Icy Sparks (4 page)

I sighed deeply and stared at the landscape. “Sure is pretty,” I said. “Like a photograph dreaming.”

My grandfather cleared his throat. “But a photograph can't dream,” he said.

Extending my arm, I pointed at the empty space. “See how blurry it is,” I explained. “It's neither day nor night. Kind of in between.”

“'Twixt day and night,” my grandfather said.

“All soft-like,” I said. “Like my goose-down pillow. Like the fluff on a dove's breast. Safe, soft, and gray. Bad things shouldn't happen at twilight.”

“God don't put much stock in appearances.” Patanni clinked his glass on the floor. “Now, Jack-in-the-pulpit is pretty to look at,” he went on. “Jack peers up over the edge of his pulpit, protected by that green leaf hanging over him. All summer long, he preaches and preaches until, all wore out, he finally withers away, leaving behind little red drops of blood, a bunch of scarlet berries. If you eat these berries, your mouth and tongue will burn like fire. But if you think Preacher Jack is safe to eat before he withers and changes, you'd be mistaken, 'cause he'll burn you, too. You see, it don't matter how Jack looks. Jack is Jack, all the while.”

“Twilight plays tricks,” Matanni said. “Sometimes appearances can be deceiving. Remember your daddy died at dusk.”

Patanni groaned and stood up. “Yessir,” he said, “God keeps on working. In the soft, gray twilight, He took Josiah away.”

Looking back over my shoulder, I stared at my grandparents. “I ain't afraid,” I said. “Daddy died in twilight, but I was born in it. 'Tis safe for me.”

With those words, we headed for the kitchen.

“O
ur heavenly Father,” Patanni prayed after Matanni loaded the table with dinner and we sat with bowed heads and closed eyes, “please forgive us sinners. Find it in Your heart to forgive an old man, who from time to time steals a shot of Satan's poison from the barn. And please forgive an old woman who begrudges Lucy Wester's jam-making talents. She ain't usually so blinded by envy.” I opened my eyes and looked over at Matanni, who was biting her lower lip and fidgeting in her chair. “And most important, don't forget about a little girl who has some very big secrets. Amen.”

“Amen!” I said angrily, and looked up. My breath came in spurts, and I felt a pounding in my chest. Feeling my throat tighten, I panted, glanced anxiously at Patanni, and said, “You don't need to pray for me!” My cheeks flamed, and the heat shot down my neck. “'Cause I don't keep secrets, and I don't know what you're talking about!” I jumped up from my chair. It fell backward and thudded against the floor. “I ain't a bad girl. I don't need forgiveness,” I said, my eyes filling up, tears streaming down my face. “I ain't bad, and you know it!” I cried. Stunned, Patanni just looked at me. “I ain't bad,” I repeated, turning to Matanni, whose mouth trembled and head shook. “I ain't bad,” I said again, as tears fell over my lip and my tongue wiped them away. “I thought you loved me,” I sobbed, a fresh pool of tears spilling over my cheeks.

All at once, a thousand thoughts and feelings surfaced.
But we do love you
, my thoughts said.
What you do in the root cellar ain't bad. You're not bad
, they told me,
just a mixture. Like the pokeweed
.

I rolled my eyes upward. “Pokeweed,” I acknowledged, sniffling, nodding my head. “Pokeweed. Pokeweed. Pokeweed,” I said.

“Heavens, child, what's wrong?” Matanni asked, pushing her plate away.

“Pokeweed. Pokeweed,” I repeated.

You jerk and pop, but you ain't no tattletale,
my thoughts continued.

“Tattletale. Tattletale. Tattletale. Tattletale,” I said. “Tattletale. Tattletale. Tattletale. Tattletale,” I chanted.

You're a good girl
, my thoughts declared.
You won't mention Mamie Tillman's big belly
.

I nodded. “No, I won't!” I said.
I won't say big belly. No, I won't
, my thoughts urged,
'cause I'm a good girl. No, no, no. I'll never say big belly, I'll never say those words
. Frantically, I shook my head; then, before I knew it, before I understood what was happening, before any of my positive thoughts could save me, out slipped “Big belly.” Startled, I looked around, hunting for the culprit. “Big belly,” my mouth said again. “Great big belly.”

“Icy!” Patanni came to himself. “Honey child, what is going on?” he asked, jerking upright.

“Big belly! Big belly! Big belly!” I screamed, repeating what my troubled thoughts said. “Big belly! Big belly! Big Belly!” I hollered, until Patanni rushed forward and scooped me into his arms.

My grandmother jumped up. “Virgil?” she said, twisting her head around like a bewildered chicken. “Virgil, I don't understand.”

“Virgil. Virgil. Virgil. Virgil,” I said, pressing my face against my grandfather's chest. “Virgil. Virgil. Virgil,” I muttered. “Virgil. Virgil. Virgil.”

Matanni moaned, was silent for a second, then took control. “Virgil, where's that whiskey of yours?” she asked, scurrying toward the door.

“In Essie's stall.” He patted my head. “Behind the bale of hay. Hurry, Tillie.”

“Tillie,” I said. “Tillie, Tillie, Tillie,” I cried.

My grandfather clutched me to his barrel chest. “Icy,” he whispered, rubbing my back with his broad hands. “We do love you. More'n anything in the world.”

More'n anything in the world
, Patanni's last sentence, took over my mind.
World
, his last word, loomed there, large and greedy. The
world
was big, and he loved me
more'n anything
in it. If I didn't repeat
world
, it would grow larger and larger. Soon it would expand and extend itself from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. Like an enormous parasite, it would live in my body, change into a breathing, thriving, eating
world
, and devour me. So I had to say it. Saying
world
would diminish its power.
Pay homage to the word
, my thoughts told me,
and the world will be satiated
.

Yet after the whiskey seared my throat, I couldn't speak. My mouth burned, and every word that crept to my lips went up in flames. Try as I might, I could only whimper softly. My grandfather, hearing my groans, picked me up and carried me upstairs.

In my attic bedroom, the white wooden beams sloped down to embrace me. The tidy yellow iron bed cradled me, and I felt safe. With one broad sweep, Patanni turned back my quilt and put me in bed. Sitting on the brown braided rug beside me, he stroked my head. I smelled the hot, dark odor of whiskey on his mouth. Over and over, he brought his hand through my hair, combing it back, caressing my temple where the
world
dwelled. “Sugar,” he whispered, “don't you worry. Your grandma and me love you. Won't nothing ever change that.”

I made a gurgling noise and brought my fingertips to my mouth.

“Burned, didn't it?” he asked.

I nodded.

“I'm sorry. There weren't nothing else we could do.”

I gurgled again, shivered violently, and snuggled down under the covers.

“Icy, for the life of me, I can't figure out what brought this on,” he said.

I tried to answer, but he shushed me.

“Good girl,” he said, still rubbing my head.

I heard the faint clatter of pans downstairs. Then Matanni's tiny feet tapped up the steps. A cup rattled against a saucer, and I saw her round belly and thin legs silhouetted in the doorway. “I got hot milk for you,” she said, tiptoeing toward the bed.

Patanni put his hand under my neck, lifted my head, and fluffed up my pillow. “This child's trembling,” he said as he took the cup.

Matanni touched my forehead. “Why, Virgil, she's running fever! We got us a case of influenza.”

“In this hot July?” Patanni said.

“Stranger things have happened,” she said. Matanni scurried to the door and stood there. “Don't you worry, Icy,” she finally said. “You'll be well in no time. I promise.” Like a hummingbird, she flitted down the stairs. Before I could swallow my first mouthful of milk, I heard the medicine chest creak twice. Once more she was beside me. “Open your mouth,” she ordered, dropping two aspirin on my tongue. “Now swallow.”

“With some milk,” Patanni said, putting the cup to my lips.

“Scoot down.” Matanni pulled up the quilt and tucked it under my chin. “Rest now,” she said, and kissed my cheek.

“Sweet dreams,” my grandfather said, setting the cup and saucer on the floor. “We love you,” he whispered, squeezing my shoulder.

Then both headed down the narrow stairs, leaving me alone in the twilight.

T
hat night in my bed, I flew with the fever. God, I felt, was giving me a taste of what was in store for me. Fly right, I kept hearing my grandfather say. So I tried to fly right. I'd open my arms and legs, thrust them out, then bring them back to my sides. Over and over, burning with sweat, I did this, leaving yellow-stained angels on the sheets.

When Matanni touched me, she yelped. Patanni carried up buckets of springwater. Matanni soaked dish towels in the cold water and washed my body, hoping to cool me off, but the water evaporated as soon as it touched my skin.

For three days, I burned. With the heat of a thousand forest fires, I flamed. Like the woodstove, stoked and roaring, I cooked. I was bacon sizzling. When moths brushed against my skin, their wings frizzled. I blazed with Satan's fury and grew red-hot with God's awful love. I burned and burned and burned until my skin withered and my lips cracked. I boiled until my mind dissolved and lost its shape. My thoughts rose upward and evaporated like steam. I burned until there was nothing left. Just Icy Sparks. Ice sparking flames. And no one's tender care, not even my grandparents', could bring me back to me.

Then, one morning, a bright red cardinal landed on my windowsill and chirped loudly. I was drawn to him. His beak smiled, and his eyes twinkled. Then, like scarlet flames, in a whirl of red, he fluttered away, taking all of the heat in my room, all the fire in my body with him.

Weak, I inched up on my elbows and slung my legs over the edge of the bed. When my feet touched the cold floor, I smiled. “Matanni,” I said aloud mostly to myself, “what's for breakfast?”

I
felt sweat trickling down my forehead. The hair around my face was wet, but this time it wasn't fever. The tenacious midday heat had turned the grass yellow. Beside the toolshed, the limbs of the crab apple tree drooped. Even the dogwood leaves were brown, curling up like strips of fried bacon. Eager to cool off and forget my worries, I decided to go to the springhouse for a tin cup of cold water when I heard the rumble of tires over gravel. I perched my palms over my eyes and saw whirlwinds of dust and the glow of bright red metal. The red Chevy veered to the left, its back tires screeching, spun onto our rutted driveway, and jerked to a stop at the top of the hill. Miss Emily pounded the horn, poked her head out the window, and yelled, “Icy Gal, come over here and help me.”

I squinted into the sun. “I reckon I have the energy,” I yelled back, then plodded down the steps and shuffled toward the car.

Miss Emily shoved open the door and extended a barrel-sized leg. “Yesterday, your grandpa dropped by. Said you were here by your lonesome, recovering from the flu. I just had to check in on you.”

“Who's minding the store?” I asked, reaching over with both of my hands. I grabbed her left hand and pulled. Swaying forward slightly, she lost her balance and fell back, scrunching again into the seat. “Please try!” I said, wiping my sweaty palms on the front of my shirt.

“Johnny Cake.” She brushed her brow with a white lace handkerchief, breathed in deeply, and added, “He loves being important, and I love giving him the chance. Right now, I'm awfully busy with other things, collecting money for the volunteer fire department and helping the library decide what new books to buy.”

“Give me both hands,” I said.

Miss Emily stretched out both arms. Her palms were slippery with perspiration.

“I'm gonna count to three,” I said. “One…two…three.” I jerked back, straining so hard that my face turned beet red, and held firm.

Miss Emily, a huge redwood, oscillated forward, both of her shoes swallowing dirt, then stood upright. “Whew!” she said, shaking. “That was tough.”

“I ain't gonna be your walking cane,” I said. “I'm too tuckered out.”

“I didn't ask you, did I?” Indignantly she tossed back her head, inhaled deeply, and began trudging toward the house. “So you've recovered?” she said, looking at me sideways.

“I ain't got no fever,” I said.

“I don't have a fever,” she corrected me. “You're from these hills, but you don't have to talk like it. It's time you talked right. Have you forgotten everything I taught you?”

“Of course not,” I said. “I like talking hillbilly. Everyone speaks this way.”

“Your speech will mark you for life,” she snapped. “If you don't change it, it'll hold you back. You won't become the person I know you can be.”

As we walked, I could feel my spirits crashing. Miss Emily usually accepted me. Now she was badgering me. “If you don't like me for me, then I don't need this visit,” I said.

“Nary a person in these mountains done made it with speech such as this.” She smiled and patted me on the shoulder. “Icy Gal, Berea College taught me that there's a time and a place for everything. I'm proud of my roots, but in that great, wide world beyond these mountains, pride—false pride, mind you—is a flaw. It will hurt you. Do you understand?”

“I need to speak right,” I said.

“You're smart as the dickens, Icy Gal. Sometimes I forget you're only ten.” When we reached the first step, Miss Emily stopped, braced herself, opened her mouth so wide that her lips stretched over her teeth, and inhaled deeply. “Stay close,” she said, “or you'll tumble off the edge.”

“Ready?” I asked, huddling beneath her armpit.

“Ready,” she said, and up we went. The minute we stepped on the porch, Miss Emily waddled over to Patanni's rocker and collapsed.
“Un vaso de agua, por favor,”
she said.

Gigi, the cat, taught me French. Miss Emily taught me Spanish. “From the springhouse?” I asked. “It's very cold.”

“In Cuba, we drank piña coladas on the veranda. Even now, my tongue remembers the cold slivers of pineapple and the sweet taste of rum.”

“A cup of springwater?” I asked again.

“Delicioso,”
she said. “The water in town is brown. I've been drinking Coke instead.”

“I'll be right back.” I sprinted down the steps, raced around the back of the house, and headed toward the old fieldstone springhouse. Lately, Patanni had been hauling buckets of good, clear water from the springhouse because our well water was too muddy to drink. Inside, pooling in front of a brown stone wall, was the spring, my grandfather's pride. I grabbed the tin cup that hung from a nail and dipped it into the cold water. Then I brought the metal rim to my lips and took a long, slow swallow. It was the sweetest water on earth, and I drank the whole cup before refilling it and dashing back. “Here,” I said, handing Miss Emily the cup.

She stopped strumming her fingers on the rocker's arm and took it. Closing her eyes, she dramatically brought the cup to her lips and sipped until the cup was empty. “That was exquisite,” she hummed, then opened her eyes and draped its handle over the rocker's arm. “You know how to treat a guest.” She tapped her yellow shoes against the porch. “Now sit down,” she said. “Tell me all about you.”

I sat on the floor in front of her. “I'm glad you came,” I said. “No one ever drops by.”

“Neighbors don't want to get sick,” she said, “especially with the flu.”

“Even if I'm well, no one comes over.”

“Joel McRoy lives down the road, not a mile away,” she said. “Why don't you visit him? The road goes both ways.”

I made a face. “'Cause we ain't friends no more.” I corrected myself, “I mean, we aren't friends anymore.”

She clicked her tongue. “I heard you dumped a Coke over the poor boy's head.”

“He brought in on hisself, himself,” I said.

“No one, Icy Gal, deserves a Coke poured over his head.”

“Joel McRoy did,” I said, straining upward. “If you came over here to make me feel bad, then you can get.”

Miss Emily put her hands on my shoulders and held me down. “Calm down, Icy Gal! I've heard Joel McRoy's side, but I haven't heard yours. Tell me what happened.”

I sat up straight, looked right into Miss Emily's sky-blue eyes, and said, “He called me a name. Like they used to call my daddy.”

“What name?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“Icy, you can tell me. I'm your best friend.”

“Frog eyes,” I mumbled.

“What?” Miss Emily said.

“Frog eyes,” I repeated. “He said I looked like Peavy Lawson. That my eyes popped out like his.”

“Peavy Lawson?” Miss Emily asked. “I don't know Peavy Lawson.”

“He's ugly as a polecat,” I said. “Pop-eyed, straggly brown hair, and freckles.”

“Well, you've got blond hair and amber eyes,” she said. “I can't see the resemblance.”

“The likeness is in the pop,” I said.

Miss Emily sucked in air, hesitated for a minute, then asked, “I've never seen you. Do you really pop out your eyes?”

I lowered my head and didn't answer.

“Speak up, Icy Gal. Tell me.”

“I…”

“Come on, Icy.”

“Sometimes my eyes pop out,” I began, and stopped. Then, before I could think twice, the whole truth rushed from my mouth. “Joel McRoy and his cousin, Janie Lou, caught me behind Old Man Potter's barn popping out my eyes, and I called him a liar and dumped Coke all over his head when I knowed, knew, he was speaking the truth. I admit it. Sometimes my eyes pop out, but they can't help it. I mean, I can't help it. If I don't, my head feels like it'll explode and splatter all over the place.” I stopped, ate a mouthful of air, and continued. “I'm popping and jerking and repeating all the time. I can't help it. I hide in the root cellar and do it. I go down to the creek and do it. I did it in Old Man Potter's barn, and I'll probably do it when school starts. I'll do it because I can't help myself, and the whole school will turn against me, and I ain't gonna hang around for that. Do you hear me, Miss Emily? I ain't gonna stay here. No, ma'am! I'll carve me a canoe out of a cedar tree, and I'll sail it down the Kentucky River, then up the Ohio, all the way to Louisville, where they love people who are different.” I heaved once, my shoulders shaking, and broke into tears.

“Icy Gal,” Miss Emily said, “listen up, you won't have to do that. I promise, we'll find out what's wrong and make it right.”

“But you won't tell no one…you won't tell anyone?” I asked in a shrill voice.

“On my word of honor,” she said, “I'll not mention it to a soul. We'll give you a little time. All children go through phases, little traumas, you know. You might just be going through one. After a while, you'll grow out of it. Now stand up and come here.” When I approached, she stretched out her arms and drew me to her, but it seemed that the harder Miss Emily tried to comfort me, the less comfort she seemed to give.

B
efore leaving that day, Miss Emily had said, “Icy Gal, you don't believe me, but I understand what you're going through. When I gobble down that last sweet roll, I understand. I'm not hungry, Icy Gal, not at all, but I have to eat them all. Another and another and another until the whole box is empty. I could eat all of the sweet rolls in the world, and I'd still want more.” She had placed her fat hand on her chest. “The void, Icy Gal. The emptiness in my heart. No amount of food will ever fill it up.”

I shook my head and said, “No, it's different. Eye popping doesn't fill up anything. It just causes me pain.”

“You think I don't feel pain?” she asked. “You think I don't know what those snotty women say behind my back? ‘They don't make panties big enough for Miss Emily's behind.' I've heard every word, every giggle. I've felt every barb. There's only one mirror in my home, and it's covered with a piece of cheesecloth.” She pointed at her face and spat out, “Do you think I want to see this hog?” Grimacing, she had slid her plump hands over her body and said, “I'm roasting on a spit in hell.”

Nearby was a patch of withered daffodils. I walked over and sat beside the wilted brown stems. Last spring, after the flowers had bloomed, I had tried to prune them with Matanni's sewing scissors. Matanni, catching me through the kitchen window, had rushed outside. “Icy, don't!” she shouted, running toward me. “If you cut them, they won't come back.”

“The flowers are gone,” I said. “And the brown stems look ugly.”

“Pretty and ugly go together,” she explained. “A pop-eyed, yellow baby ain't too pretty neither, but I didn't clip you into little pieces and toss you away.” Matanni held out her hand, and I gave her the scissors. “Look what you turned into! You was born an ugly duckling but you've growed into a swan.”

“Miss Emily was a fat baby. Now she's a fat grown-up,” I said. “She stayed the same. So you're wrong. Ugly and ugly go together.”

“Don't you like her?” my grandmother asked.

“She's my best friend.”

“Then see the pretty part of her,” Matanni had said. “Some hearts, Icy, are mean and vicious, but Miss Emily's is sweet and playful.”

“Innocent,” I had said.

“The heart of a child.”

But that day, I didn't believe Miss Emily could possibly understand what I was going through because we were different. Even though she thought our orphaned status made us the same, I knew it didn't. By four, I had lost my parents. Miss Emily was twenty-five before hers died. When I was old enough, I wanted girlfriends who'd ask me to parties and boyfriends who'd take me to the movies. I wanted more than just respect. I wanted acceptance, the wink and nod of approval. In my home, I'd hang a mirror from each wall. I'd look proudly at myself in each. No, Miss Emily had not a clue as to what ailed me. She could stop herself from eating. I, on the other hand, couldn't help what I did. My urges controlled me. Nevertheless, in Miss Emily's eyes, we were the same. She was the orphan of Ginseng; I was the orphan of Poplar Holler. If she had her way, she'd use our strangeness to unite us. She'd be Miss Emily Tanner, the fat woman of Ginseng; I'd be Icy Sparks, the frog child from Icy Creek. Together, we'd become the Orphaned Outcasts of Crockett County. Just the thought of such comparisons made me shudder.