Icy Sparks

by Gwyn Hyman Rubio

  Quietly, I rose. From now on, red construction paper would be stacked beside boxes of red crayons. Red pencils would come next. Red with red. Yellow with yellow. Red and yellow mixed produced orange. Orange would be third. Orange with orange. The disinfectant was orange. Therefore, I set it beside the orange crayons. Since the black stencils were trimmed in orange, I put them next to the disinfectant. The rolls of toilet paper, in orange wrappings, were lined up next to the stencils. Pencils with orange erasers were plunked into a peach-colored coffee cup because everyone knew that peach was just lukewarm orange. And so on and so on, my logic unfolded until my supply room was in perfect order, until it resembled the root cellar back home, where the canned red beets sat next to the strawberry jam and the green beans rested beside the collard greens, where every jar was color coordinated and the room was a palette of harmonious color. Stepping back and admiring my handiwork, I knew that I had hit upon the answer. I could organize my surroundings and also organize my mind.

  It was Saturday. As usual, I was running in the hills beyond our farm to spend my anger; and, becoming tired, I decided to rest behind the black pine near Little Turtle Pond. I felt a slight tingle in my left foot. Not knowing if it was the start of a twitch or a muscle spasm, I stretched out on the ground and rolled my leg from side to side, pine needles crunching against my jeans. The pine trees against the cool November sky seemed orderly. Only a few leaves remained on the oak trees. The jimson weed, milkweed, and burdock were gone. Uncluttered, the landscape was tidy, appearing as if the flora had been penciled in. Rolling my head on my shoulders, I looked at the stripped field, unruffled as a sheet, and enjoyed a calm I hadn’t felt in days. Nothing stirred. The water was smooth and tranquil; the rock eye in Little Turtle Pond seemed to be looking at me; the trees were motionless; the animals were tucked away and quiet. Nature, I felt, had mastered her handiwork. A feeling of relief swept over me, and I was on the verge of leaning over and grabbing the tips of my toes when—out of nowhere—came the sound of footsteps.

  Quickly, I jumped up and hid behind the pine’s thick trunk. In the distance, wearing a green patterned dress, Mamie Tillman was marching. Her body was much thinner. Her stride was measured and sure. Every few feet, she zigzagged abruptly, either left or right, all the while moving precisely, almost mechanically, like a soldier during a drill, following, I realized, the old path leading from her place to the pond.

  When she entered the woods, her movements became more trancelike, her face as emotionless as a mask. There was, I recognized, a uniformity to her, a symmetry in the way she blended into the background. Beautiful order, I thought, touching the pine’s old, weathered bark, realizing that for the first time in a long while my hands were twitch-free.

  But as Mamie drew closer, I saw her differently. Deep lines cut into the corners of her mouth, and her raw, red skin was damp with sweat. Though I knew she was a young woman—twenty-eight, I’d heard Matanni say—she had aged ten years since I last saw her. Sprinkles of gray ran through her dark black hair, unkempt and straggling down her back. And in her large, dark eyes there was a sadness so deep it seemed to eat its way through her. Strangely, she was cradling a burlap bag in her arms. Every so often, she rocked it to and fro.

  When she got to the water’s edge, she extended her arms, leaned over, and gently placed the bag in the water. In the cool, eerie silence, it floated for a second, then, with a little sucking sound, slid under.

  A moment later, she held out her arms. For an instant, I feared that she was going to throw herself into the pond, too. But instead, with her arms outstretched, embracing the air like a lover, she fell gracefully to her knees. Leaning over, she gently kissed the water. For several minutes, with lowered head, she stared down. Then, as if something inside her were prying itself out, her lips suddenly twisted, and she moaned—a low, anguished cry, the purity of which seemed to transcend sound. Scrambling to her feet, she threw her arms across her chest and, bending over, began to run. She sprinted wildly—zigzagging through the trees—her hands still clutching her shoulders. Her worn boots tore through brambles. Her hair snagged on twigs. And like a madwoman, she faded up the hill.

  Trembling, I glanced around me. The woods were not the same. Order, it seemed, had dissolved, simply evaporated into the air like mist. The pine trees were gnarled. Their limbs, twisting upward, pointed accusingly at the sky. Even the stillness of Little Turtle Pond had changed. No longer serene, its quiet water had become frightening, smooth like a shroud, final as death. “Help me!” I whispered, running toward the pond, my hands swishing through the cold water. But my fingers touched nothing. The burlap bag was gone. It had vanished into darkness.

  Chapter 14

  “Icy,” I heard Mr. Wooten say from the doorway.

  Startled, I turned around. Over the past week, I had been nervous and afraid.

  “What were you thinking about?”

  “Nothing,” I said, fearing that perhaps my voice carried and that earlier in the week he had overheard me. Whenever Mrs. Patterson had come to see me, I had been polite and attentive; and, when alone, I’d tidied up my life. Yet, during those moments when Nurse Coy had been out, I had not remained calm but had changed instead into my former self and vented every one of my stored-up urges. My body had contorted into hideous shapes. Foul words had bombed from my mouth, and I had proceeded to tic, croak, and curse until all of my demons were purged. “Didn’t seem like nothing to me,” he said, coming inside and looking around. “Something seems different.” He arched his eyebrows and looked puzzled. “The room is changed.”

  I stood very still. Sadly, it now seemed that my makeshift classroom could not really calm me. Somehow, the colors weren’t right. Peach conflicted with orange. The forest-green erasers didn’t match the lime-green rulers. One yellow was more mustard than the other.

  Mr. Wooten walked over to the shelves. “Why, you’ve straightened up everything!” he said.

  “Yessir,” I replied. “And I’ve been reading, too,” I said. “Those books by Louisa May Alcott. Did you know my mama’s name was Louisa?”

  He nodded, a slight smile on his lips. “Which one of hers do you like best?” he asked.

  “Little Women is really good,” I said. “Plus women and Wooten both start with w’s.”

  “What’s that?” he asked, squinting at me.

  “Women and Wooten,” I explained. “They both start with w’s.”

  “Oh,” he murmured, stroking his forehead, walking back and forth in front of the shelves. “You’ve been working really hard,” he said, frowning. “But I don’t quite understand.” He stopped in front of the rolls of toilet paper and picked one up.

  I held my breath. Order’s fragile, I thought.

  “But why is this next to the stencils?” he asked.

  I bit my bottom lip; chaos was about to take over.

  With the toilet paper in his hand, he headed toward the far corner of the room. “We stack it here,” he said, placing the roll on the floor.

  “No,” I mumbled.

  “What did you say?” he asked me.

  “No,” I repeated loudly.

  “No, what?” he said, glancing up.

  “You’re breaking the pattern,” I said. “It can’t go there.”

  Slowly, he walked toward me. “What pattern?”

  “The oranges,” I explained. “They go together.”

  He stared at the shelves. “Okay, I see.” He laughed. “But we can’t have toilet paper next to stencils. It doesn’t make sense.”

  I lunged past him. “No!” I yelled, racing toward the corner of the room. “You can’t!” I snatched up the roll of toilet paper.

  “Icy, honey, it’s no big deal,” Mr. Wooten said. “Just leave it there.”

  “No!” I screamed. “You’re ruining everything!”

  “Icy!” he said firmly. “Put that down.”

  “No!” I bellowed, fiercely clutching the roll. “I won’t let you.”

  Calmly Mr. Woote
n approached me. “Icy,” he reasoned, “it doesn’t matter.”

  “No!” I backed away, waving the roll above my head. “You can’t have it!”

  “I don’t want it,” he said, reaching out. “I just want you to put it down.”

  “No!” I lowered my arm and pressed the toilet paper against my stomach. “Shit! Piss on you!” I screamed, crouching down. “Son-of-a-bitch, it’s mine!”

  Instantly, Mr. Wooten bent over and shoved his hands beneath my armpits. “Icy, stand up this minute or else!” he ordered.

  “Piss on you! Piss on you! Piss on you!” I yelled, rolling myself into a tight ball, the toilet paper still jammed against my belly.

  “Get up this minute, Icy Sparks!” he demanded.

  “Shit! Shit!” I said. “You mean ole son-of-a-bitch!”

  “That does it!” Red-faced, Mr. Wooten jerked me upward.

  “What you gonna do!” I shouted, stabbing him with my elbows. Groaning, he let go of me, and I broke away. “You gonna make me pay!” I screamed, racing toward the supply room door, gripping the toilet paper with both hands. “You gonna make me pay! What you gonna do?” I flung open the door and dashed out. “What you gonna do?”

  Mr. Wooten chased after me.

  Sprinting down the hallway, I shoved open the double doors and pushed through. “Throw me in the fish pond! Drown me! Drown me!” I cried, running around the building. “Throw me in and drown me!” I said, darting toward the fish pond, reaching the picket fence, and scrambling over.

  “Icy, don’t!” Mr. Wooten yelled.

  But his words came too late. I had already jumped into the cold water—this black, wet universe which God, at Little Turtle Pond, had shown me.

  Part II

  Chapter 15

  Bluegrass State Hospital, a residential facility on the outskirts of Lexington, was a five-hour drive from Poplar Holler. The minute I saw the guard shack and adults roaming the grounds like they were lost, I knew that my premonitions had come true. This would be the worst fate to befall me.

  The dormitory, where the children stayed, was called the Sunshine Building, appropriately named, given its yellow stucco walls and brown-tiled roof. L-shaped and one story, it seemed more modern than the other buildings. In fact, the Sunshine Building stood out like a new car among old, used ones. Located to the left of the Administration Building, it was surrounded by a chain-link fence. Two swingsets, three seesaws, and a sandbox were scattered about the front and side yards. According to Mr. Wooten, the Sunshine Building was something of an experiment. While the rest of Bluegrass State Hospital was run like a hospital, the Sunshine Building, set apart with its own small staff, was supposed to be different. “It doesn’t have as many doctors and nurses,” Mr. Wooten had told my grandparents. “Too much of that is bad for children,” he had explained. “The people who’ll take care of Icy will act like family.” My grandparents had understood and liked this idea. It was one of the many reasons why they had even considered bringing me to this place. After all, not even the befuddled Dr. Stone had hesitated for a moment. “She must go to Lexington,” he’d said.

  As we walked up the sidewalk to the front door, I saw children of different ages playing. Two girls in plaid jumpers whisked by me. One clutched a rope. The other a ball. “But I don’t want to play ball,” the one with the jump rope whined. “We did that yesterday.”

  A boy with auburn curls and green eyes sat cross-legged beneath a huge oak tree. A notebook rested upon his outstretched knees. In his hand, he grasped a pencil; and, with pursed lips and knotted eyebrows, he drew a picture. A large boy, with a dark crewcut, a boulder-sized face, and a stony jaw, marched from the swingset to the seesaw and back again. He looked older than the one who was drawing. Deep lines of determination were etched around his mouth. Over and over, he retraced his steps. A girl whose face I couldn’t see was corkscrewed in a wheelchair near the sandbox. Her dull brown hair bristled out from her head like a mass of Brillo pads.

  Beneath a maple tree, to the left of the sandbox, was a young girl lying twisted upon a bright green mat. Although she was on her stomach, her limbs were taut and rigid. While her neck and arms jerked to the right, the rest of her body pulled to the left. Every so often, her arms would hit against each other; her legs would knock. Then she’d lift her head, spasmodically wrench it to one side, and grin deliriously—her dark black hair spiking from her head like needles. I shuddered just looking at her, but then an even worse sight caught my eye. A blond-haired skinny boy, not more than eleven, perched on the top of a sawed-off telephone pole, began twittering and chirping like a bird. With one long leg curled upward, he flapped his elbows from his sides like wings. “Chru…chru…chri…chru,” he sang, crouched down, his head bent, his blond hair the yellow breast of a bird.

  Oh, Lordie! I thought, staring intensely at him, feeling more alone than ever, thinking that even among misfits I wouldn’t fit in. But then I heard laughter, and the two girls in plaid jumpers ran by me again.

  “See, it ain’t so bad,” Patanni said, as if on cue. “You’ll make some new friends here.”

  Matanni put her arms around me and squeezed.

  Mr. Wooten nodded, thumped down the suitcases he was carrying, and pressed the buzzer beside the door. A young woman, with soft blond curls warmly greeted us. “You must be Icy,” she said, smiling. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I muttered.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Bedloe?” she asked, nodding at Matanni and Patanni.

  Patanni extended his arm and shook her hand. “We’re Icy’s grandparents,” he said.

  Before she could ask who the other gentleman was, Mr. Wooten stepped forward. “I’m Charles Wooten, the principal at Ginseng Elementary, Icy’s school.”

  “And I’m Maizy Hurley,” the young woman said. “I’ll be taking care of Icy.” She winked at me and took my hand. “I bet we’ll become really good friends.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I muttered, stumbling through the huge front door.

  We walked down a black-and-white-tiled corridor, so brightly lit that I squinted my eyes against the glare, passed by several office doors, and entered an enormous living room. An oversized bookcase stood just inside the entrance, to the left of the door. Green and yellow plaid sofas lined two adjoining walls. Cane-backed chairs circling a round wooden table stood catty-cornered from the sofas.

  “This is our dayroom,” Maizy said, then pointed to the far side of the room. “And we eat our meals over there,” she explained, walking toward a long table covered with a bright green tablecloth. In the center of the table was a bowl of mustard-colored chrysanthemums. “Right now patients are napping in their rooms, or else they’re playing outside,” she went on. “When the place is quiet, it’s easier for a new person to settle in, don’t you think?”

  All of us nodded.

  “This building isn’t as old as the others,” observed Mr. Wooten.

  Maisy Hurley grinned. “Right you are,” she said. “Until two years ago, we didn’t have a children’s wing, but the powers that be in Frankfort—thank heavens—finally saw the light.”

  “It’s nice,” my grandmother said. “Very clean.”

  “Our nicest building,” Maizy said, abruptly twisting to the right. “Follow me,” she said, heading out the door, rounding a corner, and scurrying down another hallway. Quietly, we filed behind her, walking down the longer leg of the L-shaped building, passing doors of different colors, until we reached the next to the last door, white with 13, painted in bright red at the top.

  Land sakes, I thought, staring at the 13, feeling a tic coming on.

  “Room Thirteen brings good luck,” Maizy said, as though reading my mind. “Every child who stays here goes home early.”

  “How early?” I asked nervously.

  “Within three months,” she said.

  I gasped.

  “Three months ain’t so long,” Patanni said. “You’ll see how fast it goes by.”

  Maizy
took a key chain out of her pocket, fingered through a tangle of keys, then popped one into the lock, and twisted the door knob. The door to Room 13 swung open. Curtains, covered with nursery rhyme characters, hung from the windows. Old Mother Hubbard, Little Boy Blue, Little Bo Peep, and Jack and Jill danced in front of me. The walls were light blue, and a dark blue bedspread covered the mattress. A little pink dresser with an oval mirror was beside the bed, and a rocker, painted red, white, and blue, stood in the center of a fluffy blue rug. “How do you like it?” Maizy asked, looking at me.

  I felt the tic subsiding. “It’s nice,” I said, relieved.

  “Very nice,” Matanni added.

  Mr. Wooten set down the suitcases. “Colorful,” he said, huffing out of breath.

  “I like it,” Patanni said.

  “We have fourteen rooms in all,” Maizy said, “but only eight of them are filled right now. Patients come and go, you know. Some of the kids who don’t have parents stay here longer until space opens up in a permanent care facility. But that’s not you, Icy,” she said, staring into my eyes. “You’ll be here only for a little while.”

  I smiled at her gratefully.

  “How many people work here?” Mr. Wooten asked.

  “A whole lot of people work at Bluegrass State Hospital,” Maizy said. “Around a hundred and twenty, I think. But Sunshine Building has only five daytime staff members.” Maizy held up her right hand and wiggled her fingers. “Of course, care providers are here at night when we go home, but the kids don’t really get to know them.” Maizy caught her breath. “Let’s see,” she continued. “Seeing as I’ve been here the longest, I’ve been designated the top aide, but like the others, I end up doing a little bit of everything. Everything, that is, except cook.” She tossed back her head and laughed; dainty little giggles sprung from her throat. “The kitchen staff in Hickory prepares the food. They send it over, then we serve it up.”