Icy Sparks (22 page)

S
ince I was growing up, Patanni thought I needed to see my whole self in the mirror. “When Louisa was sprouting up, she always wanted to see how this and that dress looked on her,” Patanni said. “It'll be the same for you, too,” he added, nailing up a cheap, floor-length mirror on the back of my bedroom door.

“That's right,” Matanni said. “Soon you'll be spending more time in front of this here mirror than with us.” She squeaked her tiny laugh. “The truth is you're already taller than I am.”

“That ain't nothing new,” I said. “I've been taller than you for years.” I walked over to look at my reflection. With the exception of those acorns of mine called breasts and that peach fuzz called pubic hair, I still resembled a kid no more than ten years old. Naturally, I was a little taller, having grown about two inches, but still I was small—just under five feet.

“Icy Sparks, that simply ain't true!” my grandmother shot back. “While you been growing, I been shrinking. That's all.”

“While you been shrinking, Miss Emily's been getting fatter,” I said.

Patanni held out his arms, rounded them into a circle, looped together his hands, and puffed out his cheeks. “How much do you reckon she's put on?” he asked.

“About fifty more pounds,” I said. “If she's telling the truth.”

Patanni rubbed the bald spot on the back of his head. “Whew!” he said. “Three hundred and fifty pounds!”

“She'd better drop some of it,” Matanni said, “or else she'll die young.”

Angrily, I turned around and faced my grandmother. “Don't you be talking like that!” I fussed. “Miss Emily's gonna live a real long time. Mr. Dooley Sedge's sister said so.”

“Geneva Sedge, the janitor's sister?” Patanni raised his eyebrows.

“Why, she's a professional palm reader!” I declared. “The next time Miss Emily comes over, take a gander at her lifeline. It crisscrosses from one side of her palm clear over to the other.”

“You don't say!” Patanni said, grinning.

“And it don't matter which hand,” I said. “Either one. Both say she's gonna live a long time.”

“Does she believe it?” Matanni asked.

“Told me she did,” I said. “And I believe her. She's fat, but her heart's getting stronger.”

“And, pray tell, how does Miss Emily know that?” Matanni asked.

“Her heart specialist in Lexington told her so. ‘You must be doing something right,' he says, ‘but that something, I guarantee you, is not massage.' Miss Emily insists that the good doctor won't acknowledge the healthy benefits of massage.”

“Moss-hash?” Matanni said.

“Rubbing,” I explained. “Rubbing away the hurt places in your body.”

“Don't that beat all!” Patanni said, clapping his hands against his thighs. “Miss Emily ain't never gonna change. She's always coming up with a thousand reasons to help her stay the same.”

“Wait and see!” I said, pointing my index finger at him. “When Miss Emily took sick and went to Florida, she stayed at a health clinic where they massaged her two hours every single day, and look at her now. I bet she outlives us all.”

“I sure do hope so,” Patanni said. “I'm getting too old and feeling too puny to be one of her pallbearers. There are worst things in life than death.”

“Shame on you!” I said, running over and hugging him tightly. “If anything happened to any of you, I don't know what I'd do.”

“Don't you worry none!” Matanni said. “We plan on being here a long, long time.”

“H
owdy! Long time, no see,” Miss Emily said from her overstuffed lounge chair as we passed through the front door of her store, the
CLOSED
sign already up, the doorbells tingling. “Somehow I had an inkling you might pay me a visit today.” She wiped her face with a red-and-white-checked handkerchief and said, “Tell me, Icy Gal, what's been going on?”

“I need a Coke first,” I announced, making a rough, gurgling sound, going over and draping my arms around her neck. “A cold one with ice in it. My throat's parched.”

“Icy, don't you beat all!” Patanni said. “Miss Emily wants to know how you're doing, and all you want to do is drink her Cokes. If you want a Coke, you best ask me.”

“Well, then,” I countered, “will you buy me a Coke, one with ice in it?”

“Here!” He tossed me a quarter. “Now get! I need me some conversation and supplies.”

Clutching the coin, I headed toward the back of the store where the Coke machine was, inserted my money, lifted up the lid, and grabbed a bottle with ice clinging to it. Then, using the bottle opener that dangled from a string attached to the lid, I popped off the cap, sauntered toward the back screen door, and settled down into a metal chair tucked into a corner of the porch. I was sipping my Coke, slurping frozen mush through my teeth, when Lena, Miss Emily's tiny orange tabby, slithered against my legs and began to cry. “Yeowwwww…yeowwwww…yeowwwww!” she meowed, jacking up her rear end, wiggling it around. “Yeowwwww…yeowwwww…yeowwwww.”

Then, out of nowhere, in a blink of the eyes, a long-haired, gray cat appeared. “YEOWWWWW…YEOWWWWW!” he bellowed, crouching down, watching Miss Emily's cat from the alleyway.

“Yeowwwww…yeowwwww!” Lena droned, purring loudly, ducking down on her front legs, raising her butt up high.

“YEOWWWWW…YEOWWWWW…YEOWWWWW!” the tomcat screeched. And, flying through the air, he leaped upon the porch; then, with yeowwwww…yeowwwww still singing in his throat, he mounted her. Gnashing his teeth into her neck, he jerked back her head, completely lifting her front legs off the floor.

Mesmerized, I didn't move.

The tomcat started to push back and forth, his gray coat engulfing her orange fur, while Lena's yellow eyes continued to glow, until abruptly all movement stopped.

Feeling ashamed, thinking I shouldn't have seen such a sight, I was about to chase the gray cat away and redeem myself when both cats gracefully shook themselves, their coats rippling across their backs, and—like dancers—began to circle each other. For several minutes, they seemed almost woven together; then, side by side, they lay down on the porch. Two cats, one tiny and one big, purred rhythmically while the male tenderly licked the female's back.

D
uring the past two springs, toad-strangling rains had saturated the soil and the possibility of flooding had become a major concern, but this spring had been drier than usual, and I was hopeful that today would be my lucky day, that today I'd happen upon the rose that most resembled my mother. As I hiked, I trailed a stick behind me. Every so often, I'd turn around to see the furrow, like a line of snail's slime, left behind. Dropping my stick, cupping my hand over my eyes, I stared at the underbelly of the cliffs to the right of me. Goat's-beard, those small white flowers that look like snowflakes strung along a spider's web, peeked out at me; and for a second I forgot that it was summer. Then the sun glinted off the rock face, and the goat's-beard glistened brilliantly. “I love it here,” I said, and before I knew it, I had stretched out my arms and started to spin. “This is mine,” I said, twirling faster and faster. Beads of sweat flew off my face. “All mine,” I said, then dug my heels into the ground, rocked clumsily, and stopped.

“This is mine,” I heard a voice mimic. “All mine.”

“Who's there?” Nervously, I glanced around, but spotted only patches of pink clover and wild garlic with its pinkish flowers. “Who said that?” I asked, suddenly afraid that the voices inside me—silent for so long—were becoming restless again.

“Who's there?” the voice repeated. This time, it came from my left. “Who said that?” the voice echoed.

Immediately I whipped around. “Tell me this instant!” I demanded, but no answer came. Only the breeze, trickling through the pines, replied; and I was on the verge of calling out again when the explanation came to me. “An echo!” I laughed, clapping my hands. “An echo is gonna get me!”

“No, it ain't!” the voice answered.

Startled, I clamped my lips together and stood very still.

“Ain't no echo gonna get you,” the voice said. “But your own true love might.”

I scrunched up my shoulders. “Who's there?” I squeaked.

“Guess,” the voice replied.

“But I don't know,” I said.

“Just guess,” the voice prodded. “Give it a try.”

My eyes darted from side to side. “I don't want to.” Nerves, like bedbugs, crawled over my skin.

“If you don't try, you'll never find out,” the voice said.

“But I don't know who to guess,” I whined.

“I'll give you a clue,” the voice said. “You knew me when.”

“What kind of a clue is that?” I said. “When, what?”

“You knew me when. We were ten years old and in love.”

“Where are you hiding?” I yelled, swiveling around, my heels eating the dirt, my eyes hunting for strangers. “I know you're back there in those baby pines. Why don't you come out and face me like a man?”

“'Cause you might reject me,” the voice replied. “That was what you always did. You always told me no.”

“If you don't show yourself,” I warned, balling both hands into tight fists, “I'm gonna stomp right through this wild garlic and come out punching.”

“You're still spunky,” the voice responded. “Ain't no one able to cut a rusty like you!”

“If you mean I'm about to take a fit,” I snorted, “well, you ain't wrong!” Bouncing back and forth on the tips of my toes, I leaped forward and, bending down, struck at a mass of wild garlic. Its pink flowers scattered like dandelion fluff. “Come on out here, you big sissy! Face me like a man!”

“Well, if you insist,” the voice said politely.

From about eighteen feet away, someone moved. Olive-green flashed through spruce-green pines. A shock of auburn hair and two green eyes shot up, and a familiar face came toward me. I dropped my arms to my sides; then, blinking my eyes, I spotted the string of freckles—traveling the length of the nose—and blinked again. Bracing my hand above my forehead, blocking the sunlight, I got a better look. Sure enough, the hair was brown with some red in it; the eyes were bright green; and the freckles were plentiful.

When he flashed a thin-lipped grin and lisped, “Icy Sparks,” I knew—without a doubt—who was ambling toward me. “If you ain't a sight for sore eyes!” the voice said, coming to a halt about four feet away.

My eyes twitched. “Peavy Lawson,” I muttered, then flicked my lashes and stared at this boy rooted broad-legged in the earth. “Well, ain't you all growed up!”

He grinned, looked straight at me, and said, “You ain't changed one bit. You're still the prettiest girl in Crockett County!”

I studied his wiry frame, at least five feet four inches tall, and saw the muscles rippling beneath his T-shirt. No longer did his eyes pop out from his head. Instead, they slanted upward, sparkling emerald green, like the eyes of an exotic animal. Even his hair had changed. The straggly brown strands that once flopped lopsidedly over his forehead had disappeared. Now a luxurious tangle of auburn brown hair replaced them. I mumbled, “Well, I reckon you've changed for the best.”

He took another step closer, cleared his throat, and said, “I knowed you lived out here, but I didn't expect to see you.”

I could feel the perspiration leaking from my pores. Daintily, I plucked at my blouse. “Sometimes I go for walks,” I said, flushing a deep red, lowering my head.

“Every Thursday, I come here,” he said. “Old Man Potter hired me to feed his livestock and work his fields. I was on my way back there when I seen you. Like a vision you was, twirling and twirling with your gold hair flying. The minute I saw that yellow hair, I knew it was you.”

“And you just stood there, real silent-like, spying on me.” I looked up and glared. “Laughing at me, doing what Joel McRoy and Irwin Leach put you up to.”

“Never,” he said, and his green eyes flashed. “That ain't true! I done ate a bologna sandwich at Lute's Grocery, and I was on my way back, that's all, when I caught you. Like sunlight spinning inside a raindrop!”

“And Joel McRoy and Irwin Leach didn't send you here to spy on me?” I asked.

“No, I promise!” he said. “That's the word with the bark on it! You know I'd never laugh at you!”

“Cross your heart!” I demanded.

“Cross my heart and hope to die!” He crossed his chest with one hand, then held both palms up high for me to see.

Instantly, my face brightened. “I was heading over to Clitus Stewart's place,” I said sheepishly. “Matanni told me I could find some pasture roses there.”

“I wouldn't know about that,” he said, shaking his head.

“Would you like to accompany me?” I asked shyly.

He smiled broadly. “Sure,” he said.

Slowly, we walked down the pathway. His stride was unhurried and solid. Self-consciously, I took smaller steps. Once he made a gurgling noise. His bottom lip began to pucker, and I expected him to stop and spit into the milkweed, but he didn't. He simply shuddered, as though jerking to attention, and swallowed hard. “Is Mrs. Stilton, that ole stinkweed, still around?” I asked, knowing full well that she was.

“She's a force to be reckoned with,” he replied.

“Is she still ugly?” I asked.

“Even uglier,” he said. “And mean as a rattler.”

“Next year, you'll be in junior high, far away from her,” I said.

“Fine by me,” he said.

“How about the others?” Stopping, I pushed a rock with my tennis shoe. “Emma Richards, Lucy Daniels, and that no-'count lying Irwin Leach?”

“Emma's turned into a regular spoiled brat. She's always whining about this and that.”

“And Lucy Daniels?”

“To hear tell, she's a big kisser. At recess, she sneaks behind the garbage cans and plops juicy ones on Irwin Leach.”

“Ugh!” I poked out my tongue. “She's just kissing pimples. That's something I don't want to see.”

“But, tarnation, I wish you could,” Peavy said, “'cause I miss you.”

“Well, you're the only one in Ginseng missing me,” I said.

“That ain't true,” he said. “Lane missed you real bad. Before he want away, he got real homesick for you.”

Glancing down at my finger, I remembered Lane Carlson and his wart. “How's he doing?” I asked.

“How do you think?” Peavy said.

“Not so good,” I said, walking again.

“Mil-i-tar-y school.” Peavy emphasized each syllable.

I rolled back my eyes. “I can't even imagine it!”

“Somewhere in Virginia,” he said.

“I can't believe…” I began. Then, shaking my head, I changed the subject. “Look, over there, at the blue flowers in the thicket!”

“Blue-eyed grass!” we both said, forgetting pasture roses, running toward the patch of blue.

“Next week, same time, same place,” he said, picking a bouquet of flowers, gallantly giving it to me.

W
hen I got home, the house was quiet. Softly, I tiptoed to my room, and, in a swoon, I fell on my bed. Crossing my arms over my chest, I closed my eyes and tried to recall every little detail that was him: his deep green eyes, so gorgeous and not bulging—no, not in the least bit bulging from his head!—his auburn hair, not one straggly strand—oh, how could I have been so unfair!—his body, so compact and strong; his mouth, thin-lipped, yes, but sensitive and sweet; his upbringing—hadn't he been polite? Oh yes! Even though he should have spit—for his health, that is—he hadn't; and his voice, the way he said, “Icy,” gently lisping the
cy
…well, it was simply too noble! Weren't his lips trying to taste my name? With each recollection, I sighed, wiggled my toes, and sighed some more.

“Peavy Lawson!” I crooned. “You were never, never a frog! No, my dear, you were a prince!” I sighed and thought about Sir Lancelot and Queen Guinevere, about F. Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda, about Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, about love, love, love, about Icy Sparks and—maybe, just maybe—Peavy Lawson. In my mind's eye, I saw the future, my future, and it wasn't a long country road, winding lonely through these hills. No, it was a pathway, leading to a tidy little house, surrounded by a white picket fence, covered with moonflowers, shining in the night. Inside glowed the smiling faces of Peavy, our three children, and me. “Icy Sparks and Peavy Lawson,” I whispered. “Bread and butter. Toast and jam. Salt and pepper.” I breathed in and exhaled a whoosh of hot air. “Love and more love,” I said, falling asleep with the clear image of love, Peavy Lawson, and my future etched in my mind.