“If you want to,” I said. “But I wasn’t talking about myself. No, ma’am! Tallywhackers are ugly. I mean, pee-pee comes out of that thing. Nasty, yellow pee-pee!” I contorted my face and shook my head. “Good night!” I said.
“Then who were you talking about?” she asked, wrinkling the corners of her eyes.
“About…about…” For the life of me, I couldn’t produce a name. “About…about…about Emma Richards,” I blurted. “I ran into her a few days ago.”
“Where?” Miss Emily asked, pursing her lips.
“At Lute’s Grocery, that’s where,” I said. “I was getting one of those bologna sandwiches, you know with yellow cheese and mustard, and I saw her there. She was visiting her granny on Mill Creek Road.”
“And so—out of the blue—you and Emma Richards just started talking about boys. And in the middle of that delightful conversation, she decided to confess her most secret desires to you.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, nodding.
“Icy Gal, you’ll be the death of me!” With those words, Miss Emily pushed herself up and, red-faced, began to lecture me. “First of all,” she said, “do you take me for a fool?” She inhaled deeply and pressed her fleshy hand against her heart.
I shook my head; apprehension gnawed at my stomach.
“If memory serves me,” she continued in a lawyerly tone, “Emma Richards hates you. If Emma Richards hates you, why on God’s green earth would she tell you her secrets? And second”—stretching out her right arm, slabs of fat quivering like Jell-O, she pointed at me—“you don’t go to Lute’s Grocery ’cause you’re afraid. Afraid that you might have one of your spells.” She anchored her hands on her hips and glared. In her red-, white-, and blue-striped dress, she was the American flag hanging outside the Crockett County Courthouse, standing for truth, intimidating me; but, merciful God, her face was no longer beet red; her hand no longer massaged her chest.
At once my stomach unclenched itself. “Okay…okay…” I confessed, relieved. “I was talking about me…about me and Peavy Lawson…. I met him on the pathway to Clitus Stewart’s farm the other day…and he was cute…not ugly like he once was…and he said nice things to me…. He thinks I’m beautiful…the prettiest girl in Crockett County…and I got these tingling feelings all over me…like…like…like nothing I’ve ever felt before…and I just wanted him to touch me…gentle-like on the forehead…. Honest to God, I didn’t want his wiggly near me…I just wanted to be touched…like how that gray-haired cat touched Lena…like how he licked her back.” Exhausted, I slumped down; my head hung forward; my chin brushed my chest.
“It’s okay, Icy Gal,” she said, the floorboards sighing as she walked toward me. “Everyone wants to be touched. Sometimes even I want to be touched.” A high, nervous giggle escaped from her lips. “But who would want to touch me, right?”
“Someone would,” I said, looking up. “Someone, somewhere in these mountains.”
“No, Icy Gal,” she said. “You must accept the fact that touch isn’t possible for people like us. We might be liked. We might even earn a town’s respect. But we’re different—too different. We exist beyond the comfort of touch. For us, Icy Gal, touching is dreaming, mere fantasy.”
I could feel my cheeks flaming, and despite my efforts, tears began to burn my eyes. Nevertheless, I refused to cry. Instead, I stood up. With the promise of hope riding squarely on my shoulders, I threw them back and faced her. “Maybe for you,” I said. “But not for me. Someone will touch me. If not Peavy Lawson, someone else, then. But, mark my words, Miss Emily Tanner, I will be touched.”
She stood there, not speaking. She simply stood there on her tree-trunk legs, staring wistfully through me, thinking about God knows what. A faint smile passed over her lips. Her eyelids closed. Her hands rose upward. Then, tenderly and ever so slowly, her fingertips began stroking her face. And, like a blind person, she touched herself until every inch of that round, fat face had been caressed.
I had combed back my hair and fastened each side with one of Matanni’s combs, put on the deep purple dress, with its purple-and-white-striped apron and short, puffy sleeves which Miss Emily had bought me; then, because I wanted skin as pale as Snow White’s to match my Snow White dress, I had sprinkled some of Matanni’s talcum powder on my cheeks. I had even eaten a cherry Popsicle, sucking on it, pressing it against my lips, hoping for a smidgen of color. Upon arriving at our spot along the pathway, I was even more self-conscious. Any minute he would join me, see me, and judge me. I spotted a boulder, protruding from the rock face, just big enough for me to sit on. The boulder, which was two feet high on one end and sloped down to a foot on the other, was ideal. I transformed myself into a lounging Cleopatra, resting on my side, bending my arm, cradling my chin in my hand. For five minutes I maintained this position, until every muscle in my body started to knot up and quiver. I was shaking and rustling around on top of that rock when all at once, like magic, he materialized in front of me. “Peeeaaavvvyyy,” I yelped, rattling like an old woman with palsy, then slid down and plopped into the dirt, my hand still beneath my chin.
Astounded, he stared at me, not speaking for what seemed forever; then, in an instant, like a toy being wound up, with his shoulders thrown back and his head held high, he strutted forward, extended his callused hand, and said, “Ma’am, are you in need of some help?” Thereupon, my head fell forward, jouncing up and down before halting, and my limbs stopped trembling long enough for me to stretch out my hand, grab his, and stand up on wobbly legs.
“You came just in time,” I said demurely. “I’ve been sickly of late. The sun was getting to me.”
“Hot spells,” he said seriously, like someone possessing full knowledge of such matters.
“Well, I wouldn’t think so,” I said quickly, my mind focusing on hot flashes, a condition discussed in “Menopause and You,” the last chapter in From Girl to Woman. “I mean, I’ve just started.”
“Just started what?” he said, a puzzled expression on his face.
I flushed crimson before I found the right words. “Just started having hot spells,” I corrected. “Before, when I was young, the heat never bothered me. But these days it does.”
“’Cause now you’re a young woman,” he said, winking. “A beautiful young woman.”
Daintily, I took hold of my dress. “Do you really think so?” I asked, twirling around, facing him again.
He nodded slowly and smiled. “You were the girl for me.” He reached out and caught my hand. “You still are.”
My hand, seemingly not my own, hung limply in his. Nervous sweat seeped from my palm. “You think so?” My voice quivered, and my breath came in shallow spurts.
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” he said, squeezing my fingers. “That is, if you’ll have me.”
Speechless, I inclined my head.
Tenderly, he caressed my skin. “Once, you wouldn’t talk to me,” he continued. “Once, you wouldn’t give me the time of day.”
“But that’s all changed,” I whispered.
“Once, you called me froggy.”
“I was awful,” I said, shaking my head.
“You told me to jump back into that pond where I belonged.” His voice cracked, and his eyes filmed over.
“I acted a fool,” I said. “I acted like a sore-tailed cat.”
“Then I’m not a frog?” he asked, moving his head from side to side.
“Oh, no!” I said vehemently. “You could never be a frog!” I put my free hand on top of his, the one that was holding mine. “Even if you tried, you could never be a frog.”
“Never!” he said, looking deep into my eyes.
“Never!” I replied, and then, before I knew it, I was lifting up on my tiptoes and craning my neck forward. “Never!” I said again. “’Cause today…” My heart thumped ferociously against my chest. “’Cause today, you are my prince.” I puckered my lips and kissed him squarely on the mouth.
At that moment, he rocked backwar
d. Our arms dropped to our sides, and we both stood silently, gazing into each other’s eyes. In the depths of his pure green eyes, I was certain that I saw my future. Peavy Lawson and I were holding hands; our lips were pressed together; our bodies were touching.
“I’m in love,” I said dreamily as I walked home. “I’m in love. I’m in love.” So this was how it felt to be a woman—feeling jiggly and soft inside like Matanni’s rice pudding, feeling love spread through your body and into your muscles, blood, and cells, feeling that the world would last forever and that your love would outlast the world. “I’m in love,” I said again. “I’m in love with Peavy Lawson, my own true prince.”
All the way home, my mind replayed every minute of our rendezvous. I saw him worshiping me and admiring my beauty in my Snow White dress. I envisioned his hand stroking mine. I recalled his lips, tasting the softness of my kiss. Already, I had dismissed my slide off the rock into the dirt below and erased my mistaken notion that he had been talking about menopause. Anything unpleasant was deleted from my memory. Everything else was nurtured. I dwelled on his romantic words, the way his voice trembled when he declared his love for me. “You were the girl for me…. You still are…. Crossmy heart and hope to die,” he had said. Yes, without a doubt, his love was rare. He had forgiven the harsh girl of his youth and loved the woman who now stood before him.
When I strolled up, Patanni, rocking on the front porch, asked, “Girl, what’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” I said, tiptoeing up the steps.
“Since when you been scouting around in that kind of getup?”
“Since I turned thirteen,” I snapped. “Since I became a woman.”
“Come over here!” He poked out his long arm and waved me over. “Stand still.” He rocked forward. Then, with his large-boned hands, he took hold of my face and studied me. After several minutes, he concluded, “You look addled. How come?”
“I ain’t addled,” I said, pulling away from him, shaking him off like a dog shaking off water. “Some people might call me beautiful, but not you—oh, no, not you—’cause you’re too busy calling me names.”
He repeated, “You look addled.”
“I ain’t addled!” I spat out, grinding my teeth together. “I ain’t the least bit addled.” I stomped my foot. “This woman standing afore you ain’t suffering from a dizzy brain.” Angrily, I flicked my head from side to side. “Absolutely not! This woman standing afore you is hurting from the best of maladies. She’s suffering from a melted heart.”
My grandfather stood up. “A melted heart?” he said, putting his hand on his chest.
“Yessir,” I answered, “a melted heart.”
“Well, now,” he said, rubbing his chin with his fingers. “A melted heart is something special.”
“Yessir, I know,” I murmured. “For a week now, I’ve been trying to tell you.”
Patanni turned toward the door, cupped his hands around his mouth, and screamed, “Tillie, get on out here! Icy’s got something to tell you.”
In that instant, I regretted having uttered a word. Filled with dread, I sucked in my stomach and bit my lip.
“What’s the fuss?” Matanni said, quickly stepping through the door, wiping her hands on her apron. “I was busy with supper.”
“Icy, here, has good news for you,” he said, nodding at me.
“What is it, child?” Matanni said.
Like hot lead, embarrassment burned in my throat, making it hard for me to speak.
“Dang, Icy, go on and tell her!” Patanni ordered.
I gagged and several sentences wrenched through my lips.
“I can’t understand a word,” Matanni said, glaring at my grandfather.
Patanni cleared his throat. “What Icy, here, is trying to say,” he intervened, “is that she’s gone and got herself a beau.”
Matanni threw up her hands like exclamation marks on either side of her head. “Land sakes!” She giggled. “Where—around here—did you find a beau?”
“On the path to Clitus Stewart’s place,” I volunteered. “We ran into each other.”
“Well, who is he?” Matanni asked, slipping over, putting her arm around me.
“Peavy Lawson,” I said softly.
The arm around me dropped. “Peavy Lawson!” she exclaimed. “Ole frog eyes!”
“Not anymore,” I said, whipping my head from side to side. “He’s changed.”
“He’d be Maybelle and Randall’s boy,” my grandfather said.
My grandmother nodded, and a faraway look clouded her eyes.
“See that?” my grandfather said, winking. “That means she’s studying the Lawson family tree.”
“Tell me, Icy,” my grandmother said, suddenly clear-eyed and eager. “How come he’s way over here?”
“Clear across the valley,” Patanni added.
“’Cause Old Man Potter hired him,” I explained, “to help with his livestock and fields.”
“Well, then,” Patanni said, his eyes gleaming.
“That young man of yours is a hard worker,” Matanni said.
“Randall’s got a good tobacco base,” my grandfather said.
“Maybelle’s birthed at least nine children,” my grandmother said. “I ain’t ever heard an unkind word about any of them.”
“Decent, honest, hardworking folk,” Patanni said.
“The salt of the earth,” Matanni said.
“And the boy likes our Icy,” Patanni said, rolling his eyes. “’Cause she’s a looker,” he went on, “and, mind you, Icy Sparks, if that young man knows what’s good for him, he better stick to looking.”
“Shush!” my grandmother warned, wagging a finger at him. “Peavy Lawson is our granddaughter’s first fella. You’ll not tease her. Do you hear me?”
Patanni jutted out his jaw. “Wasn’t I the one who called you out here?” he pouted. “Wasn’t I the one who let loose the good news? Didn’t I tell you everything with a big fat grin on my face?”
“I reckon you did, Virgil,” my grandmother said, stepping over to him, patting his stomach. “I reckon I married me a sweetheart.”
“Peavy Lawson is sweet, too.” I was enjoying my newfound status. “He’s as sweet as molasses,” I said, wanting to regain the spotlight.
But already it was too late. Patanni was leaning over, way over, because he was so tall, and Matanni was reaching up, high up on her toes, and both of them were kissing, giving each other tiny, little pecks, like two birds grooming one another. None of it was romantic. Nothing like that tender kiss I placed on Peavy Lawson’s lips. Their love’s wonderful, I thought, watching my grandparents kiss each other. But it was nothing like Peavy and me, nothing like our young love, our Romeo and Juliet love.
My stomach rumbled uneasily. “Aren’t we ever gonna eat around here?”
“I don’t want you to go back to school,” I said, my voice cracking, my white cotton blouse sticking in the heat to my skin, my pink seersucker shorts chafing my thighs. “I’m gonna be so lonely.”
“I don’t want to go neither,” Peavy said, gently tugging at the bottom of my blouse. “But I ain’t old enough to drop out.”
I tilted forward on the tips of my tennis shoes, already darkened by the dust, closed my eyes, and we kissed. “I’m afraid you might forget me,” I said, opening my eyelids, the sun off the rock face blinding me. “There are other fish in the sea,” I pouted.
Leaning back on his heels, he widened his eyes and shook his head. “But I ain’t going fishing,” he said.
“I’m talking about other girls,” I said. “You might meet somebody else—some girl at school—and like her more than me.”
Peavy stomped his right foot. “Oh, no!” he said as dust rose and settled on his boot and the bottom of his blue jeans like gray talcum powder. “You’re my woman. Ain’t no cause for you to worry!” he reassured me. “I done seen you all summer. Every Thursday for weeks. Nine sweet times. And once summer comes around, I’ll be right back here, he
lping Old Man Potter, spending time with you.”
“What about all the months in between?” I asked, my mouth trembling. “What’ll I do?” I bit at my lip and screwed up my eyes and nose. Sorrow lined my brow. The desolation of the trail was depressing me, reminding me of the loneliness to come. The grass had turned yellow and parched; many of the wildflowers had withered. By August, the goat’s-beard that had once been so plentiful had long since dried up and disappeared. Only alumroot, its blossoms sprouting like thin beards, dotted the ridges.
“It ain’t so long,” Peavy said, stepping forward, trailing his pinkie along my forehead. “Maybe I can come see you in the spring, after the snow has melted, when the weather’s good.”
“You think?” I asked, barely smiling.
“Why not?” he replied.
“And will you write me?” I asked.
“Only if you write me,” he said, tapping his chest, leaving behind little dots of sweat on his green shirt. Then he held out his arms.
The minute he folded his arms around me, pressing me against him, my anxiety evaporated. Like a shot of Patanni’s whiskey, his presence calmed me. With him, I was free of the urges and compulsions, of the disorder that had plagued me for so long. I want to bottle him, I thought, as he held me close. I want to sprinkle Eau de Peavy all over my body.
Chapter 30
In the spirit of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, I wrote Peavy love poems and letters. “You are my knight in shining armor,” I wrote, “my own Sir Lancelot, riding off to school, battling to defend my honor.” Tucked between the pages, I slipped in one of Matanni’s late-blooming white roses. “White stands for purity—pure, like our love for each other,” I went on. “Peavy, my brave knight, pin this rose to your undershirt beneath your cold armor. It will keep you warm and safe.” Smiling, I signed the letter, “From Icy, your own golden-haired Guinevere.”
Peavy answered. “Roses are white. Violets are blue. You are Icy Sparks, and I love you.”
Icy Sparks Page 25