Icy Sparks

by Gwyn Hyman Rubio

  “Icy Gal, where have you been?” She combed my curls with her fingers. “I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

  “Around,” I mumbled, my mouth engulfed in gingham.

  “You know how I miss you when you don’t visit,” she said, placing her square hands on either side of my head, rocking me back, and staring into my eyes. “But I knew you were coming today. Johnny Cake told me you were in town.”

  “I saw him at the Cut ’n Curl,” I said. “He was filling up the Coke machine. I’m sorry I ain’t…” Then, lowering my eyes, I coughed and corrected myself. “I mean, I’m sorry I haven’t seen you in so long.”

  “Don’t feel badly, Icy Gal,” she said. She took my hand, and flesh—like warm dough rising—cushioned my fingers. “I’ve got something for you in the back. Guess what it is.” She smiled broadly; her thin lips, a pencil stroke, slit her face.

  “A coffee cake?” I asked, knowing full well what Miss Emily had prepared for me.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head from side to side, her reddish brown hair stroking her chin.

  “A peppermint stick?” I ventured.

  “Certainly not,” she said, and squeezed my hand. “Seems to me after all these years you’d be smart enough to guess what I have for you.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I’m tuckered out from guessing,” I said. “I just want to be surprised.”

  “Get ready. Get set!” she said, still holding my hand. “Go, Icy Gal!” All three hundred pounds of her pulled me through a doorway from which hung a blue velvet curtain. “Now close your eyes,” she ordered, trudging forward as I trailed behind. “Okay,” she announced, “you can open them!”

  As always, teacups, saucers, plates, and miniature silverware were laid out on a small, rectangular table covered with a yellow, pin-striped cloth. “’Tis wonderful!” I exclaimed, clapping my hands. In the center of the table was a cobalt-blue platter decorated with tea-cakes, a bowl of sugar cubes, a pitcher of cream, a saucer of lemon slices, and a silver bowl heaped high with taffy. At one end of the table in a doll-sized wicker chair sat Mrs. Possum, a string of baby possums attached to her stomach. At the other end, Gigi, the half-French and half-Persian stuffed cat, was propped upon a leather stool.

  Miss Emily lowered herself onto a huge wooden bench on one side of the table while I sat down in a diminutive Queen Anne chair covered in gold satin. “I never would have guessed,” I lied.

  “Oh, never!” Miss Emily giggled. “But what’s different?” she asked.

  I scanned the table, hesitated theatrically for a few seconds, then said, “The sugar cubes. We’ve never had sugar cubes before.”

  “So right you are, Icy Gal!” Miss Emily said. “So right you are!” She leaned over and removed the tea cozy. “You couldn’t have timed it better,” she said. “Just a few minutes ago, I put the kettle on to boil. Would you like some tea?” she asked politely.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I nodded and lifted my teacup.

  Miss Emily poured a stream of tea into my cup, then some into hers. “Sugar and cream or lemon and sugar?” she asked.

  “Lemon and sugar,” I said as she handed me the bowl of sugar cubes and the saucer of lemon slices.

  “A tea cake?” she asked, arching her eyebrows.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Mind if I don’t?” she said. “I’m watching my figure.”

  “Of course not,” I said.

  “Mrs. Possum, would you care for a cup of tea?” she asked, turning her head in the possum’s direction.

  “A cup of cream only,” Mrs. Possum said in a high-pitched voice. “I don’t imbibe in caffeine when I’m nursing. And three tea cakes—please—that is, if you’ve enough.”

  “Cream is good for a nursing mother,” Miss Emily explained, looking at me.

  “That’s what Miss Gigi said,” I answered, staring back at her, trying to trick and confuse her, wanting to catch her when she threw her voice.

  “Miss Gigi?” Miss Emily said, suddenly twisting her neck. “Would you like a cup of tea? After all, you’re not a nursing mother.”

  “Oui, oui,” Miss Gigi purred. “I adore the full-flavored taste of tea, with just a hint of lemon.” Speaking with a thick French accent, in a smug, self-congratulatory voice, she added, “But I hate children, especially babies.”

  “A tea cake?” Miss Emily asked, reaching over, holding up the tray.

  “See this slim figure?” Miss Gigi hummed. “I didn’t get it from eating three tea cakes.”

  “So what?” Mrs. Possum snarled from the other end of the table. “You got only your prissy body, no man and no kids.”

  “No babies stealing my strength,” Miss Gigi seethed. “No babies leeching from my belly.”

  “Babies don’t leech!” Mrs. Possum growled. “Babies suckle down nourishment.”

  “Your babies leech,” Miss Gigi shot back. “They’re parasites, drinking down the vermin you eat.”

  “I’m warning you!” Mrs. Possum screamed. “Shut that arrogant French trap of yours or I’ll…”

  “You’ll what?” Miss Gigi said softly. “Use your brats as switches and whip me till I’m quiet?”

  Miss Emily held up both hands. “No more sniping,” she commanded. “This is a tea party, not a prizefight.” Then, leaning over the table, she asked, “Icy Gal, do you like the tea cakes?”

  I nodded, bit into my fourth, and—with a full mouth—said, “Especially these little black things.”

  “Poppy seeds,” Miss Emily explained. “They’re little poppy seeds.”

  Picking one from off my lip, I stared at it on my finger and praised, “They sure are good,” as I licked it off.

  Miss Emily smiled, stretched herself far over the table, and raised up the silver bowl piled high with taffy. “My pièce de résistance,” she announced. “Icy Gal, will you join me?”

  My grin traveled the width of my face. Wanting Miss Emily to see it, I held it until she set the bowl down. Then, not saying a word, I grabbed a handful of pull candy, slipped a glob between my lips, elongated and smoothed it out, and delicately placed the other end between Miss Emily’s thin lips. Simultaneously, we both leaned back and watched the taffy grow into a lean, flexible cord connecting the two of us. After which we slowly ate our way forward, coming closer and closer, biting off mouthfuls until we touched noses. Our eyes met, declared love, and we both clamped down, breaking the cord, and swallowed our lumps of taffy.

  And although I had not mentioned a word about the jerks and eye pops, I understood, right then and there, that in her heart Miss Emily knew. She was simply waiting for me to tell her.

  Chapter 3

  The three of us were working in the vegetable garden, a rich patch of ground to the left of the house. Even though it was late afternoon, the sun was still bright in the sky. Years before, my grandparents had cultivated a large garden, at least half an acre, but as they grew older, they decided to make it smaller. “’Twas too much work before,” Patanni said, leaning over, holding the hoe with one hand, with the other ripping out a cluster of weeds intruding on some summer squash.

  “Next year, I’m planting even more marigolds and zinnias,” Matanni said, plucking a pockmarked leaf off a tomato plant, “to keep away these bothersome bugs.”

  I whistled through my fingers and pointed at a bunch of wild grass creeping into the green beans. “Way over there!” I said to Patanni. “That grass needs hoeing.”

  “Ain’t nothing wrong with your arm, Icy Sparks,” my grandfather said, not making a move.

  I moaned, got up from where I had been pulling up milkweed, sauntered over to the green beans, lazily bent over, and tore out the grass. Then, snapping off a bean, I popped it into my mouth. “They sure are sweet,” I said.

  “I’ll cook up a pot for supper,” Matanni said. “With some fatback.”

  “How about some greens?” Patanni asked. “The other day, I seen pokeweed growing in the fencerows near the Tillman place. Since then, I been hankerin
g for a mess of greens,” he said. “Pokeweed with spring onions on top, then doused with some of your grandma’s hot sauce.”

  “Some snow on the mountain and some heat to melt it,” I said, remembering Patanni’s words whenever he ate pokeweed.

  “Don’t forget your cornbread,” Matanni piped up.

  “And a few slices of sweet tomatoes,” I added.

  “Yessir,” Patanni said, chopping at the roots of a yellow weed with prickles on its stem. “Ain’t no better eating in the world!” he declared, slamming the hoe ino the ground. “Excepting for…”

  “Excepting for what?” Matanni asked, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Louisa’s pokeweed,” he said, throwing back his head, laughing, his white teeth showing. “That girl almost kilt me.”

  My grandmother was shaking her head. “Louisa got confused. She did,” Matanni said. “Poor girl didn’t know the good parts from the bad.”

  With a faraway look in his eyes, Patanni let go of the hoe’s handle, which wobbled precariously above the loose dirt before plopping to the ground. “In no time, I knowed something was wrong,” he said, grimacing, covering his belly with his large hands. “My stomach somersaulting and grinding like it done. The sickness and the vomiting.” A smile, wistful and sad, flickered across his lips. “Louisa ate nary one bite, and you were at Stoddard’s Five and Dime. I was the only one took sick.”

  “You weren’t the only unlucky one,” Matanni said. “Poor Louisa!” she groaned. “She suffered for it, too. Cried and cried. Suffered more’n you. ‘Hit ain’t normal me not knowing what’s good and what’s bad and me growing up in these parts,’ she said, over and over, till you got well.”

  “’Tweren’t her fault,” said Patanni, walking over to a brown bucket at the garden’s edge. “Louisa knowed about garden flowers, but she never cared about wild plants.” Dipping his hand into the bucket, he lifted up a Mason jar filled with springwater, unscrewed the lid, and took a swallow. “I tried to learn her, but her eyes would film over like she was dead, and nary a word took root.”

  “Probably why she ate them little green crab apples before I was born,” I chimed in. “She didn’t understand they was poison.”

  Patanni closed his eyes. “When the good Lord took Louisa, He brought us pain.” His hand traveled to his chest. “Then He called Josiah home and brought us some more grief. But I reckon I shouldn’t complain about getting sick so many years ago,” he said, blinking open his eyelids. “I’ve lived a long time; your poor mama died young.”

  “She was a good girl,” Matanni said, looking at me. “She almost kilt herself nursing your grandpa back. When she done wrong, it was by mistake, never by intention.”

  Patanni held up the jar of springwater and announced, “Let’s toast Louisa, the best damn nurse that ever was!”

  Matanni raised her eyebrows. “Virgil, shame on you for cursing!” she fussed, turning toward him.

  My grandfather nibbled at his top lip. “Tillie, you know I meant no harm,” he said. “God has given us so many tears. Can’t I direct a little laughter His way?”

  “But Virgil,” she protested, “it’s been so long since we stepped into the Lord’s house.”

  “Going to church is one thing,” Patanni calmly stated. “Respecting God is another.”

  “I bet Mama never cussed,” I said, “’cause she was more good than bad.”

  “That girl didn’t know bad,” Patanni said.

  “Then she wasn’t at all like pokeweed,” I said.

  “Oh, no,” my grandfather said, “she was a pasture rose, a solitary, sweet pink flower.”

  The following day, I went hunting for pasture roses. Carolina roses, they’re also called, but I liked calling them pasture roses. If they bloomed in Kentucky, I reasoned, shouldn’t they be christened Kentucky roses? But if this wasn’t permitted, I’d label them pasture roses. Pasture roses belonged to no one and everyone.

  I strolled five miles down the dirt road that passed by our farm and came upon Mamie Tillman’s land. Dried out and dusty from overuse, an old cornfield lay fallow. Around the edges of the field, I searched for a smidgen of pink, some leftover trace of the June blooming rose, but I found nothing, just beggar’s-lice clinging to my overalls. A copse of pine trees stood at the edge of the field; and, wanting to find a cool place to rest, I walked over. In the center of the trees was a small, dark green pond, about twenty feet long and thirty feet wide, which narrowed into a little round pool of water from which jutted the tip of a very large rock. From three feet away, I studied the pond and wondered why I had never come upon it before. Little Turtle Pond, as it was called, had eluded me. Apparently I didn’t know every inch of Poplar Holler. This slimy green water and eyelike rock had escaped me.

  Suddenly footsteps crunched over pine needles from the other side of the pond. It was Mamie Tillman. The reclusive owner of this land shuffled toward me, her legs moving awkwardly. “Poor Mamie,” the townsfolk had said when her daddy died two years ago in a coal mining accident, “she ain’t got no one else.” Everyone had expected her to leave the area. But, oddly enough, she hadn’t. Instead, she had stayed put, living on “Lord knows what,” the townsfolk said, leasing out her tobacco patch, getting by alone. Fearful, I scurried behind a large black pine and tried not to breathe.

  Mamie Tillman had always been stout, but I noticed that she’d grown fatter. Her black hair was pulled back under a red handkerchief, and she wore overalls stretched over a red cotton shirt. She stopped by the pond’s edge and stood still for several minutes. Next, she lowered her arms to her sides, squatted down, and eased herself upon a flat white rock, where she sat with her legs thrust forward.

  I sucked in air, stared at her, and tried not to move.

  Carefully, she unfastened the straps to her overalls and placed the bib in her lap. She lifted up the shirt, tucked it under her bra, put her big-boned hands over her swollen stomach, and commenced rubbing. Her hands made slow circles over her flesh, then began to swirl faster and faster, harder and harder, until they ground red blotches into her skin.

  My mouth dropped open and my eyes widened as a dozen fiery suns flamed over her belly.

  Quick as her hands started, they stopped. Mamie Tillman returned her palms to her lap and began to cry—softly and gently—like a young kitten mewing. With every intake of air, her sobs grew heavier, swelled up with anguish, and spilled forth. She threw back her head, half-closed her eyes, and wailed. Great bellows thrashed the air. She cried like this until her voice grew hoarse like a crow’s caw.

  Crouching behind the tree, I listened and watched as she wiped her cheeks, pulled down her red shirt, brought up her bib, latched her overalls, and pushed herself off the ground. Her wet, red-streaked face made me sad. Her misshapen body was foreboding and ominous. When she gulped down air and said, “Dear Lord, give me strength. I won’t make it if You don’t,” I felt such a sorrow that I touched my own stomach and wondered how Mamie Tillman, who had no husband, could be with child. I was thinking about this, feeling scared and confused, when she turned around, breathing heavily, and ambled up the lonely yellow hill with no pasture rose in sight.

  When Mamie had become a gray blotch in the distance, I stepped out from behind the black pine and headed home. The sun was still hot, but starting to slip down. It’s tuckered out, I thought, shining on too much pain. Ever since I could remember, Matanni had told me about the pain of bearing children. My own dear mama had grieved three times afore I was born, she had said. God had taken three of her babies. The longest one, she’d carried five months. “After so much pain and sorrow,” Matanni had said, “she weren’t taking no chances with you.” According to my grandmother, my mama knitted me ten birthing blankets. Five pink ones and five blue ones. Matanni said that if I had been a boy, Mama was aiming to call me Bedloe, because she knew how much Patanni wanted to keep the family name alive. “But you were a girl, and you were named Icy,” Matanni had said. “’Tweren’t no other name for you.” />
  I stopped to study a small pink blackberry. Newborn and not yet ripe, it was fragile and delicate. Leaning over, I blew my warm breath against it and watched as it trembled but clung tenaciously to the vine. With any luck, I thought, it’ll grow into a big, fat, juicy blackberry. In the beginning, I had been lucky I was conceived the night of the shooting star when Poplar Holler was sprinkled with stardust. Fairy dust, Mama called it. But Daddy called it coal dust after she died. For him, grief and dynamiting had turned Poplar Holler gray.

  Squeezing through a honeysuckle hedge, I thought about what Matanni had told me. My mama hadn’t acted like Mamie Tillman. She hadn’t pulled up her shirt and tried to erase me from her stomach. Instead, she had placed her delicate hands upon her belly and caressed her skin, wanting to protect the baby inside.

  “Hit ain’t right that your mama never knowed you,” my grandmother said. “Hit ain’t right that your daddy died so young. They kilt themselves to have you and got none of the pleasure, none of the joy of seeing how you growed up. Such a pretty little girl you’ve become!”

  Mamie Tillman had behaved differently. Beside Little Turtle Pond, I had seen her cry like her heart was splitting, angrily rubbing her belly. With no husband to bring home coal dust and money, she was alone. Only the turtles in Little Turtle Pond, the sweat bees—flitting near the water’s edge—and I, Icy Sparks, knew her secret; but we wouldn’t tell. No, we wouldn’t breathe a word. We, keepers of secrets, had to stick together.

  When I rounded the curve, I spotted Matanni and Patanni rocking on the wide front porch, sipping ice tea. Lightning bugs lit up the dusk. Insects and night birds chanted. I noticed the climbing crimson roses that covered the trellis to the right of the front steps and the yellow-orange flowers of the butterfly weed growing from the bald earth beside the corners of the porch. Then, at the edge of the woods, Matanni’s pride, the Turk’s-cap lilies, six feet high with nodding red blossoms, caught my eyes. Beyond them, even deeper in the woods, the white sycamores shone like lighthouses in the impending darkness.