Icy Sparks

by Gwyn Hyman Rubio

  “And Lucy Daniels?”

  “To hear tell, she’s a big kisser. At recess, she sneaks behind the garbage cans and plops juicy ones on Irwin Leach.”

  “Ugh!” I poked out my tongue. “She’s just kissing pimples. That’s something I don’t want to see.”

  “But, tarnation, I wish you could,” Peavy said, “’cause I miss you.”

  “Well, you’re the only one in Ginseng missing me,” I said.

  “That ain’t true,” he said. “Lane missed you real bad. Before he want away, he got real homesick for you.”

  Glancing down at my finger, I remembered Lane Carlson and his wart. “How’s he doing?” I asked.

  “How do you think?” Peavy said.

  “Not so good,” I said, walking again.

  “Mil-i-tar-y school.” Peavy emphasized each syllable.

  I rolled back my eyes. “I can’t even imagine it!”

  “Somewhere in Virginia,” he said.

  “I can’t believe…” I began. Then, shaking my head, I changed the subject. “Look, over there, at the blue flowers in the thicket!”

  “Blue-eyed grass!” we both said, forgetting pasture roses, running toward the patch of blue.

  “Next week, same time, same place,” he said, picking a bouquet of flowers, gallantly giving it to me.

  When I got home, the house was quiet. Softly, I tiptoed to my room, and, in a swoon, I fell on my bed. Crossing my arms over my chest, I closed my eyes and tried to recall every little detail that was him: his deep green eyes, so gorgeous and not bulging—no, not in the least bit bulging from his head!—his auburn hair, not one straggly strand—oh, how could I have been so unfair!—his body, so compact and strong; his mouth, thin-lipped, yes, but sensitive and sweet; his upbringing—hadn’t he been polite? Oh yes! Even though he should have spit—for his health, that is—he hadn’t; and his voice, the way he said, “Icy,” gently lisping the cy…well, it was simply too noble! Weren’t his lips trying to taste my name? With each recollection, I sighed, wiggled my toes, and sighed some more.

  “Peavy Lawson!” I crooned. “You were never, never a frog! No, my dear, you were a prince!” I sighed and thought about Sir Lancelot and Queen Guinevere, about F. Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda, about Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, about love, love, love, about Icy Sparks and—maybe, just maybe—Peavy Lawson. In my mind’s eye, I saw the future, my future, and it wasn’t a long country road, winding lonely through these hills. No, it was a pathway, leading to a tidy little house, surrounded by a white picket fence, covered with moonflowers, shining in the night. Inside glowed the smiling faces of Peavy, our three children, and me. “Icy Sparks and Peavy Lawson,” I whispered. “Bread and butter. Toast and jam. Salt and pepper.” I breathed in and exhaled a whoosh of hot air. “Love and more love,” I said, falling asleep with the clear image of love, Peavy Lawson, and my future etched in my mind.

  “Where are my pasture roses?” Matanni asked when I came down for supper. “I wanted a bunch of them for the table.”

  “What?” I said, looking right through her.

  “My pasture roses,” she said. “Over by Clitus Stewart’s place.”

  I meandered over to the sink and stared out the window. “I couldn’t find any,” I said.

  “I’m surprised,” Matanni said, stirring a pot of pinto beans. “When the weather’s good, that field grows them better than any spot I know.”

  “Well,” I said, still gazing out the window, shuffling my right foot along the linoleum rug, “I reckon I didn’t try as hard as I could’ve.”

  “Oh,” Matanni said, taking the spoon out of the beans and putting it on the counter. “How come?”

  At that moment, the thought of telling her about Peavy Lawson, of describing how we met on the pathway, so rattled my thoughts that when I turned around I was unable to mutter a word.

  “Well, why not?” Matanni asked, perturbed.

  I took one step forward, putting my fingers to my lips as though to pull out the words, but instead began to stutter. I-I-I-I-I,” I said, my head bouncing forward like a period after each I. “I-I-I-I-I-I,” I stammered, becoming more and more frustrated, sensing a violent tic—the first one since the bad one at Stoddard’s—coming on, fearing that every sweet fantasy, every thought about Peavy Lawson would spill forth if I didn’t let it loose. Then, before I could sputter again, a spasm—like an earthquake splitting the ground—tore through my body, and I whiplashed like buckling tin.

  “Icy, child!” My grandmother rushed toward me. “Icy, child!” she repeated as I corkscrewed and uncoiled my body again and again until, all worn out, I fell to the floor. “What happened?” She knelt down beside me and cradled my head in her lap. “You ain’t done this since Stoddard’s.”

  Nestling against her, I felt her fingers on my forehead. “I don’t know,” I mumbled.

  Tenderly, she looked into my eyes. “It’s okay about them roses,” she said, placing her warm hand on the side of my cheek.

  I nodded.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Sighing, I closed my eyes. “It wasn’t the roses,” I murmured. “It was something else. I just can’t bring myself to tell you.”

  She leaned over and kissed my eyelids. “When you’re ready you will,” she said, walking me over to the sofa. “Until then, we won’t bother about it.” Then, taking my face in her tiny hands, she began to sing softly, “What wondrous love is this oh my soul oh my soul. What wondrous love is this oh my soul. What wondrous love is this that caused the Lord of bliss to bear the dreadful curse for my soul!”

  And listening to her sweet voice, I fell asleep.

  “Where’s my mousey meat?” Patanni hollered as he banged through the front door. “Where’s my corn pone? My pinto beans? My poke sallet?”

  Matanni and I jumped up off the sofa. Matanni pulled back her shoulders and brought her hands down the front of her dress. She tugged on her apron and straighted it. I wiped my eyes with the backs of my hands, headed straight toward the kitchen, and sat down. “I’m hungry, too!” I yelled back. “Where’s my stewed possum? My parched corn? My plum grannies?”

  “Where’s the cook?” Matanni chimed in. “I haven’t been putting the big pot in the little one.”

  “Well, someone has,” Patanni said, poking his head through the door, “’cause it smells damn good in here.”

  “Virgil!” Matanni scolded. “Please don’t curse around Icy!”

  Patanni screwed up his eyes and laughed. “Icy knows words I’ve never heard before!” he said. “You should be jumping on her, not me!”

  “Hush your jabbering!” Matanni ordered, tapping over to the stove. “And sit down.”

  “Well, is supper ready?” he asked, dragging out a chair and dropping into it.

  “The tenderloin is crisp the way you like it,” she said. “I even fried up some sweet onions to put on top.”

  “I do love mousey meat!” Patanni said, his eyes twinkling, his callused brown hands shaking as he unfolded his napkin and ironed it across his knees.

  “Here’s the corn pone,” Matanni said, putting down a platter. “And the pinto beans and a bowl of poke sallet.”

  “Sit down, Tillie!” Patanni said. “We can’t commence till you join us.”

  “And you can’t commence till grace is given,” Matanni added, sitting down beside me and grasping my hand.

  “Ask the blessing. Amen,” Patanni said, and before Matanni could fuss at him, he had plunged his fork into a piece of pork tenderloin, plunked it upon his plate, chiseled off a healthy hunk, and shoveled it inside his mouth. “Hit ain’t fair!” he said. “Several others asked for her hand, but she chose me. While I’ve been eating the best vittles in Crockett County, they’ve—all—had to make do.”

  “Stuffy Barrett doesn’t look like he’s starving,” my grandmother said.

  “Stuffy was puffy before he proposed,” Patanni said. “Good cooking ain’t responsible for his girth.”
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br />   Matanni nibbled on a piece of pork. “Once he was a looker,” she said, “back when he was thin.”

  “A person can’t go that far back!” Patanni huffed. “From three miles away, you could always spot Stuffy. First you’d see this little bitty head.” He made a circle with his thumb and index finger. “These little bitty arms.” He wiggled both of his baby fingers. “And long, long legs.” He walked his middle fingers across the table. “And in between, this fat, balloon belly. From afar, he looked like a great big ball rolling through the air.”

  “He was a looker, all right,” Matanni giggled.

  “You-all are mean,” I said. “Stuffy can’t help how he looks, no more than Miss Emily can.”

  “Icy, we’re kidding,” Patanni said.

  “Just cutting the fool,” Matanni said.

  I poked some corn pone into my mouth and, with my mouth crammed, finally mumbled the truth. “I saw Peavy Lawson today.” Crumbs spluttered like sawdust from my lips. “And he was beautiful!”

  “I couldn’t understand a word.” Matanni shook her finger at me. “You know better than to talk with your mouth full.”

  “Probably just another dressing down.” Patanni slurped a spoonful of pinto beans. “Icy here has got her dander up. She’s loaded for bear.”

  Chapter 27

  I was half-awake when I heard the horn honking and Miss Emily’s voice yelling, “Icy Gal, rise and shine!”

  “Doggone,” I moaned, and rolled out of bed. Slouching over to my dresser drawer, I retrieved a pair of jeans and a sky-blue T-shirt and put them on.

  “Icy Gal, rise and shine!” she screamed again. “I need some help!” Once more, the horn sounded.

  I could hear Matanni and Patanni down in the kitchen. They seldom greeted her first because they understood that this privilege was meant for me. At least, from Miss Emily’s viewpoint it was. “No God-fearing child goes to school in the summer,” I said, banging out the front door, heading for her car.

  “I can see your lips moving, but I can’t hear you,” she said, poking her head out the window.

  “I was saying that no God-fearing child goes to school in the summer.”

  “Your going to school ended officially with Mrs. Eleanor Stilton,” she said curtly. “As you well know, for some time now, school has been coming to you.”

  “Whoopee,” I sassed.

  “I don’t cotton to sarcasm,” she said, swinging open the car door.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  “Look what I brought you!” She pointed at a stack of books on the seat beside her.

  “That ain’t nothing new,” I said. “You bring me books. I get ’em from Mr. Wooten. Heck, I got a whole roomful of books.”

  She pursed her lips. “What did you say, child?”

  I corrected myself, “That isn’t anything new.”

  “True,” she conceded, “except that one of those rectangles isn’t a book.”

  “Really?” I said, scrambling around to the other side of the car and flinging open the door. “Where is it?” I asked, unstacking the pile of books, finding nothing different.

  “Look closely,” she said. “You’re moving too fast.”

  Once more, I fingered through the books. This time, though, my fingers landed on a red box. “It looks just like a book cover,” I said.

  “Looks can be deceiving,” she replied. “Why don’t you take the lid off?”

  Slowly, deliberately, I ran my finger around the edge of the box. Next, I picked it up, held it close to my ear, and shook it. It made a thudding noise.

  “Take a guess!” she suggested.

  “Chocolates?” I said.

  “Of course not!” she said.

  “Well, if they were chocolates, I’d give you some.”

  “Icy Gal, it’s not candy, and you know it.” She crinkled her nose and shook her head.

  “Peanuts?” I ventured.

  “There aren’t any peanuts in that box,” she snapped, “and you know that, too.”

  “Well, if peanuts were inside, I’d give you a handful,” I said.

  Exasperated, Miss Emily plopped her fat hands on the steering wheel. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?” she said.

  “Teasing you,” I said. “And from the looks of your red face, it seems like I’m doing a good job.”

  “Please, Icy Gal,” she pleaded. “You know how excited I get when I bring you something special.”

  “Oh, all right.” Relenting, I slowly raised the lid. A bright yellow handbag—the size of a sheet of notebook paper—was inside. “It’s a pocketbook!” I exclaimed, whipping it out of the box. I held it up by its long yellow strap and swung it back and forth. “It’s yellow, just like my hair,” I said. “And so pretty!”

  “Well, it should be. It cost me a pretty penny,” she said.

  Immediately perplexed, I asked, “But what’s it for?”

  “For your birthday,” she answered. “’Cause now you’re a little woman and should dress like one.”

  “But you already gave me my birthday presents,” I said. “That pretty silver ink pen and all those books.”

  “The pen’s for doing homework, and I always bring you books,” she explained. “But the pocketbook…now, it’s something special. Elvira, down at Dress Beautiful, ordered it for me, and it didn’t come till yesterday.”

  “I love it!” I squealed, leaning over, hugging her quickly, then leaping out of the car. “I’ll be right back. I want to show Matanni.”

  “What about me?” she pouted. “You know I need some help.”

  “Lickety split I’ll be right back!” I said, dashing up the hill with my brand-new yellow pocketbook dangling over my arm. When I reached the front door, I stopped, gathered my breath, and collected my thoughts; then—with my arm thrust out—I strutted through the living room and into the kitchen.

  “Have you done hurt your arm?” Patanni asked, saucering his coffee and slurping it down.

  I moved my arm from side to side. Like a handkerchief, hanging from a clothesline, drying in the breeze, the pocketbook moved, too.

  “Feast your eyes on that!” Matanni said, slapping the table. “Is that our grandchild putting on the dog?”

  “’Pon my honor, I think so,” Patanni said.

  “I’m not puttin’ on airs,” I said indignantly. “I wanted you to see what Miss Emily got me for my birthday.” Then, before Patanni could question me further, I said, “Miss Emily gives me books all the time, but this pocketbook, here, is something special.”

  “You look respectable, all right,” Matanni said, coming over, fingering my handbag.

  “Like that yellow-haired gal who took care of you at the hospital,” Patanni said.

  “Me—look like Maizy?” I said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, rubbing his square chin. “Looking at you now puts me in the mind of her.”

  “Maybe, one day, I’ll get married, too,” I said, “and be just like her. Maybe I’ll even become a nurse.”

  “We should make Icy a reservation at the Blackberry Inn,” Patanni said, winking. “Of course, she’ll have to go there all by herself, since Maizy ain’t here and they won’t let the likes of us common folk in.”

  “Hush!” I said.

  “Let loose,” Matanni ordered, yanking at my arm. “I want to carry it, too.” With my yellow purse hanging from her arm, she strode leisurely across the kitchen floor to the other side of the room. “It’s perfect,” she said. “Lightweight and sturdy. Big enough, but not too big.”

  “Miss Emily ordered it from Dress Beautiful,” I said, fluttering my fingers, motioning for my present back. “It cost her a pretty penny.”

  “I guess so,” Matanni said, scurrying over, returning the strap to my arm.

  “Icy Gal!” Miss Emily yelled. “Icy Gal!” “Are you going to make me sit out here all day?”

  “This way you got something to carry your pad in,” Miss Emily explained.

  “What pad?” I asked.r />
  “Your Kotex,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “For when your next monthly begins.” Leaning forward, Miss Emily pressed her lips together and ceremoniously picked up a brown-jacketed book lying on the kitchen table. “From Girl to Woman by Allison Smide,” she said, looking at its cover, handing it to me. “Read it for next week.” Then, before I could protest, her plump hand plucked another, smaller book from off the table. “Your Body and You by Dr. Miriam Wiley,” she said. “Read this one, too.”

  I nodded and made a sour face. “Why don’t you bring me some good books?” I asked. “Maizy’s husband gives her good books to read. She told me so.”

  “Well, I’m not Maizy’s husband,” Miss Emily snapped. “I’m your friend, here to teach you, not coddle you.”

  “Little Women was fun to read,” I said. “Jo, Meg, Amy, and Beth teach you about growing up, too. Why don’t you bring me books like that?”

  “Because Mr. Wooten robbed me of that pleasure,” Miss Emily said, brusquely shoving Your Body and You at me. “Anyway, this isn’t fun stuff. It’s serious business. I want you to know about your body so you’ll be able to take care of yourself.”

  “Good night!” I said, plopping From Girl to Woman on top of the table, snatching Your Body and You out of Miss Emily’s hands, flipping it open, eyeing the tiny print. “This’ll take me forever.”

  “You best get started, then,” she ordered. “On Wednesday next week, I’ll be here, and we’ll talk about what you’ve read.” I moaned. “Oh, by the way,” she said, winking at me, “have a list of twenty questions prepared—based on the material in these two books.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answered, moaning again. “I’ll read both of these doggone, boring ole books. Your Body and You,” I said sarcastically, thumping it on top of the other. “From Girl to Woman. If I’m a woman, why don’t you treat me like one and let me read what I want to?”

  “Because, Miss Put Upon, you need to learn about your menstrual periods.”

  “Matanni calls it the curse,” I added.

  Miss Emily frowned. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it that,” she said. “Menses is a good thing, the natural functioning of a woman’s body. You need to understand what’s happening to you each month. You need to learn how to take care of yourself, how to keep yourself clean.”