“Get out!” I screamed, stepping back.
He grunted loudly and shuffled his feet. Swinging his head from one side to the other, he emitted a skunklike odor. I smelled his stench, felt his knife-edged stare, and knew the butt was coming.
“Get out!” I bellowed, leaping straight up. “Get going!” I screamed, then cartwheeled two times across the floor, landing right in front of him.
His eyes grew large. His jaw dropped. His legs bent slightly.
In that instant, I threw back my head, popped out my eyes, opened wide my mouth, and let out a gigantic CROAK.
“MMMMMMMMnnnnnnnnnn!” he grunted, straightening his legs. “MMMMMMMMnnnnnnnnnn!” he groaned, his eyes darting back and forth. “MMMMMMMMnnnnnnnnnn!” he growled, pushing me to the side, heading for the door. Then, mechanically, he turned around, took one last look at me, and strutted out.
“Croak,” I enunciated the word clearly when I heard him in the hallway. “Croak! Croak!” I giggled as his footsteps faded. “Croak!” I tittered to the silent, empty space.
Relieved, I collapsed on the floor and began to chuckle. At first the laughter was faint; but before too long, great guffaws ripped from my lungs and tore out of my mouth. I laughed so hard that I could feel my organs shaking, my skin vibrating. I roared so long that when the fit was over, I closed my eyes and fell asleep right there on the floor, at peace with the knowledge that, for the first time since the croaking began, I had called the shots. I had used my disorder and made myself powerful. No actress could have performed better: I had contrived my first croak.
A few days later, I stood outside, savoring my victory. Now, whenever Gordie saw me, he quivered his nose, shrunk his eyes, swiveled around, and marched away. In the distance, I saw Maizy Hurley, bundled up, resting on a bench, all by herself beneath a leafless maple tree. Her hair was fluffed out around her head, and her face seemed to glow with urgency.
“Hey, Maizy!” I called as I ran over to her. “I want to tell you something.” But she didn’t look up. “Maizy, you’re not listening. It’s about Head Butt-er.”
“Butter?” Maizy said.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked. “You’re not listening to me.”
“I’m sorry, Icy,” Maizy said. “I’m worried about Rose.” Soft, yellow waves of hair framed her face. “I’ve been trying to feel what she feels.”
“How?” I asked, sitting down beside her, forgetting about Gordie.
“The other day, I got down on my bedroom floor,” Maizy said, “and twisted my body up like hers.”
Astounded, I turned to face her. “Did it hurt?”
“Really bad,” she said.
“I bet,” I said, shaking my head.
“Picture her arms,” Maizy said. “They look like they’re strung from a tree.” She pointed up at a large branch.
My eyes followed her finger. “Uh-huh,” I mumbled.
“Well, I made my arms do the same thing.”
I glanced back down at my hands. “Ouch!” I said. “I bet that hurt even more.”
She nodded. “But I didn’t really look like her. So I tried even harder. I jerked my head one way and my legs so far the other way that I thought my skin would rip.”
I made an awful face. “Why?”
“Because I want to understand her,” Maizy insisted. “I want to feel the same hurt she feels.”
I shook my head. “I can’t figure out what you mean,” I said.
“Em-pa-thy.” Carefully, Maizy pronounced each syllable. “I want to feel what she feels—completely, utterly, totally. What I mean is, I want to love her.”
I was dumbfounded. My jaw fell and my lips parted. “But you do love her.”
“Not really,” she said. “Not until I feel her pain like I feel my own.”
“That won’t be so easy.” I grimaced. “Her disorder is awful.”
“But I can try, can’t I?”
“You go right ahead. But Icy Sparks, here”—I pointed my thumb at my chest—“wants no part of it.” I eyed her; she wasn’t listening again.
Instead, she began talking with that dreamy look in her eyes. “When Reid was a baby,” she said, “he ate lead paint, and it made him sick. That’s why he’s the way he is.” She flicked a strand of hair off her forehead. “Last year, I scraped some paint off the trim in my bathroom.” She lightly ran her fingernail down her cheek. “I wanted to eat a little poison myself.” She closed her eyes and swallowed. “You see, I wanted some of his magic, too. To leave this world. Be reborn as a bird and fly high above it. But I didn’t follow through.”
“Why not?” I wanted to know.
Her eyes flashed open. “I got scared,” she said.
“Lucky for you,” I said, breathing easy.
“Maybe,” she said, “but in a way it’s sad, ’cause I really wanted to understand him. For just a little while, I wanted to be him.”
“What about Ace?” I asked, fixing my eyes on her. “Do you understand him?”
“Oh, yes!” she said, clapping her hands. “He’s easy. Look at his drawings. They’re real. Drawn from love. Ace loves his pictures the way he’d like to love the world but can’t.”
“Do you ever want to be like Gordie?” I said, cleverly bringing the conversation back to him.
For several seconds, Maizy gazed vacantly in front of her. “No,” she finally said, turning around and meeting my gaze. “I don’t ever want to be like Gordie.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“His father’s a military man, a two-star general,” Maizy stated, taking one deep breath. “And Gordie worships order, just like his dad.” The air hissed back out through Maizy’s teeth. “Everything in his room is perfect,” she explained. “All his underwear’s in neat little piles. He stacks his briefs in the top drawer. He puts his T-shirts in the second. His socks are last—perfectly matched—black with black, dark brown with dark brown, and so on.” Sadly, she shook her head. “All of his shoes are polished and lined up in his closet. He’s neater than I am, and he dresses better than anyone here, including the doctors.”
“He dresses fit to kill,” I agreed.
“He’s obsessed with cleanliness,” she went on. “If Delbert wants a trash can emptied, Gordie will empty it. He follows Tiny around, cleaning up what he misses. He hates dust. Before anyone can grab the feather duster, Gordie’s got his hands on it. Once, I even caught him going through Tiny’s medical cart. The medicines were safely locked away, but he had spotted some cotton balls on top and was sorting through them before Tiny came back. Those that had imperfections, a hint of lint, not perfectly round, he was tossing away.”
“Yeah, but what about that head-butting thing? Why does he do that?” I asked.
Maizy tilted her head. “I’m not sure,” she said. “Maybe he just wants to feel something. Feeling pain is better than feeling nothing.”
“Maybe he just wants to hurt people,” I said.
“Or maybe he simply hates disorder and tries to butt it out of the way.”
“His disorder and mine.” I snickered. “I reckon that was why he was in my room.”
“In your room?” Maizy arched her eyebrows. “You never told me that.”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you. I caught him in my room looking for one of my books,” I said. “I stopped him before he got to my closet.”
“You stopped him?”
“I told him to get.”
“And he got?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“Icy Gal, you amaze me!”
“Sometimes I amaze myself!” I said proudly. Then, amazing myself even more, I asked Maizy the one question which I had been holding back. “Tell me, Maizy,” I said forthrightly. “How come you know so much?”
She answered simply. “I read,” she said. “Long lists of books that my friend gives me.”
“I read, too!” I declared. “Miss Emily helps me. Does your friend help you?”
“All the time,” sh
e replied.
“Why?” I asked.
“’Cause he understands me. He feels what I feel.”
“Em-pa-thy,” I said, stressing the syllables the way Maizy had.
In the privacy of my room the following day, I thought about empathy. If Maizy felt empathy was important, then perhaps I should, too. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I stretched out my legs, flexing and pointing my toes. Of course, I didn’t know if I could really trust her, but she had begun to win me back. Spreading my legs out wide, I rotated my feet. After all, she was just an aide; I was just a patient; neither of us had any power. In this way, both of us were alike. I was pondering these matters, goose-stepping in midair, when someone knocked.
Immediately I sat up.
“It’s me,” Maizy said. “Open up! I’ve got something for you.”
“Come on in,” I said, my feet dangling.
She came toward me carrying a small, rectangular package, wrapped in baby-blue tissue paper, secured with a pink ribbon. “I saw this last night and thought about you.” She extended her arms. “Here.” The present trembled in her palms. “Well, aren’t you going to take it?” she asked, stepping closer.
“Thank you,” I said, placing it on the mattress beside me.
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
“Now?” I asked.
“What do you think, silly?”
Slowly, I untied the ribbon and loosened the tape, making certain to preserve both. Next, I unfolded the paper. Before me was a box with a sublime yellow heart surrounded by stars on its cover.
“Open it!” Maizy ordered.
Inside were two dozen cards. Outside, each had the same yellow heart and the same blue stars. Inside, each was blank.
“Now you can write to your grandparents,” she said. “The golden heart will remind them of you.”
The muscles in my throat began to quiver. “But…” I began. “But…”
“I spoke to Dr. Conroy, and she agreed. Too much time has passed. Your grandparents need to hear from you.”
Speechless, I wiped my eyes. “Cross my heart and hope to die,” I said, “it’s been months since anyone’s been this nice to me.”
“So why don’t you start writing?” she said, heading for the door. “I’ll mail your card for you when you’re finished.”
“But I don’t have any stamps,” I said.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I got a whole roll in my purse.”
Dr. Conroy—her head down, her hands clasped in front of her—walked through my bedroom door unannounced. The minute I saw her, I knew what she was going to say, so I spoke before she could. “I’m lying here thinking about Christmas.” I talked rapidly, slurring words together and spitting them out. “Me and Patanni always pick a cedar from our woods. A tall and fat one that goes clear up to the ceiling,” I said. “Patanni uses his axe. Just a few swings, it’s down. Matanni’s got this little angel, dressed pretty in pink and baby blue, that we put on top, and—”
“Icy,” Dr. Conroy interrupted, lifting her head, standing stiffly before me. “Icy, we must—”
“Patanni sets it up, away from the fireplace so it won’t catch, in the far corner, next to his easy chair. He puts on two strings of lights—every color—red, blue, yellow, white, and green. Matanni buys a bag of cranberries and pops some corn on the stove. We always thread two strings—one out of cranberries, the other out of popcorn—and drape them around the tree, from top to bottom, like icing on a cake.”
“Icy, please!” Dr. Conroy insisted. “We must talk about Christmas.”
“And we have boxes of ornaments,” I went on, ignoring her. “Little knitted candy canes and stars and Santas made out of wood. Matanni and Patanni do it all. They do every little thing. Every little thing for Christmas. To make it special for me, for us, ’cause we’re a family, a real family that I need to go home to, to go home to for Christmas…. Please!” When I looked at her, my eyes were watering. I gritted my teeth to keep from crying. “Please, don’t say those words!”
And for a minute she didn’t. She simply held out her hand and with her fingers motioned me to come. Reluctantly, I went to her. “Please don’t say those words!” I repeated.
“Icy, you need to be patient just a little longer,” she said quietly. “Give us a few more weeks.” Gently, she folded her arms around me. “We both have to give some.” She patted my back. “It’s called compromise.”
“But writing ain’t the same as being there,” I said into her hard, starched shirt.
Chapter 21
December 18, 1956
Our Darling Icy,
Your grandpa and me miss you so much. Right now, there’s over three inches of goose down on the ground. The cedars look like they’ve been dipped in sugar, and the smell of wood smoke is in the air. Christmas is just around the corner, my precious Icy, but without you here it won’t be so merry. No, it won’t be merry, at all.
Every morning, your grandpa and me go to your room, and he sits on the edge of your bed and talks to you, just like you was here. He says that even Essie and Ellie miss you. Whenever he goes to feed them, he says they look up with their big brown eyes, expecting to see you, then hang their heads real low when they realize you ain’t with him. Ain’t none of us happy without you.
I’m trying my best to get into the Christmas spirit, like I always do. I’m making us fruit cake. Using some of Patanni’s whiskey for flavoring. The alcohol cooks out when the cake is baking so I reckon it’s okay. Ain’t the same as pure consumption. Ain’t the same as your grandpa sneaking out to the barn the way he does, stealing those long, stinging gulps. Tomorrow, I’m gonna make a batch of Christmas cookies. Patanni got me a new mold from Stoddard’s. A great big ole star. Won’t those cookies look pretty with yellow sprinkles on them? We’ll probably send some to Miss Emily ’cause, Icy darling, she has been ailing. I’ll let your grandpa tell you about that.
Icy, hope you can make out my chicken scrawl after reading your grandma’s prissy hand. Anyway, this here part of the letter belongs to me since it’s my doing, truth be told. Sugar, I’ve a confession to make. Your grandpa, here, never gave your letter to Miss Emily. I never told her your troubles ’cause we knowed she’d get upset, and we knowed you’d get upset if we told you about hers. So, all this time, your grandma and me been keeping our mouths shut, not saying a peep. But seeing that it’s nearing Christmas, we wanted to tell you the truth. Miss Emily has been feeling puny, of late. She’s down to Florida, we done heard, resting up and taking care of her heart. Was what the doctor ordered. Last week, we got notice that she’s feeling better. You’re feeling better, too. So, your grandma and me decided it was time to tell the truth. Now, the truth is out. Now, all’s right with the world, except you’re not here with us. Sugar, come back to our loving arms.
Your grandpa loves you.
So does this grandma of yours.
We’re keeping your presents under the tree for when you come home and sending our love your way.
Love & kisses,
Matanni & Patanni
Chapter 22
“That damn Tiny started flapping his gums. Now everybody knows,” Wilma said to Maizy over breakfast. “I might as well play Mary.”
“I can barely tell,” Maizy said. “You’re showing a little but not too much.”
“It don’t matter,” Wilma said, smiling suddenly. “I want to be the Virgin Mary. It suits me, don’t you think?”
Maizy nodded. “Well, if you don’t mind,” she said.
I stared at Wilma’s stomach, which was puffing out more than usual, and at her mustache, which had become thicker and hardier in the past few weeks, and gagged at the thought of her being pregnant and even more at her being the Virgin Mary. “Poor baby Jesus,” I whispered.
Wilma turned toward me. “Did you say something?”
“Nothing,” I said, stirring my oatmeal. “It’s cold.”
“’Cause you were late,” she scolded. “Ain’t nobody’s fau
lt but your own. Moping and whining since you got the news. For two days straight, you been making everybody around you miserable. If you can’t change a situation, you best accept it.”
“Maybe, I don’t want to,” I pouted.
“Maybe you just like misery,” she said.
“Maybe I like going home for Christmas,” I said, “and not being stuck in some crummy old hospital.”
“You best count your blessings!” Wilma pointed a fat index finger at me. “In some faraway country, some little girl is living in the streets, with no roof over her head.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I muttered.
“Icy’ll perk up,” Maizy said, walking over, putting her arm around me. “Give her a little time.”
I shrugged her arm off. I was tired of mending broken promises with time.
But Maizy was persistent. “Be patient, Icy Gal,” she said, touching my forearm. “You’ll see them soon. The doctors always give in.”
Reid chirped at the end of the table. Arching his back, he held up his bowl and plopped it down.
“He wants more oatmeal,” I sneered.
“He’s always hungry.” Maizy cupped her hands around her mouth. “Delbert!” she yelled. “More oatmeal over here!”
“Reid?” he hollered back.
“Who else?” she screamed.
Delbert strode toward us with a large, two-handled pot in his hands. “Here you go,” he said, dipping a ladle of oatmeal into Reid’s bowl. Frenetically, Reid began cheeping and flapping his arms, waving his silver spoon like a conductor’s baton. “Calm down!” Delbert said. “You’re upsetting the others!”
Then pretty Ruthie picked up her spoon, painting oatmeal all over her face and down her blouse.
Wilma passed behind Deirdre and deliberately poked a finger into her back. Deirdre sprung up and out like a jack-in-the-box. A second later, Wilma was standing beside her, spooning oatmeal between her lips. Swallowing, she curled up again.
Ace was painting on his napkin. He dipped the sharp edge of his knife into grape jelly, wildly sketching a purple Santa Claus.
From the opposite end of the table wafted a foul odor. I turned around and spotted Stevie, grinning crookedly, rocking back and forth. “Look at him,” I snorted. “Grinnin’ like a possum.”
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