Icy Sparks

by Gwyn Hyman Rubio

  “Last time, I used toilet paper,” I said.

  “Only ’cause that was your first one,” Miss Emily said. “Later on, you’ll need more than toilet paper. Without a doubt, you’ll need one of these.” With those words, she stuck her plump hand into her huge handbag and brought out a soft white cotton rectangle. “A pad!” she exclaimed. “Feel it!” she ordered, handing it to me. “It’s called a Kotex, and I bought you a box of them. This thing,” she went on, shoving her hand back inside her purse, “keeps it in place.” Out came a white belt with metal hooks in the front and back. “Give me the pad,” she said, gesturing with her fingers. “I’ll show you how it works.” She took the Kotex, pulled back two paper-thin ends, and fastened each on a metal hook. “See, you put this on,” she said, shaking the belt, the Kotex rocking back and forth like a scale. “It goes around your waist, and the pad goes beneath you.”

  “Ugh!” I said. “Between your legs?”

  “Uh-huh,” she said. “This belt is small, the right size for you.”

  “Yuck,” I said, “it must feel something awful!”

  “Not really,” Miss Emily said. “Once you get used to it, you won’t even know it’s there.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I said, making a face. “That thing rubbing between your legs, poking out like a diaper. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it!”

  “Oh, yes, you will,” she said, extending her arm. “Before you start feeling too sorry for yourself, just imagine being me. You’d need a suitcase to carry my pad in. Here, take it!” she demanded, shaking her hand.

  Just as I positioned my hand beneath the belt straps, Patanni stomped through the kitchen door and got a glimpse of the pad dangling like a poor woman’s pocketbook. “Dang!” he grunted, did an about face, and marched out.

  At once, Miss Emily began to giggle. Clamping my hands over my mouth, I laughed with her, the Kotex dangling below my chin. “Land sakes!” Miss Emily said, shaking all over, locking her fleshy, puffy hands together. “From now on, we need to have our private conversations upstairs in your bedroom.”

  “If we don’t,” I said, snickering, “Patanni might get the wrong idea and take to using this Kotex like a spittoon.”

  “Lordy, we wouldn’t want that,” Miss Emily went on. “I can already hear the good people of Ginseng. ‘Virgil Bedloe’s been acting queerly of late.’”

  “Quit that cuttin’ up!” Matanni hollered from the living room, our guffaws booming, our bodies quaking so much that the table joggled against the floor. “Or else you’ll bring the whole house down!”

  With red cheeks, Miss Emily quickly composed herself. Breathing in deeply, crossing her arms over her chest, she waited until her skin was light pink again. Then, using the table for support, she heaved up from her chair. “Those aren’t much fun, either,” she said, making a straight face, pointing at the other books on the table. “Next month, though, I’ll bring you some fun books. Vacation reading.”

  “Finally!” I said, clapping my hands.

  “Remember,” she said, waddling toward the door, the floorboards creaking beneath her. “Twenty questions.”

  I made a move to get up but was mesmerized by her huge bulk blocking the doorway. “Just imagine being me,” she had said, and, at that moment, I did. There I was with a gigantic garter belt around my waist, a Kotex the size of a pillow squashed between my thighs.

  “No, don’t bother,” she said. “I can make it by myself.”

  Chapter 28

  On Saturday, I decided to return to Clitus Stewart’s place. I wanted to find those pasture roses and bring Matanni an armful of them, not only for the kitchen table but also for the living room. On the way, I lingered in the same spot where I had run into Peavy Lawson. There, beneath the cliff covered with goat’s-beard, I daydreamed about his tight, sinewy body and his crooked, impish smile. When I recalled the smell of him—a mixture of hay and licorice—I groaned and longed for him to be near me. “My love,” I whispered. “My own true love.” Tightly, I wrapped my arms around me. “Thank you for the hug,” I said, imagining Peavy’s strong arms holding me close. I trailed my fingertips down my cheeks and pretended that Peavy was caressing my skin. Then, remembering his sweet and sensitive mouth, I puckered my lips and gently kissed the air. Over and over, I pretended to kiss him. In my mind’s eye, Peavy and I were ardent lovers, our bodies aching with each kiss. “Yes! Yes!” I whispered, longingly; and—with my body tingling all over—I slowly began to sing.

  “Down in the valley, the valley so low.” Again I started down the pathway, my eyes following my feet. “Hang your head over, hear the winds blow.” For the first time in a long while, I took pleasure in the sweetness of my voice. The tension inside me began to dissolve as my lips stretched open, and my tongue tingled with relief as my voice massaged the muscles in my mouth and throat. “If you don’t love me, love whom you please,” I sang on, the notes caressing me. “Throw your arms ’round me, give my heart ease.” My singing sounded tender, lilting from my lips like two doves cooing. “Throw your arms ’round me, before it’s too late,” I trilled, so proud of my voice, as sonorous as an echo in a cave, as hypnotic as a mermaid’s chant. “Throw your arms ’round me, feel my heart break,” I crooned. “Down in the valley, the mocking bird wings. Telling my story, here’s what he sings: Roses love sunshine; violets love dew; angels in heaven know I love you. Know I love you, dear, know I love you. Angels in heaven know I love you.” My voice trailed off, delicately, like a sigh. My ears trembled with delight. A sense of calmness spread through my body.

  Instinctively, I stopped and looked up. A sea of pink floated in front of me. “Oh, my!” I squealed, recognizing the roses, racing toward them. “Oh, my!” I said, breaking off stems, clouds of pink rising above my hands. Excitedly, I gathered two fistfuls of blossoms. Satisfied, I glanced up—only to see in the distance, half a mile away, Clitus Stewart’s old homestead. The gray, hand-hewn logs, silver-colored like the undersides of bluegills in Sweetwater Lake, glowed in the sunlight. And in that instant, knowing exactly where I was, I smiled and promptly decided to take a shortcut, weave through Clitus Stewart’s yard, around his thick hedges, between his tulip trees, and end up on the gravel dirt road that led to Icy Creek Farm.

  Approaching his place, I heard footsteps and loud clucking noises. From across the clearing, Clitus Stewart, with his tidy, red mustache, was prancing toward me, carrying two red chickens upside down, one in each hand. Their wings flapped savagely. Sprigs of red fluff flew through the air.

  “Yessir!” he said at the top of his lungs, turning around and winking at a little yellow-haired boy who was sitting on the porch. “Lincoln Newland’s got him some handsome chickens.” Immediately I ducked behind a chestnut tree. In an instant, he tied the chickens’ legs to a wire strung between two tulip trees. The hens cackled hysterically. “Ain’t it funny what a red fox can do!” he said, wiping his hands on his overalls, dipping his fingers into a pocket. “And this here red fox is crafty.” Standing bandy-legged in front of me, he spoke grandly, “Yessir, ole crafty red fox killed one on the spot—spreading feathers, blood, and innards all over the ground. Then he went and snatched two more—the plumpest Rhode Island Reds he had ever seen—and, like the wind, he fled with those chickens squawking.” Holding his hand high above his head, Clitus Stewart marched toward the chickens, all the while, saying, “Chicken and dumplings on his table.” Then his arm swung out. A flash of silver glittered in the sunlight, and a knife instantly appeared. Its sharp blade sliced through feathers, spraying blood over his sun-parched skin. “Two more dollars under his mattress!” He laughed, winking at the boy again.

  Gasping, I crouched down. Fiercely clutching the roses against my brownish red shirt, I saw blood trickling down my arms as the thorns ate into my skin. There I dangled as surely as those two Rhode Island Reds.

  “Matanni!” I yelled, racing through the front door, the bunch of roses smashed, but still pretty, clasped in both hands. “Look what
I brought you!”

  Matanni came out of the kitchen. “Heavens to Betsy!” she exclaimed, clapping. “There’s enough for the kitchen and the parlor.”

  “I’ll go put them in some water,” I said, dashing by her, heading toward the sink. “Can I use the green vase?” I said, plunking the roses down on the counter, turning on the faucet, splashing water over my hands and arms. “The thorns got me,” I said. “I’m bleeding.” I searched the counter. “Where’s the vase?” I asked.

  “I’ll get it,” Matanni said. “It’s in the china closet.”

  “The green vase for the kitchen,” I said, “and the clear, crystal one for the living room.” I snatched a drying towel from the rack above the counter and wiped both hands. The old refrigerator hummed, and I remembered the lemonade inside. “Do you want something cold to drink?” I asked.

  “I just had me a glass,” Matanni said, coming toward me with a vase in each hand. “A carpet of pink,” she said, winking. “I told you so, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answered, filling up each vase with water, then arranging the roses within. “I squashed a few,” I said, touching a blossom with several missing petals.

  “A body can’t traipse that far without losing a few,” she said. “Ain’t nothing to fret about.”

  “It’s hot and lonely out there,” I said. “Like every living thing has gone and dug itself a hole to keep cool in, then jumped inside.” I grabbed a glass from the draining board, flung open the refrigerator door, picked up the pitcher of lemonade, and poured. “Hot and lonely out there,” I repeated, downing the whole glass, and with it the truthful parts of me. “Ain’t nothing out there,” I said, swallowing hard, my throat constricting. “The whole time, I didn’t see a soul. Not a living, breathing soul.” I poured myself another glass, looked up at her honest face, and felt ashamed.

  She stared at me for a second, fingered her hair, reinserted the gold combs around her gray knot, and said, “It’s too tiresome to chitchat on such a hot day.”

  “Way too tiresome,” I said, blushing, clamping my lips together, stifling a tiny croak.

  Chapter 29

  I was on the floor in my bedroom finishing the last of my twenty questions when I heard the gnawing sound of tires upon gravel.

  “Icy Gal!” Miss Emily screamed as the car door slammed. “Don’t bother helping me. I can do it by myself.” Her footsteps crunched up the gravel road toward the house. What is menses? I scribbled at the bottom of my paper, then leaned against the side of my bed and closed my eyes. Clump. Clump. Clump. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Icy Gal,” she said in a loud voice, “I need your help now.”

  “You know that the both of us can’t fit on those narrow stairs,” I answered her. “How in the world do you expect me to help you?”

  “Get on out here!” she ordered. “And I’ll show you!”

  “Tarnation!” I said under my breath.

  “What’s that?” she asked curtly.

  “You didn’t hear nothing, I mean, anything,” I said.

  “Oh, yes, I did,” she said. “My hearing is like Superman’s X-ray vision.”

  “I’m coming,” I muttered. “I’m coming.” My tone was weary. Slowly opening my bedroom door, I peeked out. There she was—a hot-air balloon in her red-, white-, and blue-striped dress, hovering beside the banister. “What am I supposed to do?” I snapped back. “There’s not enough room.”

  Like a bowling ball rolling into the gutter, her head rolled over to one side. Blinking her eyes, she said, “You could stand on the step below me and prop me up with your shoulder. Then I couldn’t tilt back.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. When she got this way, there was no arguing. “Okay,” I said, “anything you want. My life is yours.”

  With both of her fat hands gripping the railing, she mounted the first step. The whole staircase cried, and she, looking back at me, said, “Wait till I go up another one.”

  I waited sullenly, watching her crush the second step.

  “Now come on up,” she said. “Yes, that’s right, right beneath me. If I commence to tumble back, push real hard with your head and shoulders.”

  “If you commence to tumble back,” I said, “I’m getting out of here.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, twitching her head from side to side. “’Cause you can’t outrun a falling tree. Your best bet, Icy Gal, is to stop my fall.”

  “How come my best bet is always taking care of you?” I said.

  “Let’s not forget that I take care of you, too,” she said, glancing over her shoulder, shooting me with her sky-blue eyes. “Our friendship is a two-way street.”

  I crouched down and positioned my shoulder beneath her armpit. Then I pushed upward. “Ugh!” I moaned as she took another step.

  “Whew!” she said, coming to a stop. Then, plopping her hands on the banister, she held on for dear life and shook from side to side. “What it costs me to be your teacher!” she exclaimed, as the staircase swayed and groaned.

  “What it costs me!” I said, panting, shouldering half of her weight.

  “Stop complaining!” she snapped. “Anyway, I’ve lost a few pounds.”

  “As sure as the world is square,” I told her.

  Up she went again. Up I went up with her—the whole staircase shaking as we went.

  “My cardiologist can verify it,” she said.

  “If I keep this up, I’ll be seeing him soon,” I answered.

  “Shush!” Her voice was edged in anger. “Not another word. Let’s get this climbing over with. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I murmured, straightening up, squaring my shoulders. “One. Two. Three. Up.” Again we panted, waited, and rested. “One. Two. Three. Up.” Repeat performance. “One. Two. Three. Up.” In this way, we continued until we reached the top, until—like a tank ready to plow through—she stood facing my cracked-open bedroom door. “Go on,” I said, gently pressing my fingers against her back. “You first.”

  With her arms stretched out and her hands held up, she toppled forward and plunged through. Reluctantly, I followed.

  “Apparently you did your reading,” Miss Emily said. “Those were good questions.”

  “Thank you,” I said from the bed, staring at her. She sat in Patanni’s brand-new but rejected rocker, which he had decided to give me. “I like the old one,” he had complained. “A rocker should have arms.” Even though her fanny was squashed, the rolls of fat rising like dough against the rocker’s back, she was smiling. And while the chair moaned beneath her weight, it nonetheless held her up.

  “So,” she said, pressing her palms together beneath her chin. “Do you have any more questions for me?”

  “I don’t rightly think so,” I said, shifting my weight on the edge of the bed. “Those twenty about cover it.”

  Squinting at me, she pursed her lips and asked, “What about questions that don’t come from the books?”

  “What about them?” I asked, kicking out my right leg, pointing my toes.

  “Do you have any?” she asked.

  “Not exactly,” I said, lowering my leg, kicking out my left.

  Her eyes began to twinkle and she said, “‘Not exactly’ implies that you might have a question or two.”

  “Well,” I hesitated. “Well…”

  “Icy Gal, spit it out! I can’t stand all this hemming and hawing.”

  “Well…” I coughed, cleared my throat, glanced up at her, and said, “what if a person was to meet a fellow?”

  “A person meets fellows all of the time,” she replied. “What about it?”

  “What if—when a person meets a fellow—she thinks he’s sort of cute?”

  “So?” she said, raising her eyebrows. “Aren’t there cute boys in this world?”

  “But what if he’s the cutest thing she ever did see?”

  “No harm in looking,” she said.

  I felt a knot in my throat. “What if…” I said, thu
mping my chest, “what if she’d like to do more than look?”

  “Just what do you mean by that?” Miss Emily asked, her sky-blue eyes opening wide.

  “Well, what if she’d like to be touched?” Beads of perspiration were slithering down the sides of my face. “What if she’d like done to her what that gray-haired cat did to Lena?”

  An odd expression crept across Miss Emily’s face. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” she asked, fanning her cheeks with her hands.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. Then, alarmed by her look, I thought better about it and rushed in to say, “But I’m not talking about me. No, ma’am! I don’t want some ole boy sticking his wiggly up my vagina. That’s how you have babies.”

  “Icy Sparks,” she said, putting her hands on her knees, squeezing tightly, “we haven’t talked about any of this. I was saving it for later. Where on earth did you hear this stuff?”

  “I didn’t hear it,” I said. “I read it.”

  “But where?” she asked in a high-pitched voice.

  “In that book you gave me,” I answered.

  “Which one?” she asked, pulling a handkerchief from her dress pocket and wiping her forehead. “I looked them over carefully.”

  “From Girl to Woman,” I said.

  “Not in the Table of Contents,” she said.

  “In Chapter Seven,” I said.

  “Give it to me,” she ordered, sticking out her hand.

  I grabbed the book from off the bed and handed it to her.

  With trembling hands, she turned to Chapter 7 and began to read. As she turned the pages, her face became light pink, rose pink, then deep red. “Just as well,” she remarked, skimming the last page in the chapter and slamming the book shut. “I had planned this conversation for next year, but seeing as how you’ve brought up the subject, perhaps we should broach it now.”