Icy Sparks

by Gwyn Hyman Rubio

  “Come to the Lord!” Brother Thomas requested.

  “Please, Miss Emily,” I entreated, “don’t go!”

  “Do Thy friends despise, forsake thee? Take it to the Lord in prayer.”

  Miss Emily took a step forward.

  “Don’t!” I begged her. “Don’t do this!”

  “In His arms He’ll take and shield thee. Thou wilt find a solace there.”

  “I’m coming!” Miss Emily cried. “I’m coming to the Lord!” With those words, she took another step. People seated in front and in back of us slid back their chairs, and Miss Emily began to move easily between the two rows, past me, toward the center aisle. “I’m coming!” she declared, with her arms stretched out in front of her, with her fingers flailing the air. “In His arms He’ll take and shield me,” she sang out. “I wilt find a solace there.”

  I buried my face in my hands and felt the beginnings of a jerk ripple along my stomach. “Please, Miss Emily, not you!” I moaned. Horror-stricken, I caught sight of Miss Emily’s massive form, gliding like a hula dancer down the aisle, her arms undulating gracefully to the music. As she moved, she effortlessly lowered her body—inch by inch—bending down, closer and closer to the sawdust-covered floor, until she was resting on her haunches directly in front of the stage. Then—like a huge emerald whale—she rose upward, through the mist and heat, onto the platform.

  “Standing on the promises of Christ my King. Through eternal ages let His paises ring,” five hundred sweet voices rang out.

  “Come to me, sister!” Brother Thomas implored.

  Surrounded by the rhythmical clapping of hands, Miss Emily stood before him with her head tossed back, her mouth opened wide.

  “Give your heart to the Lord!” he said, offering her his hands.

  “Glory in the highest, I will shout and sing. Standing on the promises of God,” the tent sang out.

  With her face turned upward, Miss Emily ever so slowly, finger by finger, put her hands over his and gently squeezed. Thereupon, Brother Thomas folded her into his huge arms and pressed her against him. “This is a holy hug!” he announced, fervently patting her back, stroking one shoulder, then the other. “Touch sanctioned by God!”

  “Oh, merciful Lord!” Miss Emily cried, her fingers tentatively brushing against her shoulders. “Oh, praise God!” she shouted, turning to face the congregation. “I’ve been touched!” she sobbed. “Touched! Touched! Touched!” At once, she started to vibrate. Waves of fat rippled and rolled down her body. A smile covered her lips. Ecstasy shimmered in her eyes. “Touched! Touched! Touched!” she cried. I began to see smiles. Smiles, it seemed, were forming all over Miss Emily’s body. Creases of fat had turned upward. On her elbows. Around her ankles. On her earlobes. Smiles were in her chin. They chased each other, giggling down her neck. They danced on the palms of her hands. Around her knuckles. All over her. But I could not smile back.

  “Touched! Touched! Touched!” her voice lilted.

  Smiles were whiplashing around her. Outlining her girth. Swimming near the lights. Like giddy earthworms, they pirouetted across the stage. Smiles were everywhere. On everyone’s face. Yet my face was frozen.

  A commotion came from the back of the tent, and I turned to look behind me. The middle-aged woman with the glass eye vaulted up and started babbling, “Ajja…Nasha…La…La…La!” Rivers of sweat poured down her face. Looking directly at me, she chanted, “Talla…Salla…Ta…Ta…Ta!”

  “And they were all filled with the Holy Ghost, and began to speak with other tongues, as the Spirit gave them utterance,” Brother Thomas quoted, holding aloft the Bible.

  “Driiii…Sriiii…Mriiii…Triiii…” the wizened old man at the end of my row trilled.

  “God’s power is here tonight!” Brother Thomas screamed, shaking the Bible like one of Moses’ tablets. “Don’t turn your backs on Him!” he warned. “Just open up your hearts!”

  “Mi corazón! Mi corazón!” Miss Emily shouted.

  The jerk, once in my stomach, now yanked at my heart, then slammed against my chest. “Matanni! Matanni!” I whined, my eyes scanning the row. But she was gone, too. “Matanni! Matanni!” I called out, whipping around in my seat, frantically searching for her. “Oh, Matanni!” I cried. In front of me, one of the elderly women jumped up, tossed out her hands, and shrieked. I covered my ears with my palms. The men in the royal blue suits who earlier had opened the tent’s flaps were now moving methodically up and down the center aisle, offering their hands, and escorting people toward the stage. Worshipers were contorting and falling down on their knees. I removed my hands from my ears. Twisting from side to side, my eyes continued to hunt for her small form. Then I spotted her. In the side aisle, on the arm of Gracie Vanwinkle, the two of them were walking, floating toward the stage. “I’m all alone!” I muttered. “Here, in this place, all alone.”

  “Just a closer walk with Thee,” the musicians sang, swaying from side to side. The women in purple were shaking their tambourines. The drummer’s sticks were gliding over the drums. The guitars buzzed like bees.

  The jerk ripped through my head. My neck lurched spasmodically to the left. You’re alone! my thoughts declared.

  “Grant it, Jesus is my plea!” the tent boomed.

  You got no one, my mind said. No Patanni. No Matanni. No Miss Emily. No Jesus. No God.

  In front of the curtain, Miss Emily’s humongous body was oscillating. Beside her, Matanni and her friend were swaying, too. So was the woman with the glass eye and the wizened old man. Fifty people were weaving back and forth on the wooden platform. All of them were singing, “He leadeth me. O blessed thought! O words with heavenly comfort fraught!”

  “What’er I do, where’er I be, still ’tis God’s hand that leadeth me,” Brother Thomas sang back, tightly gripping the microphone, which once more was fondling his lips.

  “Oh, merciful Lord!” I whispered, folding my arms around me, hugging myself tightly. “Please, don’t leave me now!” I begged, realizing that the people I loved most in this world were separated from me by a gulf much wider than the distance I had to travel to get to that stage.

  Panicked, I stared straight ahead at the swinging backdrop of Jesus and at Miss Emily swaying in front of it. Energy rippled through the curtain and through Miss Emily’s body. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like frames in a movie, the backdrop began to flicker to life. Miss Emily moved to one side, and a blond-haired boy looked up adoringly at Jesus. Miss Emily moved back, and Jesus smiled down at him. Miss Emily swayed again. Now a little girl with dark hair was sitting on the ground, worshiping by His feet.

  “He leadeth me. He leadeth me. By His own hand, He leadeth me. His faithful follower I would be. For by His hand, He leadeth me.”

  No one! I thought. Another jerk throbbed in the tips of my toes. No one!

  Miss Emily shifted again, and all of the children at Jesus’ feet turned around to look at me.

  “Sweet Jesus!” I sobbed, gazing at the curtain, staring at the children who were staring back at me.

  Once more, Miss Emily swayed; and between each of her movements, I saw either Jesus or my grandmother standing behind her.

  “Sweet Jesus!” I repeated, looking straight ahead.

  Back and forth. Back and forth. It was Jesus. Then Matanni. Jesus. And Matanni. And then Jesus changed.

  Startled, I jumped up.

  “Patanni!” I cried.

  All alone. All alone, my thoughts insisted.

  “No!” I said out loud. “No!” I repeated.

  The backdrop pulsated, and my grandfather held my grandmother.

  “Patanni, I’m back here!” I yelled, stretching up on my toes.

  And, breaking into a smile, my grandfather nodded, then reached out his arms to me.

  The backdrop waved again; instantly, Patanni disappeared.

  You see, he’s dead, my thoughts said. You’re alone.

  “No!” I groaned as a twitch tore through my arm. “It’s not true!” I protested,
my fingers clawing the air. “No! No! No!” I cried, breathing in deeply, feeling hot tears. “No! No! No!” Then, clutching my forearm, I bowed my head and began to plow through legs, pushing toward the center aisle. “No!” I sobbed, tripping over a woman’s foot, stumbling to the floor.

  “Don’t you worry none,” a voice whispered, soft fingers taking my hand. “I’ll help you up,” the soothing voice said. And, turning my head to the side, I watched silently as Mamie Tillman wove her strong arm through mine and eased me off the sawdust-covered floor. Unsteady on my legs, I nodded to her and smiled. Nodding back, she lifted her head and, with eyes opened wide, looked toward the stage.

  Hovering above the platform was a golden light, and everyone illuminated beneath it was as still as a mannequin. Only the curtain moved, floating like a cloud above the platform.

  Alone! my thoughts reminded me.

  Exasperated, I covered my eyes with my hands.

  “Don’t let your heart be afraid,” I thought I heard Patanni say. “If you’re waiting for darkness, you’ll never see the light.”

  I held in my breath and parted the fingers over my eyes. Yellow rays of light slipped through. Like a curtain opening, my hands slid to the sides of my face. There, shining bright before me, was Jesus Christ, His form dancing across the backdrop. At His feet, gazing upward, was the dark-haired girl. My eyelids blinked, and Rose’s knotted body was fighting against itself. Jesus was looking down at her, His eyes brimming with tears, His hand trembling with hesitation. Sweet Rose lay twisted beneath Him. Suddenly her lips turned upward, and her arm corkscrewed outward. Tenderly, she touched His fingers; whereupon He brought that same hand to His heart and smiled. Rose touched Jesus, I thought. She willed it just like she willed her way toward me.

  I closed my eyes again, and when I opened them, the blond-haired boy was singing along with Jesus. In the chirps that sprang from Reid’s throat, sweet Jesus was singing but one song. You must love yourself!

  “You must love yourself,” I echoed.

  At once, the five hundred churchgoers began to sing. “All my heart to Him I give. Ever to Him I’ll cling,” they sang out. “In His blessed presence live, ever His praises sing. Love so mighty and so true merits my soul’s best song. Faithful, loving service, too, to Him belongs.” I glanced around me. Five hundred faces were flushed; a thousand eyes were beaming. “Love lifted me! Love lifted me!” all of those who were lost but looking were singing. “When nothing else could help, love lifted me!” all of those already saved sang.

  Standing there beside Mamie Tillman, with my arms spread out, my yellow hair an aura around my head, determined to cross that distance and reach the ones I loved, I began to sing. I felt love radiating from me and massaging the airwaves. As I sang, Mamie Tillman gently guided me toward the stage. “All my heart to Him I give. Ever to Him I’ll cling.” The love inside me penetrated my skin, muscle, and bone, nourishing not only myself but every red, open heart which beat inside that tent. “In His blessed presence live, ever His praises sing.” I was singing white-shining lullabies that have existed since the beginning of time. “Love so mighty and so true merits my soul’s best song.” In each note I sang, love was being born. “Faithful, loving service, too, to Him belongs. Love lifted me! Love lifted me! When nothing else could help, love lifted me!”

  “L-o-v-e! L-o-v-e!” I sang out. The pure chords of my voice rang true. My voice became the voice of every animal. The voice of every tongue. The voice of every human. The language of God. “When nothing else could help, l-o-v-e lifted me!”

  Tightly, I closed my eyelids. Singing blindly but with full sight, I was drawn to the light. Divine, holy, and inspired, my voice came from somewhere beyond me, from a blessed place that embraced everyone I had ever loved. And for once, my life cradled possibility. Slowly, I opened my eyes. While the people behind me were still singing, those on the stage were quiet. With faces filled with wonder, they were listening to me.

  Chapter 35

  Upstairs in my bedroom, Miss Emily, rocking back in Patanni’s chair, asked, “What’s a prayer meeting like?”

  “Matanni’s church is different,” I answered her. “Not like the churches we’ve gone to in Ginseng.”

  Miss Emily formed a church and steeple with her hands. “And how’s that?” she asked.

  Sitting Indian-style in the center of my bed, I explained, “It’s more like the big tent revival—only smaller.”

  “Oh, I see!” Miss Emily chuckled, turning her hands over, exposing her interlocked fingers, wiggling them. “They get the Holy Spirit.”

  “Here’s the church,” I said, imitating her. “Here’s the steeple. Open the door.” I, in turn, opened my hands. “And here’s the people.” Frantically, I jiggled my fingers.

  Miss Emily eyed me and asked, “Do you like it more?”

  “I like the smallness of it,” I said. “Everybody knows everybody. It’s real friendly. No one is in charge. Whoever gets the Spirit stands up and speaks what’s in his or her heart. When the Holy Spirit comes upon them, they don’t hold back. I mean, they all shout and praise God. Speak in tongues. No one’s left out.”

  “Holy Ghost bedlam!” Miss Emily said, clapping.

  “And I’ve felt it, too,” I said. “Even stronger than at the revival.”

  “Tell me more,” Miss Emily said. “I’m still thinking about the revival.”

  Carefully, I unfolded my legs and swung them over the edge of the bed. “It’ll be hard,” I said, clumping to the floor.

  “Give it your best shot!” Miss Emily urged.

  Thoughtfully, I began pacing. “Of all the preaching, the one who sticks in my mind the most is Brother Emmit. In the beginning when he spoke, I couldn’t feel what he was saying. You see, I was listening with my mind,” I explained. “I was hearing his words, but not feeling them in my heart. But then I left my mind at the door and let my heart take over. The minute I did, the fire of God’s love began burning through my body. The Holy Spirit bubbled in my blood and blazed in my soul. All of a sudden, I wanted to shout. I wanted everyone to know about the power of God. And before I knew it, I was singing, my voice stronger than ever before.

  “I sang out in English, in Spanish, and in French. Then in tongues I’d never heard. My voice was like a hundred bells sweetly ringing. It became a chorus of voices. A one-person heavenly choir. As I sang, everyone became quiet, and every head turned to look at me. Not once did the jerks come. Not once did I feel a croak creep up into my throat. God had unblocked my energy and set it free. It was the power of His touch, Miss Emily. God gave me a massage. A massage of love.”

  “Touched?” she said, bringing her index finger down her cheek.

  “God was the One Who touched me,” I said solemnly.

  As I walked to Mamie Tillman’s farm that day with the blue birthing blanket draped over my arm, I felt the June sun, already hot on my back, and thought about the changes Matanni, Miss Emily, and I had gone through. That morning, I knew what I was about to do was right. In fact, the rightness of it was urging me on. The day before, I ’d asked Matanni to give me one of the birthing blankets my mama had made for me.

  At first Matanni hadn’t said a word. Then, as if she hadn’t heard me, she asked, “One of your birthing blankets?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “They’re mine, aren’t they?”

  But before I could continue, Matanni was reciting her story, the one I had heard so many times before, about how my mama grieved three times before I was born. “God took three of her babies,” Matanni had said. “The longest one she carried five months. Your mama knitted ten birthing blankets, five blue ones and five pink ones.” She had held up her tiny hands and wiggled her fingers. “After so much pain and sorrow, she weren’t taking no chances with you. ‘My lucky charm,’ your mama called you ’cause you was conceived the night of the shooting star when Poplar Holler was sprinkled with stardust.”

  After which Matanni ran her fingers through her hair, straightened her a
pron, looked me straight in the eyes, and asked, “May I ask what you want it for?”

  I cleared my throat and explained that I couldn’t give particulars because that would be breaking a trust, but that I could tell her the blanket was for a friend.

  Her eyes welled up with tears. “Once you give a thing away, you can’t ask for it back,” she said. “It’ll be lost to our family.”

  Nodding, I walked over, put my arm around her, and told her I was doing the right thing, this was something my mama would want. “I’m starting a ritual,” I had said. “A blanket every year for my friend. Each one of those blankets has some of Mama’s spirit in it, enough to give my friend courage.”

  As was her way, Matanni had moved briskly to her bedroom, where the birthing blankets were stored in a trunk at the foot of her bed.

  All around me now, along the roadside to Mamie’s house, the wildflowers were blooming. Patches of chicory with their lovely lavender-blue flowers greeted me, and I greeted them back; for by noon their blossoms would be withered; only their stalks would remain. My future will be filled with books and college, I thought, dreaming while I strolled along. Books, college, and friends. Since the big tent revival meeting, I could feel some direction in my life and could sometimes imagine my future. And it was a future filled with possibilities.

  “I’m going to make you work hard this summer,” Miss Emily had said at my fifteenth birthday party. Books were in piles on the floor: Shakespeare’s Hamlet; Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales; Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman; The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran; Huston Smith’s The Religions of Man; textbooks on algebra, biology, botany, world history, and even philosophy. “In two years, you’re going to take your high school equivalency exam,” she said, “and, of course, you’ll pass.” She had drummed her fingers urgently against the sofa’s armrest. “Right after that, the college entrance exam. Then we’ll apply to colleges. Berea College is a good choice. And I’m not just saying that because I went there. It’s for smart kids who can’t afford school. They help you work your way through.”