Icy Sparks

by Gwyn Hyman Rubio

  I knelt down beside the small grave, for now I understood that buried beneath the cold, green water of Little Turtle Pond were only some painful memories—perhaps a blue baby blanket which Mamie had knitted, a stuffed teddy bear, her bloody clothes—things too heartbreaking for any good mother to keep.

  Tenderly, I touched the metal cross. At that moment, the sadness of Mamie Tillman’s being brushed against the sadness of mine; and, pressing my hand against my chest, I began to cry. A painful, whining sound issued from my throat, the world around me nothing more than a tomb of ice. Then, bursting with such loss and longing that I thought my chest would split, I threw back my head, opened wide my trembling mouth, and all of the grief inside me gushed forth, spilling onto the ice-cold ground, letting the hope of a new me grow.

  Chapter 33

  Matanni and I were eating country ham, redeye gravy, biscuits, and fried eggs when she put her napkin to her lips, wiped her mouth, and declared, “Tomorrow, I’m going to church.”

  “What?” I looked up from my plate, my eyes searching the room. “Who said that?” I joked.

  “Your granny,” my grandmother said. “She’s lonely, living way out here all by herself.”

  “What about me?” I said, leaning forward.

  “She needs the company of people her age,” my grandmother said. “She needs someone to talk to.”

  “But she has me.” I shifted back in my chair and drummed my fingernails against the table.

  “She needs something more,” my grandmother said.

  “Well, I don’t have nothing more,” I snapped. “I don’t have any friends my age to talk to.”

  “And that ain’t right.” Matanni placed her napkin beside her plate. “I didn’t realize how not right it was, till now.” She put her hands on the table and pressed down. “Your grandpa and me always thought we were enough, that if you had us, you wouldn’t need nothing else. That thinking was wrong. We had no right to expect so little for you.”

  “It don’t matter nohow,” I said. My fingers grew limp upon the table. “I’m the way I am. Peculiar. Different. No one wants a friend like me.”

  “Church people might,” Matanni argued.

  “That’s not what Miss Emily said,” I grumbled. “Don’t you know she’s gone to a few churches!”

  My grandmother raised her eyebrows but said nothing.

  “She has been to almost every church in Ginseng. Old Vine Methodist. Second Street Baptist. Ginseng Full Gospel Baptist Church. Union. Even the Episcopalian. I can’t remember all their names, but she has been to every one of them. None of their pews were wide enough—and guess what those righteous, churchgoing Christians did about it.”

  My grandmother shrugged.

  “Nothing!” I said. “They didn’t do a doggone thing—just sat back on their pious behinds and stared. Her, trying to squeeze between two narrow rows and sit down on a bench way too small for her. No one lifted a finger.”

  “Some people ain’t into practicing what the good Lord preaches. They go to church, all right, but for all the wrong reasons,” Matanni said. “But if I talk myself out of everything just because that thing ain’t perfect, then I won’t be doing nothing. Ain’t one of us perfect, Icy darling. But still Jesus loves us. We’re all part of His creation.”

  “If you say so,” I said.

  “So, why don’t you come to church with me?” Matanni asked.

  “And what church is that?” I asked her. “Peaceful Valley Baptist,” I answered before she could, “the church where you were baptized.”

  “No, I’m changing to Poplar Holler Pentecostal Holiness Church,” Matanni replied.

  “Poplar Holler Pentecostal Holiness Church!” I shrieked. “Not that church, it’s full of crazy people!”

  “If you came with me,” Matanni said, “you’d see just how wrong you are.”

  “I got no need to,” I shot back. “The world’s my church, not some mess of people crammed together on little bitty wooden pews.”

  “Icy, please!” Matanni said, rising. “I’ve been studying this for some time now. I even went to a few of their prayer meetings.”

  “When?” I asked. “You didn’t tell me.”

  “Those Wednesday evenings,” she said, “when Miss Emily took you out driving.”

  “Well, I’ll be!” I said, tightly clutching my hands.

  “Icy, honey, hear me out!” Matanni said, pacing back and forth anxiously. “Darrel Lute is strong as three men and able to work our farm all by hisself. He don’t need any help from me. I don’t even get to fix his lunch. He brings it from his daddy’s store.” She stopped pacing and held out her palms. “I got time on my hands, too much time. Icy, I’m lonely. One day soon, you’ll be gone, too. Married with a family of your own or, according to Miss Emily, away to college. Then what’ll I do?”

  “You’ll always have me,” I said, standing up, walking over, and putting my arms around her.

  “I know you love me,” Matanni said, gently pushing me away, “but I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to church. I’m going to Poplar Holler Pentecostal Holiness Church. And if you really want to show how much you love me, you’ll let me go in peace.”

  “Patanni had his ways,” I said, kissing her cheek, “and you have yours.”

  “It’s April,” she responded. “Time for new beginnings.”

  I kept an eye on Matanni and noticed that throughout April and May, she came home a little happier each Sunday afternoon. The lines in her face began to turn upward, not down. Her cheeks bloomed pink with color. She started sewing again, new dresses for church and prayer meetings. Every Sunday, she’d rise early, make us a light breakfast, soft-boiled eggs and toast, which we’d promptly eat. Then she’d fry a chicken for dinner, put it in an iron skillet, cover it, and slip it into the oven. Afterward, in her bedroom, she’d read the Bible for an hour and get dressed. At ten o’clock, she walked to the Poplar Holler Pentecostal Holiness Church, just half a mile down the road, much closer than Peaceful Valley Baptist. By one in the afternoon, she was always home. Over a dinner of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, collard greens, pinto beans, and biscuits, she’d sneak tidbits of religion into the conversation.

  “The Catholics are altar-centered,” she said over dinner one Sunday. “The Baptists are pulpit-centered, but we—we Pentecostalists—are pew-centered.”

  “Well,” I chimed in, “I hope your Pentecostal pews are wide enough for Miss Emily’s broad behind.”

  “If they weren’t,” Matanni said, “we’d make some that were. We want to bring people to God, not turn them away.”

  I licked my fingers. “This chicken’s good,” I said. “Real tender.”

  “It’s easy to satisfy your physical hunger,” she said, “but you also need to feed your hungry spirit.”

  “Miss Emily’s spirit is starving,” I said. “But the Christians around here are too busy judging her fatness to see how hungry she really is.”

  “Then they aren’t true Christians,” Matanni said. “‘Be of sin the double cure, save from wrath and make me pure,’” she sang out. “We are all caught in original sin. If we truly believe in the Lord, Jesus Christ, and in what He preaches, then we’ll take care of everyone. We won’t turn nary a soul away.”

  “Around here, I don’t see too many true believers,” I said.

  “Open up your eyes, Icy Sparks. Good Christian people are all around you. All you gotta do is see.”

  I stabbed a drumstick with my fork. “Well, right now all I’m seeing is this good meal afore me.” I bit into the tender chicken and added, “And I sure would like to eat it in peace.”

  Matanni didn’t say another word about religion; she simply sat beside me eating Sunday dinner and going on about Darrel Lute, bragging on him, saying what a hard worker he was. All the while, she glowed with health, and her voice lilted as though she were about to sing.

  Chapter 34

  As I awoke on Saturday, June second, the daylight breaking through
my curtains seemed different. I yawned, propped myself up on my elbows, and watched the sun sculpt blocks of glass against the sheets. Buster, our rooster, was crowing loudly. His deepbellied, ecstatic squawking filled my ears. And even though it was June and the humidity was high, the air was dry like talcum powder on my skin. I stretched out my legs, wiggled my toes, and inhaled. I sniffed again. Roses, all right. The smell of deep red roses sweetened the air. Down below, I could hear the pitter-patter of Matanni’s little feet scurrying about the house. What on earth! I thought. Cabinet doors slammed and pans banged. The whooshing sound of water came from the kitchen.

  “Rise and shine!” Matanni yelled from the bottom of the stairs. “Get up!”

  “I’m coming!” I screamed, popping up like a jack-in-the-box, slinging my legs over the side of the bed. “Give me a minute!”

  “Big day! It’s a great big day!” Matanni yelled again, then scampered away.

  As I jerked on a pair of blue jeans and a tattered denim shirt, I thought about the revival, and a tight-fisted knot began to form in my stomach. Under that big tent, in front of the whole of Crockett County, Matanni, my own flesh and blood, was going to embarrass me. I could see her right now. Tonight, she’d shout out to God, sway back and forth—holding her hands high above her head—then fall into a dead faint upon the sawdust-covered floor. Thereupon, she’d rise again and speak in tongues. Patanni, up in heaven, would be horrified; the Bedloe/Sparks name would be ruined forever. Already I could hear the snickers.

  Emma Richards would be first. “Tsk…tsk…tsk,” she’d say. “Problems on both sides of the family. Josiah Sparks…afflicted with eye popping. Tillie Bedloe, well…” She’d point to her head.

  Joel McRoy would throw in his two cents. “She’s touched,” he’d say. “Addled.” He’d shake his head.

  “A nutcase,” Peavy Lawson would sigh. “With that family of hers, she didn’t stand no chance.”

  From the bottom of the stairs came another one of Matanni’s screams. “Breakfast is ready!”

  “I’m coming!” I yelled back, shuffling to the foot of my bed. “Let me put on some shoes!” I grabbed my tennis shoes, moseyed over to the window, and looked out. Old-fashioned chrysanthemums, little blotches of yellow, were blooming around the edges of the yard. Coral bells, which resembled delicate pink seashells, bordered the rose garden near the house. In the distance at the edge of the woods, Turk’s-cap lilies were nodding regally in the breeze.

  “I don’t have all day!” Matanni shouted. “Get on down here!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I murmured, remembering Patanni. “Yes, ma’am,” I repeated, feeling sad.

  “Sausage and pancakes with warm maple syrup!”

  “Dammit!” I said, but not loud enough for her to hear. “Stupid revival!”

  “Icy!” she started again. “Hurry up afore it gets cold!”

  “Dammit!” My muscles twitched nervously. “You’re gonna make everything worse!” I mumbled. “Everybody’s gonna laugh at us tonight.”

  “Steam is still rising!”

  Out of nowhere, for the first time since Patanni’s death, I sensed a jerk coming on. “Hush!” I said through clenched teeth.

  “Cold pancakes taste bad!”

  I clapped my hands against my ears; the tennis shoes dangled from my fingertips. “Please be quiet!” Tightly, I closed my eyes. “Just go away!” I said, hearing Matanni’s footsteps scurry across the floor, away from the stairs. Softer and softer they grew, before fading altogether. Miraculously, the urge to jerk fizzled. “Thank heavens,” I sighed. “finally some peace.” Relieved, I dropped my hands and sat down on the floor.

  “Mine’s good!” came the scream from the kitchen. “Mine’s real good!”

  Fiercely, I tugged at my tennis shoes. “That does it!” I fumed, tying the laces. “You’re making me crazy.”

  Nervously, I rocked forward. My mind was in a frenzy again. “Why on this day?” I asked aloud. “Of all days?” I pressed my hands against my stomach. Anxiety had tightened the muscles there. Slowly and methodically, like Miss Emily had taught me, I massaged my belly.

  “It took you long enough,” Matanni said testily when I came into the kitchen. “Don’t expect me to cook up some hot ones for you.”

  I snatched out my chair and plopped down. “I ain’t expecting nothing from you.” I gave her a nasty look, picked up my fork, and stabbed a piece of sausage.

  We ate this way—in silence—for five minutes. Every so often, Matanni would swallow a mouthful of pancakes. After which I’d bite my bottom lip and glower at her. Finally, though, tilting her head to one side, she eyed me curiously and asked, “What on earth is troubling you?”

  Holding up my finger, I shoveled some pancakes into my mouth and chewed. “Well,” I said after swallowing, “if you really want to know, I’m bothered by this revival thing we’re going to.”

  She put her napkin beside her plate. “How come?” she asked.

  “’Cause,” I said, “people might act weird. They could have fits, jump up and down, and holler. I mean, it could get embarrassing.”

  “Praising the Lord,” Matanni said, “ain’t shameful. It’s one of the finest things a person can do.”

  “It ain’t the praising part I’m worried about,” I said. “It’s how the praising’s done.”

  “If love comes from the heart, it’ll come out all right,” Matanni said, gulping down the last of her tomato juice. “You don’t have to worry none. You’ll act just fine.”

  Stunned by her words, I snapped upright in my chair. “You ain’t heard a word I’ve said, now, have you?”

  “To be truthful,” Matanni confessed, “I been thinking about what I might put on tonight.” She picked up her napkin and daintily patted her lips. “What are you wearing?”

  I stamped my foot against the floor. “Something that don’t stand out!”

  “And why’s that?” Matanni asked, perturbed.

  “’Cause I don’t want to be noticed,” I stressed. “I don’t want a soul to know I’m there.”

  “Well, then,” Matanni responded, “whether you want to or not, you’ll soon be walking down the glory path!”

  “I ain’t walking down any path,” I warned her, “where people act hysterical, where some crazy man jumps up and down and calls it preaching.”

  Matanni tossed her napkin on top of the table and pushed back with her chair. “Right now, I’m sorry I ever asked you.”

  “And don’t you be expecting much better from Miss Emily!” I sassed.

  “Shush!” Matanni scolded. “I don’t want to hear another word. This is the Lord’s night, and you’ll act accordingly. Do you hear?”

  “Yes,” I mumbled.

  “Yes, what?” she demanded.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I’ll act right.”

  “That’s all I ask.” Rising from her chair, she carried her plate to the sink. “Now, missy, come over here and do these dishes. I’ve got to fix my hair.”

  “How do I look?” she asked me.

  I stepped back and eyed her from head to toe. The blue, pin-striped dress was modest. A white lace handkerchief popped up from a pocket on the bodice. She wore black leather shoes, “nurse’s shoes,” I called them, except they were black instead of white. Her long gray hair was puffed up on top, bouffant style—with two little curls, dangling like commas, near her earlobes—and twirled into a bun on the back of her head. “You look very proper,” I commented. “Very churchgoing.”

  “Good,” she said, walking back and forth across the living room floor, stopping right in front of me. Then, turning her head from side to side, she asked, “But what about my hair?”

  “Very respectable,” I said, nodding. “I like those curlicues.” I pointed to my own face beside my ears.

  Her face reddened. “Vanity ain’t the Lord’s business,” she said in a serious tone. “But I wanted to look nice.”

  I stared at her soft, plump figure, with her huge bosom, at her swe
et round face, and relented. “You look real nice.”

  She beamed.

  “But remember,” I said, pointing my finger at her, “a respectable woman don’t go lolling around on the floor, babbling nonsense.”

  “A respectable woman should come to the Lord with an open heart,” she rebutted. “Ready to receive from Him what He wants to give.”

  I gave up. “Lordy massie!” I said, throwing down my arms. “There ain’t no chance of turning you around.”

  “Of course not,” she answered, “’cause I’m walking with the Lord.”

  In my bedroom, I pondered on what I would wear. A dark gray skirt, full with an elastic waist, and a light gray shirt, with tiny, dull gray buttons would do the trick. Both were nondescript, nothing flashy, made of cotton. At the back of my wardrobe, I spotted my black patent-leather pumps with heels no higher than matchboxes. Of course I’d wear them, too. I ran my fingers through my hair, my best feature. There was no other choice but to pull it back and clamp it on both sides with pewter hair clasps. I would make certain that no part of me would beg for attention. No part of Icy Sparks would stand out. My debut, this time, would be different. I’d become invisible, erased not by my strangeness, but by my commonplace dullness.

  However, when Miss Emily drove up, I realized that all of my toning down would amount to naught. There she sat, proudly filling up the front seat, covered in a jade-green polished cotton dress with church bells for sleeves. When I saw her sitting there, her fleshy hands upon the steering wheel, a smug grin on her face, my heart skipped a beat.

  “Oh, no one will notice you!” I said from the back seat of the car. “I might as well walk in with Beelzebub himself.”