“Please,” I had groaned. “I’m fifteen, now! Can’t we have some fun?”
Huffing and puffing, Miss Emily had stood up. “Fun?” she said, ambling out of the room. After five minutes, completely out of breath, she had returned. “Here,” she’d moaned. “It’s a Smith-Corona. For your studies.” Before I could utter a word, she had said, “This year, we’ll write term papers—footnotes and all. But first you must learn to type.”
Yes, I thought as I walked along, Miss Emily’s prophesy might come true. Every so often, I spotted rocket larkspur, those purple petals growing in a sunny, rocky field. Squirrels chattered in the trees; they always made me laugh. Blue jays flitted and fought. “Yes!” I said at the top of my lungs. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” And even though I knew that I’d still want to croak and sometimes jerk, I wasn’t afraid. After all, hadn’t Dr. Conroy told me what to do? I now realized that if I met the urge halfway, nourished it with a flutter of my fingers and consoled it with a song, then maybe, just maybe, college would be possible.
“Here,” I said, gently placing the blue blanket in Mamie’s arms when she met me at the door. “In memory of your baby.”
She asked me in like I’d been coming every Saturday for the last ten years. She didn’t seem surprised by my words, nor did she ask how I knew about her baby. It was simply understood that I knew. In the living room, we sat in silence.
After a few minutes, she spoke. “I buried him in the woods out back.” Softly, she stroked the blanket. “He was born dead. Never got a chance to live. But—oh—he was so pretty!” she said, flickering her eyelashes, throwing back her head. “He looked just like his daddy. A cap of black hair. Tiny beautiful fingers. Perfect. Not a mark on him,” she said in a quiet voice, gazing into my eyes. “Why did God take him? I couldn’t understand why. On account of me, I thought, on account of my sin.”
I reached out and touched her arm. “It’s not so,” I said.
“No, it’s not so,” she said, and held the blanket up to her nose, breathing in. “I know that now. God loves me. He loves you. His heart is big enough for all of us. Ain’t one of us alone.”
Matanni and I were savoring freshly sliced peaches covered in cream when she asked, “Icy, when will you join the church?”
“I won’t be joining any church,” I stated without hesitation. I had been expecting this for a week.
“Why not?” she asked, swallowing hard.
“’Cause I like them all,” I said.
“But you can’t like them all,” she said.
“But I do,” I said. “I’ve been visiting a whole bunch of churches these past few weeks,” I went on. “I’ve been reading books all about the world’s religions. And, to tell the truth, I’ve grown to like bits and pieces of them all. When Miss Emily took me to the Episcopalian church in Ginseng, I liked the ritual. It was beautiful. Even Old Vine Methodist with its high-steppin’ congregation was charming, especially when they forgot to put on airs, when they showed their true feelings and reached out to the Lord. And Matanni, I reckon if I went to a synagogue, I’d find God there, too. Even the Catholic Church, I imagine, holds the promise of glory. What I’m saying is, you have your ways. Patanni had his. And I—being the strange mixture of so many things—will have my own.”
Later that day, I was fingering the pile of books on the kitchen table which Miss Emily had brought me when my fingers suddenly stopped on the benign-looking slim volume Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman. Opening it up, I was instantly amazed. There, before me, was a poem—a very long poem, with no hint of a rhyme scheme in sight. Curious, I began to read:
Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and joy and knowledge that pass all the art and argument of the earth,
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own.
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love, And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap’d stones, elder, mullein and pokeweed.
“Even the pokeweed is a part of God’s creation,” I whispered. “So God must love the pokeweed inside me.” No one is perfect, I told myself. Everything is flawed. Just look at the moonflower, blooming only at night, not wanting to share its beauty. Patanni liked himself, I thought. If he liked himself, then he must have liked me, ’cause I’m every damn bit as hardheaded as he was. Hadn’t Mamie Tillman eased me off the sawdust-covered floor; hadn’t she been my friend when I was feeling so alone? Wasn’t she my sister? And didn’t I have a valley of sisters? “Ain’t one of us alone,” she’d said.
“Matanni,” I yelled, “get in here!”
“Land sakes, child,” she said, slamming the screen door, coming in from the porch. “What is it?” she asked, wiping her brow with her hand.
“Ain’t one of us perfect,” I said, jumping up from my chair. “But still the good Lord loves us. We’re all a part of His creation.”
Matanni cocked her head and said, “Haven’t I said those same words to you?”
I nodded vigorously. “From the highest to the lowest,” I said. “From the hand of God to ants, to mossy scabs, stones, and even pokeweed.”
Matanni was grinning. “I know where you heard the other, but where did you hear that?” she asked.
“From the great American poet Walt Whitman,” I replied.
“Well, he must of been a good boy,” she said. “Sounds like he went to church.”
Chapter 36
“Is this Union Church?” I asked.
“Yes, it is,” the voice on the phone replied.
“May I speak to Miss Gooch?” I said.
“She’s not in right now,” the voice said. “Would you like to leave your number and a message?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Would you please tell her that Icy Sparks wants to try out for the Union Church Chorus?”
“For the celebration on the Fourth,” the voice added.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Best choral group in these free mountains,” the voice sighed. “Wouldn’t that plaque be nice?”
“I been dreaming about it,” I said.
“Well, then, Icy,” the voice said, “I’ll give Miss Gooch your message and have her get back to you. Your number, please.”
“Poplar Holler 0541,” I answered.
“Good luck!” the voice said.
“Thank you,” I said, before politely hanging up, readying my fingers to dial the next number. After all, I thought, a person couldn’t trust Aggie Gooch. Too much communion, Ginseng folk said. Too much of last year’s apple cider, they would add to be polite.
I telephoned three more churches which I had been attending and asked if I could audition for spots in their choral groups. Poplar Holler Pentecostal Holiness Church had already asked me to sing with them, and even though I had consented, I knew better than to count on Matanni’s church. At the last minute, something always happened to that old bus and their choral group never showed up. I would not take any chances. I reasoned that if many pathways led to God, then singing for a handful of churches was the most righteous thing I could do.
“You’ve got yourself a heavenly voice,” Miss Gooch said, hiccupping, bringing the glass of cider to her lips, swallowing. “Union will be glad to have you. How long have you been singing?”
“Since childhood,” I said, relieved that I was auditioning for Mr. Leedy next.
“Clear as a bell,” Mr. Leedy said. “Second Street Baptist welcomes you.”
“It’s an honor,” I said, “since you already have so many fine voices in your group.”
Persnickety Mrs. Reece, strutting in front of the piano at Old Vine Methodist, had praised me effusively. “Why, my child, you sing like an angel!” she said. “Your talent is a blessing from God.”
Even decrepit Mrs. Fiedler at Ginseng Episcopalian appreciated my voice. “You’re amazing,” she said, her voice quivering. “And you sing as pretty as you look.” Of course, I was afraid she might die by the Fourth of July. Then what would I do?
So altogether I had five auditions, hedging my bets, so to speak. Each choir had wanted me; and, by the third of July, I was signed up to sing for all five churches.
Upstairs alone in my bedroom, with the windows open and a rose-scented breeze wafting through, I stood in front of my floor-length mirror, the one that Patanni had hung for me, and practiced. “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord,” I sang out in a deep, rich voice. “He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored. He hath loosed the faithful lightning of His terrible, swift sword. His truth is marching on.” As I pranced back and forth in front of the mirror, singing with as much gusto as I could muster, the veins in my neck started to pop out and turn a dark blue. What power! I thought, singing on. “Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! His truth is marching on!” With my hands on my hips, in front of the mirror, I ordered my reflection to sing as if auditioning for God. This time my voice held even more power; I sang as though my soul were on fire. “In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea. With the glory in His bosom He transfigures you and me. As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free. His truth is marching on.”
“Icy, what on earth are you doing up there?” I heard Matanni yell.
“I’m practicing!” I yelled back.
“Time for bed!” Matanni cried, tapping up the stairs. “I’ll get you up early,” she said, cracking the door, poking her head through. “You can practice some more then.” Before closing the door behind her, she cocked her head to the side and said, “Icy Sparks, you’re going to make me and my church real proud.”
In the silence of the night, I could hear the night birds calling and the crickets singing. Just minutes before, I had been singing, too; and when I sang, every nerve in my body relaxed. Like everyone else, I was normal. No grotesque twitches overwhelmed me. No unnerving sounds jumped from my throat. My voice simply washed them away. Only my essence remained—simply that of a yellow-haired girl with a golden voice.
Stretching out my arms, I breathed in the sweet fragrance and felt the sticky night air on my skin. “Five churches have accepted you,” I whispered. “Five churches have said, ‘Icy, you have a heavenly voice.’” Five acceptances, I thought. I was about to repeat the words out loud when my breath got caught in my chest. I gasped, sat up, and clearly understood what was facing me. Like a bat blinded by the sun, I had been blinded by the glow of acceptance. For the past two weeks, I had been maneuvering rides into Ginseng with Darrel Lute. I had been sneaking around, rehearsing with five choruses of loving people who had grown to accept me. Swallowing my apprehension as if it were stone, I had easily substituted small twitches for big ones. I had gloriously fluttered my fingers—not flapped my arms—and simply sung. Filled with hope, I had wanted to make it all work, resolved to transform my hope into happiness, and, in my delirium, mapped out my future—one which would be filled with people and friends. At the big tent revival meeting, God had shown me the way to acceptance. Then He had shown me how. But in my wild excitement, I had overlooked one important thing. Tomorrow, in front of the Crockett County Courthouse, in front of all five groups, I’d be forced to choose just one; and when I chose, everything I had been working for, any respect I had won, would vanish. In that split second, all of my hopes would disappear.
Later, combing my hair in front of the mirror, I remembered Matanni’s words: “Icy Sparks, you’re going to make me and my church real proud.” A twitch started in my arm; my hand snapped up; my fingers spasmed. “Merciful, Lord!” I said aloud, shuddering as the comb hit the floor. “What have I done?”
Chapter 37
People lined the streets of Ginseng as Darrel Lute drove through. Red, white, and blue crepe paper decorated the shop fronts. The Darley Theater was showing a double feature. The marquee read LAST OF THE MOHICANS with Randolph Scott and THE BUCCANEER with Yul Brynner—neither of which, according to Miss Emily, was about the American Revolution. In front of the Samson Coal Company, vendors were selling fireworks. Two little girls were twirling around with sparklers in their hands. Even the post office had been draped in red, white, and blue. Colorful plywood cutouts of Paul Revere on his famous ride were positioned out front. The year, 1776, was hung above the door. In the distance, I could hear the sounds of the Ginseng High School Band warming up. Soon the parade would begin, but first the church choral groups would compete. Darrel stopped right in front of the courthouse and let us out. Immediately the smell of popcorn, hot dogs, and peanuts filled the air. A little boy with a cherry Sno-Kone coloring his lips swooped by me. Little old ladies wiped the sides of their faces with embroidered white handkerchiefs. Farmers in overalls chewed tobacco and spit the brown juice into the grass. Local businessmen in blue suits smoked quietly. Mothers, cradling babies, sighed in the noonday heat.
“Hey! Hey!” Miss Emily yelled. I spotted a fan with TANNER’S FEED SUPPLY stamped across the front. “Hey! Hey!” she cried, waving it back and forth. “I’m over here!”
I tugged at Matanni’s dress. “She’s over there,” I said, pointing at Miss Emily among a throng of people. “Beside the bench.”
“Well, I’ll be,” Matanni said, scurrying forward, weaving around people in lawn chairs and stepping over legs sprawled out on blankets on the grass. “She’s saved us the best spot.”
When my eyes caught sight of the courthouse, a low groan escaped my lips. In front of the building, just behind the stage, among all the competing choruses and their singers, I spotted my groups. Much to my horror, all five of them were huddling behind and to the left of Mayor Anglin, who, sporting an Uncle Sam top hat, stood in the center of the platform. Directly behind him was a small band. In the background, the U.S. flag and the Kentucky flag proudly flew.
“Here! Here!” Miss Emily screeched.
My eyes couldn’t avoid her. There she was, wearing her red-, white-, and blue-striped dress, every bit the spectacle I knew she’d be.
“There’s your group over there!” Miss Emily exclaimed, pointing at the mass of singers.
I shrugged and wiped my sweaty hands on my blouse.
Mrs. Reece, strutting by at that moment, grabbed my hand and pulled me along, saying, “Come along, Icy. We’ve got to get you robed.”
“Hey, there!” Miss Gooch said, waving the minute she saw me.
“How ya doing, honey?” Mrs. Fiedler declared when I brushed against her.
“Clear as a bell,” Mr. Leedy roared when his eyes caught mine.
Miranda Williams, one of the singers from Poplar Holler Pentecostal Holiness Church, yelled, “There’s Icy!”
All of them, all five of them, are counting on me, I thought, swallowing hard, feeling the muscles in my throat tighten.
“Testing,” Mayor Anglin said as the microphone buzzed. “Testing. Testing.”
From behind the platform came the disjointed notes of a band warming up. Guitars hummed. An electric keyboard whined. Drumsticks coughed.
A young man in front of me bent over and retrieved a stone from off the ground. He cupped it, then shook his hand like a rattle. My heart skidded, and I ducked my head. What if love won’t set me free? I thought.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Mayor Anglin announced when the band stopped. “Welcome, each and every one of you, to our great Fourth of July celebration!”
“Please, God!” I prayed, my hands gripping each other beneath my chin. “Please give me strength,” I asked.
At that moment, Mrs. Reece tossed a choir robe over my shoulders. “Oh, no!” I said when I saw it, shimmering
green in the sunlight. “Bullfrog green,” I moaned, my hands dropping to my sides. “I’ll be a frog child forever.” Nervously, I surveyed the crowd. There was Miss Emily, smiling and pointing hysterically. Here I was, covered in green, looking every bit as green as she did the night of the big tent revival. “Merciful Lord!” I pleaded. “Help me.”
“Our local churches have gathered here today,” Mayor Anglin continued, “to compete for the highest honor given on this day of celebration.” Grandly, he opened up his arms. “Best choral group in these free mountains.”
The band let out a few more chords. Whoops rose from the crowd. The townsfolk clapped. Beneath my green robe, sweat oozed from my body.
“These will go first,” Mayor Anglin said, pointing to my five groups. “Thelma, will you and yours please come on up?”
Thelma Reece nodded politely.
“Lord, help me!” I said when the group moved forward.
“Old Vine Methodist!” Mayor Anglin shouted, stepping aside as we squeezed onto the platform.
“Mmmmmm,” Mrs. Reece hummed, turning toward the band. “‘Battle Hymn of the Republic,’” she said primly. Then, with a flourish of her hand, she turned back toward the crowd while the band began to play.
“Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord,” the others sang. “He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored.”
Afraid, I hung back, away from the microphone. My voice froze. It was lodged in my throat like a block of ice.
“He hath loosed the faithful lightning of His terrible swift sword. His truth is marching on.”
A jerk started in the toes of my left leg. “Ouch!” I squealed, grinding my foot into the stage, curling my toes against the wood.
“Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah!” the group sang.
“Ooh!” I whimpered, as the muscles in my leg tightened, the way they always did before a jerk.
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