Icy Sparks

by Gwyn Hyman Rubio

  “This time, I decided to give them something to snicker about,” Miss Emily said with a laugh.

  Twisting around, Matanni glared at me. “Maybe this time no one will snicker,” she said. “Maybe this time the Lord will take center stage.”

  It was almost dark when we drove onto the fairground, but I could still make out the golden sand-dollar clusters of yarrow peeking out among the weeds and grass. A sliver of yellow moon and a scattering of stars hung above, while an electric string of lights, stretching behind the tent, glistened like a huge aura in the heavy mist that now filled the air. Cars of every make, randomly parked everywhere, sent a tremor of alarm down my back, while the arklike, dark green tent stood like an oasis smack in the center of them. Old-timers and young boys alike leaned against trucks and beat-up automobiles, sucking on cigarettes, spitting out tongues of smoke. Ladies in long dresses with their hair pulled back into buns stood in separate corners talking softly and excitedly. In the background, I could hear the vibrant, swift chords of a pianist warming up. Near the top of the tent, a cluster of fireflies twinkled like stars, lighting up the entrance. Two oily-looking men, one on each side of the doorway, gave out fans and programs and greeted worshipers as they entered. I was looking out the window, feeling both curious and horrified, when I heard Miss Emily unlatch her door.

  “Aren’t you gonna help me?” she asked. “I need a little help.”

  Quietly, Matanni pushed open her door and squeezed out. I was slipping out the back seat when my grandmother threw up her hands and waved enthusiastically. “It’s Gracie Vanwinkle,” she said, looking back at me. “You don’t know her, but she’s a friend of mine. I met her at church.”

  “I’m boiling in here,” Miss Emily complained. “Icy Gal, have you forgotten me?”

  I came around to her side, grabbed the door handle, and pulled back. “Help me some,” I grumbled. “Push it with your feet. It’s too heavy.” With a huge groan, Miss Emily pushed, and the door flung open, only to expose bunches of fat, like fallen socks around her ankles, and bright green shoes, glowing like gigantic beetles. “Merciful heaven!” I exclaimed. “Why did you wear those?”

  “They match my dress,” she said, folding her dimpled arms across her stomach, throwing back her head, and guffawing.

  “I know you,” I said. “You’re just showing off.”

  “Now, who’s sounding like a Second Street Baptist?” she quipped, holding out her arms and wiggling her fingers. “Give me your hands.”

  “Have mercy on me!” I moaned as I lunged backward and hoisted her up.

  Up she rose like a big green submarine. “Whew!” she exclaimed, steadying herself by extending her arms, using them like an acrobat’s pole. “That was a close one!”

  I felt scornful. “It’s always a close one with you.”

  “Well,” she huffed. “I don’t have to go to Old Vine Methodist or Union Church to get mistreated. All I need is some Christian kindness from you.”

  “I’m nervous,” I said.

  Miss Emily glanced over at Matanni. “Look at her!” she told me.

  My eyes landed on Matanni. Under the slit of moonlight, she stood very still. Only her fingers gave her away—moving constantly, anxiously twisting her white lace handkerchief, wringing it tighter and tighter, over and over, before letting it go.

  “Looks like the whole county is here tonight,” Miss Emily said, grabbing my hand, trudging toward the tent’s entrance. “We’re all nervous. Now come on. Let’s go.”

  “You go on,” I said, jerking my hand loose, letting the two of them precede me.

  A painting of Jesus Christ on light blue velvet was hanging behind the stage. In colors as bright as the Sunday comics, a sweet-smiling Jesus, with long brown hair and flowing beard, extended His palms to a circle of children, who looked up at Him adoringly. On an old upright piano, a woman played “Rock of Ages.” The air was stifling, thick with the smell of sweat, talcum powder, and aftershave. Tall, erect fans stood like sentinels, but their twirling blades barely mixed the air. Overhead, the electric lights cast a yellow glow. At least five hundred jaundiced-faced worshipers sat crammed into metal folding chairs. Women were cooling themselves with fans that had JESUS SAVES stamped across the front. Whining children were straddled over fathers’ knees; crying babies were cuddled in mothers’ laps. The pianist, a plump, blond-haired woman with two chins, stopped playing, quickly stood up, wiped her hands on her dress, and exited off the stage through a back entrance. The stage, a raised wooden platform about eight feet long and twenty feet wide and a foot off the ground, was now completely empty. Microphones stood voiceless and alone. The drums ramained mute. Every so often, a voice cried out, “Praise the Lord!” After which another answered with, “Amen!”

  As I walked down the center aisle, my head fluttered, and beads of perspiration dotted my skin. A toothless old woman smiled at me when I passed. Another middle-aged woman with a glass eye whispered, “May God bless you.” I raised my head. Up front, near the stage, strung together on the first row were old people with walkers, blind people with canes, and children on crutches.

  A young woman in a wheelchair babbled something, and the woman next to her called out, “It’s too hot in here!” At once, men in royal blue suits began lifting up tent flaps and snapping them into place, creating portholes through which humid air would flow.

  Anxiously, I followed Miss Emily, waddling down the center aisle in front of me, the green brushing against her ankles. No one, it seemed, was put off by her size. “Here,” Miss Emily said, slowly turning around, tugging at my skirt, pointing to Matanni, who was weaving through the fifth row from the front of the stage, one of the few rows that had a cluster of empty seats. Sighing and apologizing, Miss Emily went next. “I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry,” she said to every person she passed, finally positioning herself across the tops of three chairs next to Matanni, who had settled down in the center of the row. “Thank you so much,” she said, smiling.

  I stood at the end of the row and watched. After Miss Emily folded her hands in her lap and became still, I glanced down, smiled at the face of a wizened old man, and uttered, “Excuse me.” Then, breathing in deeply, I maneuvered around outstretched legs to the space beside Miss Emily. Relieved, I slumped down.

  Three elderly women in front of us turned around and said, “Hello.” The young woman next to me welcomed us with, “It’s so nice to have you here.”

  In response, the three of us nodded slowly.

  “We welcome all of God’s children,” one of the elderly women said.

  Then, much to my horror, my grandmother responded, “One church. One God. One Jesus.”

  “Amen,” the young woman said.

  “One church. One God. One Jesus,” the elderly women echoed.

  My grandmother amened and added, “Praise Jesus!”

  “Praise Jesus!” they all said.

  Aghast, I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand. All the while, I kept one eye on Matanni, the other on Miss Emily, looking for signs of support. But reassurance wasn’t forthcoming, for the placid curve of Miss Emily’s mouth warned me that she was settling in.

  “Welcome, my brothers and sisters!” came a deep voice from the entrance of the tent.

  Immediately I turned around.

  A tall, large-boned man with a head full of black hair was marching down the center aisle, wearing a navy blue, pin-striped suit, a white shirt, and a narrow black tie. “My name is Brother Thomas,” he announced grandly. “And I’m a Christian soldier. All of us here are soldiers, and I welcome you. It don’t matter from where you come. If you’re a Methodist, I welcome you. If you’re a Baptist, I say, ‘Come on in.’ It don’t matter ’cause, just like me, you’re a Christian soldier, fighting for God.”

  Sounds of “Onward Christian Soldiers” blared from the stage. I twisted back around. The fat, blond-haired woman played the piano; accompanying her were two pencil-thin men on guitars and a man with long arms and big hands o
n the drums. Two pretty women—in identical purple silk dresses—stood to the right of the microphone, shaking tambourines, leaving the space in front of the microphone empty.

  “No, children! I didn’t study religion in a classroom!” Brother Thomas shouted, prancing down the aisle. “No, children! I didn’t learn about God from some stiff-necked man in spectacles. I learned about Jesus the right way—in the little brown church in the vale.”

  Instantly, the music changed. “Oh, come to the church in the wildwood. Oh, come to the church in the dale,” the women with the tambourines sang. “No place is so dear to my childhood as the little brown church in the vale.”

  “Oh, come, come, come, come,” the crowd began to sing.

  “Oh, come, come, come, come,” Brother Thomas sang out, marching forward. “Oh, come, come, come, come.” When he reached the edge of the stage, he leaped up; then, swirling around, he vigorously held up both of his hands. Abruptly, the music stopped. Brother Thomas grabbed the microphone from its cradle. “Jesus Christ, our Lord, died on the Cross of Disgrace,” he preached, “and left us with a Cross of Glory. He died on the Cross of Pain but gave us a Cross of Joy. His Cross of Death became our Cross of Life.” With the microphone still in his hand, Brother Thomas threw out his arms, fell down on one knee, and bowed to the audience. “Christ gave us a Cross of Glory,” he shouted, throwing back his gleaming head of hair.

  “Amen!” the crowd cried.

  “Christ gave us a Cross of Joy.”

  “Amen! Amen!” the audience shouted.

  “Jesus Christ, our Savior, died on the Cross, but He gave us something back. He gave us the sweetest gift.”

  “The sweetest gift,” the tent repeated.

  “And what gift is that?” he demanded, jumping up, pointing directly at the people.

  “The gift of everlasting life!” they replied.

  “The gift of everlasting life!” Brother Thomas screamed.

  “Amen! Amen! Amen!” the tent roared.

  “Amen! Amen! Amen!” Brother Thomas said, hopping backward. “Amen! Amen! Amen!” He stopped on a dime in front of the velvet backdrop, turned to one side, looked up at Jesus, and shouted, “Praise God!”

  “Praise God!” someone in the audience yelled.

  “Praise God!” everyone screamed.

  “Jesus, our sweet Savior, gave up His Holy Breath so that we could breathe it in,” Brother Thomas said in a cracked voice. “He breathed forth the Holy Ghost so that we could…”

  “Receive the Holy Ghost,” the crowd shouted back.

  “Praise God!” Brother Thomas sang out, waving his hands, wildly shaking his head. “Praise God!” he cried, twirling around on one foot.

  “Praise God!” the people answered.

  Matanni closed her eyes. “Praise God!” she cried, tightly clenching her fists. “Praise God!”

  “Praise God!” the elderly women sitting in front of us said.

  “Praise God!” the young woman beside me screamed.

  Fearful, I looked over at Miss Emily. To my relief, she wasn’t praising God, though a strange gleam seemed to glitter in her eyes.

  “Children, first we are baptized with water!”

  “Amen!” the tent resounded.

  “Then with the Holy Ghost!”

  “Amen! Amen!” the crowd clamored.

  “‘For John truly baptized with water; but ye shall be baptized with the Holy Ghost not many days hence.’”

  “Amen! Amen!” the tent cried out.

  “And our sweet Savior told us that when we receive the Holy Spirit we will be filled with power. The power of His love!”

  “Amen! Praise God!” the crowd screamed.

  “The second blessing!” Brother Thomas shouted as he leaped up and down upon the stage. “You shall receive the second blessing!” Zooming straight up, twisting around in the air, he landed in a split, then shot upright again. “Gifts of Inspiration,” he said. “Tongues, Interpretation, Prophesy. Gifts of Revelation,” he went on. “Knowledge, Wisdom, Perceiving Spirits. Gifts of Power,” he concluded, “Faith, Healings, and Miracles.”

  “Praise God!” the crowd thundered.

  “Because He is good,” Brother Thomas boomed.

  “Because He is good,” the crowd reverberated.

  “Because He has been good to me,” Brother Thomas cried. “When I was a drinker, He said, ‘Drink Me.’ When I was a doper, He said, ‘Take Me.’ When I was a skeptic, He said, ‘Believe in Me.’ When I wanted death, He said, ‘I gave you life.’”

  “God is good!” the crowd screamed.

  “God has been good to me!” Brother Thomas said.

  “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me,” the women with the tambourines sang. “I once was lost, but now am found, was blind, but now I see.”

  Brother Thomas stretched out his arms, raised them upward, popped out his eyes, and cried, “’Cause our Lord, Jesus Christ, is good!”

  “Yes, when this flesh and heart shall fail,” all of the musicians sang out. “And mortal life shall cease. I shall possess, within the vale, a life of joy and peace.”

  All around me people were singing. The woman beside me was swaying, clapping her hands, and singing. In front of me, the elderly women were singing. “This earth shall soon dissolve like snow,” the whole tent sang. “The sun forbear to shine. But God, who called me here below, will be forever mine.”

  I turned toward Miss Emily and saw that her thin-lipped mouth was singing, too. “When we’ve been there ten thousand years. Bright-shining as the sun. We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise, than when we first begun.”

  “God’s been with us forever,” Brother Thomas said. “Can’t we give Him the few years we have here on this earth?”

  “Amen!” the church responded.

  “Can’t we let the Holy Ghost come in? Can’t we purify our souls and be sanctified?”

  “Amen!” the woman beside me yelled.

  “Amen!” Matanni shouted.

  “It don’t matter about our outsides,” Brother Thomas preached. “Only that our insides love Him.”

  “Amen! Amen! Amen!” the crowd thundered.

  “Does it matter if we’re old?” Brother Thomas asked.

  “No ’cause God is love!” the tent shouted.

  “Does it matter if we’re wrinkled?” Brother Thomas frowned and pressed his fingers against the lines that ran down from the corners of his mouth.

  Heads in the audience began to shake. “Hallelujah, no!” they roared.

  “If we’re tuckered out?” Brother Thomas said. “With our bodies bent over?”

  “Praise the Lord! No!” the tent screamed.

  “Does He care if we worship Him in raggedy clothes?” Brother Thomas asked.

  “No! No!”

  “If we’re too tall?”

  “No, not at all!”

  “Too short!” Brother Thomas cried.

  “No! Praise God!”

  “Does it matter if we’re bald?” Brother Thomas inquired, running his hands through his thick, black hair.

  “No! No! No!”

  “If we’re thin?” he kept on.

  “No! No! No!” the crowd yelled. “It matters only that we love Him.”

  Brother Thomas strode over to the edge of the stage and stood silently for several seconds. Then, leaning way over the side, balancing precariously on the tips of his toes, he bellowed, “Does it matter if we’re fat?”

  Quickly, I twisted toward Miss Emily. Her mouth was trembling. Her fat hands were frantically rubbing circles against her legs. Her eyes were moist. Her skin was flushed.

  “Does it matter if we’re fat?” Brother Thomas repeated.

  All of a sudden, Miss Emily jumped up. Light, like a cat, she was on her feet. “No, ’cause God is good!” she cried, lifting her hands high over her head. “No, ’cause God is good!” she shouted, rocking from side to side.

  “No, ’cause Sweet Jesus is good,” the tent resounde
d.

  “No! No! No!” Brother Thomas preached. “It don’t matter, ’cause all God cares about is our insides. All God wants is our love, our hearts, our souls.”

  “Hallelujah! Sweet Savior!” the crowd yelled.

  “All God cares about is our souls,” Miss Emily sang out. “All God wants is our love,” she said, her mammoth hips swaying, her fingers splayed open, trembling for a taste of the Holy Spirit, like mouths of baby birds, opening for the taste of worms. “In God’s eyes, I’m not fat.” Miss Emily was shaking her head. Her eyes were closed tightly. Her body was moving gracefully back and forth. “In God’s eyes, there’s just more of me to love. More of me to love Him.”

  “Sweet Jesus is good!” the people declared.

  “More of me to love!” Miss Emily began drawing imaginary circles in the air, swirling her palms around and around, the circles growing larger and larger. “More of me to love Him,” she said, gingerly lowering her body, then springing upward, painting circles all the while.

  Astounded, I stared wide-eyed at her while sliding my chair closer to the woman beside me. But Miss Emily didn’t notice. She just stood there, now perfectly still, her hands clutched, her eyelids closed, her lips puckered as though she were kissing the air.

  “Come on up, sister!” Brother Thomas urged, as she stood there with tears streaming down her plump cheeks. “Give your heart to the Lord!” With those words, Brother Thomas extended his hand in her direction.

  The musicians began to play.

  “What a friend we have in Jesus,” the tent sang. “All our sins and grief to bear! What a privilege to carry, everything to God in prayer!”

  Brother Thomas insisted, “Please, sweet sister, give your heart to the Lord!”

  “O, what peace we often forfeit. O, what needless pain we bear. All because we do not carry everything to God in prayer!”

  Miss Emily’s eyelids fluttered open. My arms reached out to her. But her arms reached out to the stage.

  “Are we weak and heavy laden, cumbered with a load of care? Precious Savior, still our refuge, take it to the Lord in prayer.”

  “Come, sister! Come!” Brother Thomas begged.

  “No!” I mouthed, shaking my head. “Don’t go!”