side and yanking out a handful of Deirdre's hair.

“Ruthie, no!” Maizy said, dashing over, wrapping her arms around Ruthie's shoulders.

Deirdre remained balled up and silent.

Gordie snorted and pushed against the table. The table rattled forward. All the while, Tiny and Delbert, sandwiched together, were pulling back. Tiny had locked both arms around Gordie's chest. Delbert was now holding on to Tiny's arms.

“Restraints!” Tiny hollered.

“Restraints!” Delbert repeated, his sandy-colored hair plastered over his forehead.

Maizy, still holding on to Ruthie, nodded at Wilma, who, grinning, left the room.

“Thanks, Tiny!” Delbert said, releasing and extending one hand as Wilma returned, sauntering over with the leather restraints dangling from her fingertips.

“Here!” she said, and plunked them into Delbert's palm. “The Bull needs lassoing.”

T
he odd-looking girl with pink gums, the one Wilma called the Mouth, threw out her bandaged arms and violently lunged forward, unable to move. Howling, she tugged and pulled at a rope around her waist, the end of which was looped through a metal ring attached to a tree. Every so often, while leaning to the front, the rope trembling from the stress, she'd feverishly snap her gums, angrily bring her arm to her mouth, and bite into the thick white bandage.

“Delbert, come get Mary!” I heard Wilma scream, opening wide the door. “Take her back in, or she'll bite through an artery.”

Disconcerted, I looked around. The boy who drew pictures was standing in one place next to the building, waving a piece of paper in front of his face. Ruthie, in braces, was hobbling toward the door. Before I saw Stevie, I smelled him, coming up behind me, reeking of excrement. I pinched my nostrils and pivoted. “Come on, Stevie,” Tiny groaned, snatching his hand. “You, too. Back inside. You've messed your britches again.”

“Maizy, where are those two girls?” I asked when we had finally settled down on a bench beneath the oak tree.

“What girls?” Maizy asked.

“The ones I saw when I arrived,” I said. “With curly hair and plaid jumpers.”

Maizy thought for a moment. “Oh, yes,” she said, “them—the administrator's daughters. Sometimes they play here.”

“They don't live here?” I asked.

“Oh, no, sweetie,” she said. “They just visit.”

Sighing, I stood up and wandered toward the swingsets, where the bird boy was swinging. Bored, I watched as he swished to and fro. When the swing flew back, he'd chirp, his blond hair flying around his head like down feathers. But the minute I came within two feet of him, he stretched out his long legs, plunged his feet into the ground, dirt swirling around his ankles, and came to a stop. I stared at his blond hair, aqua-blue eyes, and long, thin, graceful body; but he didn't look back. In fact, he turned his head away, averting his eyes.

“Reid!” Maizy said, walking over to where I stood. “I'm Miss Cockatoo from Sidney. Don't you recognize me?”

Reid, the bird boy, eased out of the swing, turned his head toward her, and clucked softly.

Perching on her toes, Maizy arched her back, waved her arms slowly, and made tiny guttural noises.

Reid responded, trilling softly.

“This is my new friend,” Maizy said, motioning for me to step forward. “Her name is Icy. See the color of her hair?” With her fingers, Maizy fluffed out my hair. “She's a yellow bird.”

Reid closed his eyelids, tilted his head to the left, and chirped.

“Reid. Reid. Reid,” Maizy sang, creeping closer, “Don't be afraid,” she cheeped. “You know me. Miss Cockatoo from Sidney.” She inched next to him, extended her left arm, and touched the bottom of his shirt.

Instantly he flashed open his eyes, threw out his arms, and screeched wildly. With bent knees and rounded chest, he swooped around her, circling and circling, cawing and cawing, frenetically waving his arms.

Maizy raised her arms over her head and fluttered her fingers. “See?” she said soothingly. “I've got nothing. No restraints. Nothing.”

Then, as quickly as he had begun, Reid stopped screeching. Instead, he raised his leg like a beautiful white heron and—with both arms flying gracefully by his sides—stood perfectly balanced. In this position, he perched and trilled for what seemed the longest time.

Maizy and I, both quiet and thoughtful, backed away from him and sat back down on the grass near the sandbox. Lulled by the moment, enjoying this rare warm December day, I looked at Maizy and, for the first time, really saw her. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, and delicate, she was beautiful. Petite, only five feet two inches tall, she weighed no more than ninety pounds. Like her frame, her hands were small and fragile. So paper-thin was her skin that I could see the dark, threadlike veins beneath. Her nose was tiny yet well defined. When she breathed, her nostrils trembled. Every so often, her eyelids would flutter; she'd seem to drift off. A daydreamer myself, I recognized the symptoms.

“You're daydreaming, aren't you?” I asked.

The muscles around her mouth twitched. She shook her head once and stared at me. “Yes,” she answered, blinking her eyes. “I always daydream after lunch,” she said. “Full stomach, I guess. How did you know?”

“My daddy was a great daydreamer,” I said. “Famous throughout the county, and he passed it on to me.”

“Mountain folk are accomplished daydreamers,” she said. A faraway look came to her eyes. “I was born in the mountains, in a little town called Lollagag.”

“A town of slowpokes.” I giggled, clapping my hand over my mouth.

“Funny name, isn't it?” she said. “But I like Lollagag 'cause a person can't get lost there. She can't get lost in a place where everybody knows her mama and daddy, her mamaw and papaw, her aunts and uncles and cousins, her brothers and sisters. Where I was born people know me, and their knowing me makes me real. I'm known for more than just my name.”

“It's the same in Poplar Holler,” I said. “Except, sometimes, a person becomes known for all the wrong reasons.”

But Maizy, with that distant look in her eyes, wasn't listening. “Last year,” she said, “Mannie Comfrey, the old man who lives down the road from where I grew up, put up an electric fence. Not around his cow pasture, mind you, but around his house. Can you imagine it? An electric fence around your front yard? What for?”

I cleared my throat, ready to guess, but Maizy broke in.

“It's for keeping people out,” she said. “Not for keeping cows in. These days, when I visit with Mannie—rocking on his wide front porch—I can hear that fence buzzing. The noise spins inside my ears, louder than the rocking, powerful like a swarm of angry yellow jackets. The voltage is set so high.”

“Good night!” I said.

“Last summer,” Maizy continued, “I accidently got caught in that fence of his. The hairs on my right leg sputtered. What I mean is, they sizzled like a match bursting into flame, curling around that wire.” Maizy closed her eyes. “Even now, if I'm real quiet and concentrate real hard, I can hear that sizzling sound. I can feel the heat from that deep fire and smell my leg hair burning. It's a nasty, foul odor. The dear Lord sent me that electric fence. I reckon He wanted me to understand what cows go through. God does that, you know. He teaches you lessons.”

“I know,” I said. “Back home, He taught me a big lesson. He showed me something horrible at Little Turtle Pond. He wanted to see what I would do.”

“What did God show you?” Maizy asked.

I opened wide my eyes and shook my head. “I can't tell you that,” I said. “But Mamie Tillman sure knows what it is.”

“Who's Mamie Tillman?” said Maizy.

“The one God chose to teach me,” I said. “She's a strange one, all right! Ain't got nary a friend, living all by herself on that rough patch of land. All she ever done was wait on her daddy. Like a shadow, she was. Then he up and died and left her behind.”

“Did you do what God wanted?” Maizy asked, opening her eyes and turning toward me.

“I failed.” I shook my head. “No, I couldn't do what He wanted.”

“We all fail sometimes.” Maizy patted me on the shoulder. “Not one of us is perfect.”

“I can't find nothing wrong with you,” I said.

A sad smile passed over her face and she said, “That's because you don't really know me.”

“I'm beginning to.”

Suddenly Maizy laughed. “Then your standards must be real low,” she said, shaking her head.

“I know one thing for sure.” I boldly wagged my index finger in her face. “This here place is full of mistakes. A person could get dizzy sorting them out,” I said. “If I had a mind to, I'd lick a label and stick it on everyone's forehead. One would say the Mouth. Another, the Drooler. Then there'd be Head Butt-er. Maybe even one saying Stupid Lump of Shit.”

Maizy caught my finger, jerked it down, and in a serious voice said, “I know where you heard all those names but the last one. It's beyond awful. Now tell me! Where did you hear that?”

I coughed, snatching back my finger. “Which one?” I asked.

“Stupid Lump…Stupid Lump of, you know what!” she said sternly. “Who said it? I know you didn't make it up. You don't talk that way.”

“How do you know how I talk?” I sassed.

“I just do,” she snapped. “Come on. Out with it. Where did you hear those words?”

“I've got a foul mouth,” I protested. “Go ask Mr. Wooten. He'll tell you the truth. Pincipals don't lie. He'll say I can cuss with the best of them.”

“You don't fool me for one minute,” Maizy said. “I know exactly why you're doing this.”

“Shit. Damn. Hellfire,” I spluttered.

“Stop it, Icy!” Maizy was trembling with fury. “I don't want you lying, belittling yourself for that mean old hag. I don't ever want that. Do you hear me?”

I clamped my lips together and barely nodded.

“Then tell me, this instant, who spoke those words?”

“I done told you,” I said, turning my head away. “Those bad words are mine, all mine.”

“Real, honest-to-goodness friends tell each other the truth,” Maizy said.

“I ain't lying,” I said.

“Okay,” she said curtly, “have it your way. But, mark my words, the truth will out.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I muttered, and slumped away.

B
ack in my room, on my bed, surrounded by nursery rhyme characters, I thought about what Maizy had said and wondered what “truth would out.” Would it be that part of me who longed to be like everyone else, who put on a mask each morning, secured it tightly, and masqueraded for acceptance? Would my secrets eventually pour out of me like water spilling from a broken pitcher? Would I start croaking and jerking until every head at Bluegrass State Hospital turned in my direction? I wondered what truth of mine would out.

Did I, Icy Sparks, consist of two truths—one, the pretty, delicate, golden-haired child; the other, the frog child from Icy Creek? If so, did everyone in this world have two truths, two sides—one, in view; the other, hidden? I asked myself these questions and thought about Reid, the bird boy. Did he have another side, too? What part lay beneath the flapping and chirping? Did he have boy thoughts, or were all his thoughts shaped by images of birds? And if we all had two parts, who was Rose? Was she only a mangled, tangled jumble of parts like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle dumped upon the floor, or perhaps more? Could Wilma, seemingly so ugly, both inside and out, have another part? Did she have a hidden, sweet side? If so, where was it?

Alone in the silence of my room, I didn't know. I only knew that beneath the silence was the noise, the other part, veiled but as real as the scratching sounds of mice scurrying across the floor at night. Every living thing, I knew, had secrets—concealed and quiet—aching to be seen and heard. Crickets, covered in shadows, their legs contorting deep in the woods, chirped and gave their secrets away. Wildcats cried, mourning over something forbidden. Mamie Tillman had thrown her secret into Little Turtle Pond.

“M
atanni always says each mama crow thinks her baby crow's the blackest,” I said to Dr. Conroy after my afternoon rest. “What I mean is that she can never find fault with me. And Patanni's even worse. He tells anyone he sees that I'm the prettiest, smartest, sweetest girl in the mountains of Kentucky. To hear him, ain't no other child as good as me. When it comes to me, he ain't nothing but a Blow George.”

“A Blow George?” Dr. Conroy asked.

“A boastful person,” I explained. “A liar.”

Dr. Conroy nodded.

“So it don't matter what they say,” I resumed, “'cause what they say can't be trusted.”

“Do you trust what I say?” Dr. Conroy asked, tapping a pencil against the ink blotter, from the chair behind her desk.

“The other day I did.”

“What did you believe?” she asked.

“You said that French braids were unique, just like me.”

“Yes.”

“And when I saw those braids in the mirror, I believed you.”

“Well, Icy.” Dr. Conroy put down her pencil. “I have no reason to lie to you.”

“You ain't my grandparents, if that's what you mean.”

“Regardless, I don't lie,” she said firmly. “I try to see things clearly.”

“Never?” I said. “Not even a little white lie? Miss Emily says we all lie sometimes, especially when we don't want to hurt another person's feelings.”

“Maybe once,” she said, “maybe when I was a child, but I try not to. Not even little white lies. I always make an effort to tell the truth.”