Icy Sparks

by Gwyn Hyman Rubio

  On the first of November, three days after his death, we buried Patanni. Not many people came. Distant relatives, living in West Virgina, sent condolences but thought the trip too long to make, and most of Patanni’s old friends had already passed away. Of course, Miss Emily, Johnny Cake, and Principal Wooten were present. Sam and Martha McRoy, Joel’s parents, who lived down the road from us, and a few of Patanni’s buddies from the barbershop in Ginseng also attended. Dennis Lute, the owner of Lute’s Grocery—where Patanni always bought supplies when we couldn’t make it into town—likewise decided that he owed it to my grandfather to come. All of us paid our respects to my sweet grandfather on that cool yet sunny November day. All of us stood beneath the crab apple tree and bade a fond farewell to Virgil Bedloe—loving husband, caring father and grandfather, good, loyal friend. All of us watched as the coffin was lowered into the ground and the rich soil of Icy Creek Farm was shoveled on top. But as each of us turned to go, Matanni, pulling on the tail of Dennis Lute’s coat, was determined that we should stay. “Dennis,” she said in a clear, strong voice, “would you please read Psalm Twenty-three?” Then, before I could protest and remind her of Patanni’s last wishes, she handed Dennis her Bible, looked me straight in the eyes, and said sternly, “Virgil had his ways. Now, I have mine.” Thereupon, Dennis Lute, in a loud, booming voice, began to read. And as I listened, I recalled what Patanni had written: “I’ve gotten shed of my broken down body, and my spirit, as light as a kite, soars free”; and, in that instant, I felt comforted, for it seemed to me that Patanni’s words and the Twenty-third Psalm meant exactly the same thing.

  “I thank you for this,” Matanni said, as she slipped onto the front seat beside Miss Emily, who had come to pick us up to drive us to the voting booth behind Lute’s Grocery. “Lately, I don’t have the energy to drink a glass of water, let alone walk two miles to the grocery store.”

  Miss Emily touched my grandmother’s forearm. “Grief can make you sick,” she said. “But as the months go by, you’ll feel better.”

  “Right now, I keep thinking a part of me has died,” Matanni said, “and wondering how long it’ll take to grow it back.”

  “Time passes and the pain eases,” Miss Emily said. “One miraculous morning, you’ll wake up and be ready to greet the day.”

  “God willing,” Matanni said.

  For the good Lord’s sake, I hope so, I thought, feeling the familiar pain—its sharp teeth clamping down. No amount of sympathy seemed to ease it. Miss Emily had tried to comfort me; so had Mr. Wooten and, of course, Matanni. Even Maizy had written me a sweet letter of condolence. “There is a life beyond,” she had said. “God’s empathy is greater than ours. So have faith, Icy. You’ll see your dear grandpa and all your loved ones again.”

  At first, I’d gasp to ease the hurt. But soon the gasping wasn’t enough. That’s when the croaking began. Low, despondent croaks would come from my throat like the moans of a dying person. Puffed up with grief, they grew like fetuses and cried as they were born. Same as a wild dog’s loneliness, they howled through the house, then wailed in the woods. And, still, I hadn’t cried.

  “We best get going,” Miss Emily said.

  “Before that shed gets full up,” I added.

  “Before a long line of people fills the voting booth,” Miss Emily corrected me.

  So the three of us, cramped together on the front seat of Miss Emily’s car, headed over the bumpy road toward Lute’s Grocery. Ten people were standing in line when we arrived.

  “I’m a Democrat,” a bald-headed man at the end of the line said. “My daddy was a Democrat and his daddy was one, too. I come from a long line of them, and I ain’t about to break the chain just ’cause the fella running is a Catholic.”

  “It don’t matter anyhow,” another man said, “’cause Johnson’s one of us.”

  I squeezed my grandmother’s elbow. “You gonna vote for Kennedy?” I asked.

  My grandmother, without turning around, nodded. “This vote belongs to Virgil,” she explained. “If your grandpa liked this Kennedy fella, he can’t be too bad.”

  “Well, you could do worse,” Miss Emily chimed in. “I voted early this morning, and I don’t mind saying that I cast my vote for John F. Kennedy. Oh, no, I don’t mind telling you one bit.”

  “They say in Harlan County, there are no neutrals there. You’ll either be a union man, or a thug for J. H. Blair,” the bald-headed man said, recalling the words to the old song.

  “Yessir,” Miss Emily said as she patted the man’s arm. “Whose side are they on? Without a doubt, I know that Richard M. Nixon isn’t on mine.”

  “As far as I’m concerned,” the bald-headed man said to anyone who might be listening, “there ain’t much difference between a Catholic and a Quaker. Both are strangers to these here parts.”

  The following day, after we heard that Kennedy had won, Matanni, standing next to the crab apple tree, looked down on the plain granite marker that bore her husband’s name and the years he lived and died, and said solemnly, “Virgil, we won.” Then she broke down and cried.

  “What’s wrong with you, Icy Gal?” Miss Emily asked, putting down a huge stack of books. “You’ve been acting strange for over two months now. I can see it in your eyes; they’re dull. In the way you walk, slouched over, with no energy. All this reading. It’s not right. You read like I eat.”

  I fingered the stack and pulled out The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson. “Maybe this,” I mumbled, scanning the dust jacket and sliding the novel across the kitchen table toward her.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “You haven’t even read it.”

  “But I can guess what it’s all about,” I said. “A split personality,” I went on, “one good and one bad. I’m acquainted with the disorder.”

  “Oh, so that’s it.” Miss Emily propped her dimpled elbows on the table. “You think you have two people living inside you. One good and one evil.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Except I’m not able to hide the bad me, at least not the way other people can. No matter how hard I try, I can’t make my fingers flutter when my arms want to jerk. So the bad me croaks, jerks, and curses while the good me stays hidden. She ain’t, I mean, she hasn’t been around for a very long time.”

  “In other words,” Miss Emily said, and licked her upper lip, “the bad part of me eats and eats and eats while the good part of me just eats.” She smiled.

  “All I want is to be happy,” I said. “Happy and normal. Like I told you Maizy was. You know what I mean.”

  “But I don’t,” she insisted. “And unless you tell me why you’re acting so weirdly, I won’t. I know you’re sad because your grandpa died. When my parents died, I felt exactly the same way. As if there was nothing left. As if I was all alone in the world. And, the truth is, I was. But, Icy Gal, you’re not alone. You have me, your granny, Principal Wooten, Maizy. We all care about you.”

  “But I get scared,” I moaned. “When I see Matanni sitting by herself at the kitchen table, barely eating her food, I feel afraid. Sometimes, when I hear a creaking sound, I think Patanni is still around, sitting in his old rocker, and then I remember…I’ll never see him again…and a dark, frightful feeling takes hold of me.”

  “It’s natural for you to be sad about your grandpa,” Miss Emily said, leaning forward. “You’re grieving the way you’re supposed to.”

  “But Patanni doesn’t want me to be sad,” I said. “He said so in his will. ‘Don’t you sprinkle the soil with one tear,’ he wrote, and I’m trying to be like he wants. I try to act strong and brave, but there’s a darkness inside me. One part of me is angry; the other part is hurt. Ain’t neither part any good.”

  Miss Emily held up both of her hands. “But both parts are normal, Icy Gal.” She sliced the air with one hand, then with the other. “Even necessary if you’re going to work through this. Your grandpa doesn’t want you to hold on to death. That’s all. Some people nurse death
the way others nurse babies.”

  I thought about Mamie Tillman. “Some mothers don’t like their babies,” I said.

  “That’s not what your grandpa meant,” Miss Emily said. “He just wants you to hang on to life and be happy. But first, you’ve got to purge the grief out of your system. You’ve got to do this, so that new emotions can take root and grow.”

  “What if Matanni leaves me? What happens if you leave, too?” I asked. “I’ll be left with all these holes, deep as Sweetwater Lake, and nobody to help me fill them in.”

  “Every month that passes,” Miss Emily said, bringing her hands together, “your grandma gets stronger and stronger. Every day, she feels a little better. Don’t you go kidding yourself! Your grandma intends to live her life because this is what your grandpa wanted.”

  “What about you?” I asked. “You’ve been so sick.”

  “You better not waste a minute worrying about me,” she said, her eyes sparkling, “’cause I plan on being here a very long time.”

  I looked directly into her light blue eyes and said somberly, “One thing I’ve learned is that a person’s plans don’t always match up with God’s.”

  “Icy Gal,” Miss Emily said, covering my hand with her own, “stop fretting about all of this. Soon you’ll be going to school, where you’ll make so many friends. You’ll see.”

  “See what?” I said, jerking my hand away. “Not long ago, you said, ‘We’re different. We exist beyond the comfort of touch.’ Now you’re telling me something else.” I chewed at my bottom lip. “Now you’re talking about the friends I’ll make at school. What school?” My voice was turning shrill. “What friends? My phone’s not ringing. No one is asking me to parties. I don’t do anything. And why?” My fingers grasped at the air. “Because people are afraid of me. Whenever I go to Lute’s, the customers pull back. Molly pushes my sandwich at me like she’s afraid she might catch what I have. No one asks me anything. No one says, ‘How are you doing, Icy?’ The minute I step through the door, everybody gets quiet. And I’m not even out the door before the talking commences again. ‘Did you see her?’ someone’ll say. ‘She’s always taking a fit.’ They don’t stone a person around here, but they do worse. They shun you to death. Just pretend you away.”

  “But at college, no one will know,” Miss Emily protested, making a fist of her right hand, punching the air when she said the word college. “You can be whoever you want.”

  Like Miss Emily, I balled my hands into fists. “And the first time…” I said, thumping my fist against The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. “The first time I croak, the first time I twitch, the first time I jerk, that’ll be the end of me,” I said, bringing both fists down on top of the dust jacket. “How many friends do you really think I’ll make? ‘Crazy as a loon,’ they’ll gossip. ‘Crazy as a jaybird,’ they’ll say behind my back. Just how long do you think I’ll last?”

  Miss Emily’s mouth contorted, and her eyes opened wide. “But it won’t happen like that,” she said, urgently shaking her head. “I’ve seen the future, your future, and it won’t happen like that.”

  Suddenly weak, my arms dropped to my sides. “For a person like me, ‘touching is dreaming, mere fantasy,’” I quoted. “That’s what you once said. Well, Miss Emily, I believe you now. Just like you, I’m all alone. And the sad thing is, I don’t even like the me I’m left with. Why would anyone want to touch me when I don’t even want to touch myself?”

  “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” Miss Emily centered her hands on top of the table and pushed up. “I understand what you’re saying, Icy Gal, but it’s not going to be that way for you. Like I said, I’ve seen your future, and it’ll be filled with people and friends.”

  I rolled back my eyes. “That’s not what you said before.”

  “Pay no mind to what I said before.” Miss Emily wiped the table nonchalantly with her hand. “Back then, I was talking about romantic love, and that kind of love is something altogether different. But I could be wrong about that, too. I’m not too proud to admit that Miss Emily Tanner can be wrong. I’ve been wrong before, but I’m not wrong now. One thing I know for certain is that your life will be rich. You’ll feel what I’ve never felt, see what I’ve never seen, be touched like I’ve never been.”

  “But how can you know?” I asked, lifting my eyebrows.

  “I just do,” she said with total conviction. “God put me here on this earth to do one thing, Icy. And that one thing is to show you the way.” Still standing, she pressed her palms together. “But right now the best thing for you to do is to get out of yourself and do something extra special for your grandma. Your grandpa would want that.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “But—”

  She cut me off. “But sometimes you don’t want to…but sometimes you’re just too selfish, right?”

  The word selfish should have felt like a slap, but yet the love in Miss Emily’s eyes made me lean toward her. “Yes,” I said, nodding.

  “Welcome to the world, Miss Sparks,” she said. “We’re all too selfish sometimes. This is how the world is. Life’s a trial, Icy. We’re always fighting against our natural-born selfishness, always having to work hard to do what’s best. It’s hard to care for others, but this predicament makes us more human, not less.”

  “Maizy told me the same thing,” I added.

  “’Cause she knew you were good enough and fine enough to make use of what she had to say,” Miss Emily said.

  I lowered my head, and my lips began to tremble.

  “And I do, too,” she asserted. With those words, she slowly wheeled around and waddled out the door.

  Sitting at the table, I stared at the Stevenson novel. My fingers rested beside the binding, but I was still too afraid to pick it up, too fearful of what I might find inside. “Lately, you been spreading your misery around like jam on bread,” Patanni had said. “Darkness is the only thing you see.” And although I hadn’t lied about Clitus, Jr., my grandfather was right. That day near the chicken coop, I couldn’t wait to tell him the truth. A part of me wanted to break his heart, to show him how bad it felt to be friendless, to be hurt and all alone. Two people did live inside me. One was a golden-haired, sweet little girl; the other was, at fourteen, already an embittered old maid.

  “No,” I said vehemently, “the world will never welcome me.” And with a loud thud, I knocked The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde off the table.

  “Matanni?” I called from outside her door. “Matanni?” She moaned and mumbled. “Matanni?” I repeated.

  “Icy?” Her voice was drowsy and tired. “I’m coming,” she said. “Just give me a minute.”

  “No, Matanni,” I said. “I made breakfast for you this morning.”

  “Well, then, come on in,” she said.

  I twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open with my foot. She was sitting up and smiling with two pillows propped behind her. “Look what I brought you!” I walked over and carefully placed the tray on her lap. “It’s oatmeal, the way you like it, with lots of milk, cooked a long, long time.”

  She picked up her spoon, dipped it into the oatmeal, then ran her tongue around the spoon’s edge and swallowed. “Mmmmmm,” she said. “I didn’t know you knew how to cook.”

  A wide grin covered my face. “I learned from watching you.” I looked down at the tray, and my smile fell. “Oh, no,” I said, “I forgot your juice.”

  “Why, it don’t matter!” she said. “While you get it, I’ll be eating.”

  “It’s already poured,” I said. “I just forgot to put it on the tray.” I leaned over and kissed her forehead. “I’ll be right back.”

  She ran her fingertips down the side of my face. “Where’s my coffee?” she asked.

  “Coffee’s hard,” I muttered. “Mine looks like weak tea.”

  “It don’t matter one bit,” she said tenderly. “I like it knowing I still have a job.”

  After Matanni got out of bed to make
herself some real coffee, I decided to take a stroll. As I walked, my toes went numb. Whenever they did, I’d stomp my feet until they began to tingle again, until it felt like ants were crawling over them. February had never been so cold. The longer I walked, the colder the day seemed, with its edges growing sharper, as silver-white auras glowed around the blades of grass and trees. With each step I took, my thoughts, also, began to crystallize, and for a minute, I felt hopeful. I wanted to believe Miss Emily’s latest prophesy: Your future will be filled with people and friends. Even though she had been equally forceful the first time, it was this new prediction I longed to hold on to. “Your future will be filled with people and friends,” I said aloud.

  I inhaled the frosty air, and a chill spread through my chest. As fast as I could, I trudged through the woods. My heart panted. My chest burned. The taste of blood coated my mouth. I walked beyond the old field into the copse of pine trees that stood at the edge. Energized, I went on, desperately trying to believe what I couldn’t the day before, when suddenly a blaze of sunlight shimmered in front of me, and I realized that I was back at Little Turtle Pond, that small, dark green pond, with its little round pool of water and its eyelike rock. Trembling, I moved slowly to the water’s edge and recalled that cool November day—how Mamie Tillman had cradled the burlap bag, gently rocking it to and fro—how on the far side of the pond she had extended her arms, leaned over, and placed it in the water. In the silence, it had floated for a second and slid under. Standing there beside Little Turtle Pond, I remembered how she had fallen to her knees and tenderly kissed the water.

  I lifted my head and gazed up the hill. In the distance, I saw a funnel of smoke. She heats with wood, I thought, watching the smoke rise upward and beckon me forward like a huge arm. Mesmerized, I turned and moved toward it. The bright sunlight drew a line around Mamie’s house, and the sight of it soothed me. In the woods far beyond, something silver was shining. Through the pines, I saw it gleaming. Strangely, I felt no fear. Frozen twigs snapped beneath my feet as I drew closer. A cold wind blew, and in the background, shimmering, stood a large metal cross. Just five feet away from me was a little mound of earth. In the center of the cross was a small silver plaque, glowing with the epithet “My Sweet Baby.”