Icy Sparks (25 page)

Astounded, he stared at me, not speaking for what seemed forever; then, in an instant, like a toy being wound up, with his shoulders thrown back and his head held high, he strutted forward, extended his callused hand, and said, “Ma'am, are you in need of some help?” Thereupon, my head fell forward, jouncing up and down before halting, and my limbs stopped trembling long enough for me to stretch out my hand, grab his, and stand up on wobbly legs.

“You came just in time,” I said demurely. “I've been sickly of late. The sun was getting to me.”

“Hot spells,” he said seriously, like someone possessing full knowledge of such matters.

“Well, I wouldn't think so,” I said quickly, my mind focusing on
hot flashes,
a condition discussed in “Menopause and You,” the last chapter in
From Girl to Woman
. “I mean, I've just started.”

“Just started what?” he said, a puzzled expression on his face.

I flushed crimson before I found the right words. “Just started having hot spells,” I corrected. “Before, when I was young, the heat never bothered me. But these days it does.”

“'Cause now you're a young woman,” he said, winking. “A beautiful young woman.”

Daintily, I took hold of my dress. “Do you really think so?” I asked, twirling around, facing him again.

He nodded slowly and smiled. “You were the girl for me.” He reached out and caught my hand. “You still are.”

My hand, seemingly not my own, hung limply in his. Nervous sweat seeped from my palm. “You think so?” My voice quivered, and my breath came in shallow spurts.

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” he said, squeezing my fingers. “That is, if you'll have me.”

Speechless, I inclined my head.

Tenderly, he caressed my skin. “Once, you wouldn't talk to me,” he continued. “Once, you wouldn't give me the time of day.”

“But that's all changed,” I whispered.

“Once, you called me froggy.”

“I was awful,” I said, shaking my head.

“You told me to jump back into that pond where I belonged.” His voice cracked, and his eyes filmed over.

“I acted a fool,” I said. “I acted like a sore-tailed cat.”

“Then I'm not a frog?” he asked, moving his head from side to side.

“Oh, no!” I said vehemently. “You could never be a frog!” I put my free hand on top of his, the one that was holding mine. “Even if you tried, you could never be a frog.”

“Never!” he said, looking deep into my eyes.

“Never!” I replied, and then, before I knew it, I was lifting up on my tiptoes and craning my neck forward. “Never!” I said again. “'Cause today…” My heart thumped ferociously against my chest. “'Cause today, you are my prince.” I puckered my lips and kissed him squarely on the mouth.

At that moment, he rocked backward. Our arms dropped to our sides, and we both stood silently, gazing into each other's eyes. In the depths of his pure green eyes, I was certain that I saw my future. Peavy Lawson and I were holding hands; our lips were pressed together; our bodies were touching.

“I
'm in love,” I said dreamily as I walked home. “I'm in love. I'm in love.” So this was how it felt to be a woman—feeling jiggly and soft inside like Matanni's rice pudding, feeling love spread through your body and into your muscles, blood, and cells, feeling that the world would last forever and that your love would outlast the world. “I'm in love,” I said again. “I'm in love with Peavy Lawson, my own true prince.”

All the way home, my mind replayed every minute of our rendezvous. I saw him worshiping me and admiring my beauty in my Snow White dress. I envisioned his hand stroking mine. I recalled his lips, tasting the softness of my kiss. Already, I had dismissed my slide off the rock into the dirt below and erased my mistaken notion that he had been talking about menopause. Anything unpleasant was deleted from my memory. Everything else was nurtured. I dwelled on his romantic words, the way his voice trembled when he declared his love for me. “You were the girl for me…. You still are…. Crossmy heart and hope to die,” he had said. Yes, without a doubt, his love was rare. He had forgiven the harsh girl of his youth and loved the woman who now stood before him.

When I strolled up, Patanni, rocking on the front porch, asked, “Girl, what's wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” I said, tiptoeing up the steps.

“Since when you been scouting around in that kind of getup?”

“Since I turned thirteen,” I snapped. “Since I became a woman.”

“Come over here!” He poked out his long arm and waved me over. “Stand still.” He rocked forward. Then, with his large-boned hands, he took hold of my face and studied me. After several minutes, he concluded, “You look addled. How come?”

“I ain't addled,” I said, pulling away from him, shaking him off like a dog shaking off water. “Some people might call me beautiful, but not you—oh, no, not you—'cause you're too busy calling me names.”

He repeated, “You look addled.”

“I ain't addled!” I spat out, grinding my teeth together. “I ain't the least bit addled.” I stomped my foot. “This woman standing afore you ain't suffering from a dizzy brain.” Angrily, I flicked my head from side to side. “Absolutely not! This woman standing afore you is hurting from the best of maladies. She's suffering from a melted heart.”

My grandfather stood up. “A melted heart?” he said, putting his hand on his chest.

“Yessir,” I answered, “a melted heart.”

“Well, now,” he said, rubbing his chin with his fingers. “A melted heart is something special.”

“Yessir, I know,” I murmured. “For a week now, I've been trying to tell you.”

Patanni turned toward the door, cupped his hands around his mouth, and screamed, “Tillie, get on out here! Icy's got something to tell you.”

In that instant, I regretted having uttered a word. Filled with dread, I sucked in my stomach and bit my lip.

“What's the fuss?” Matanni said, quickly stepping through the door, wiping her hands on her apron. “I was busy with supper.”

“Icy, here, has good news for you,” he said, nodding at me.

“What is it, child?” Matanni said.

Like hot lead, embarrassment burned in my throat, making it hard for me to speak.

“Dang, Icy, go on and tell her!” Patanni ordered.

I gagged and several sentences wrenched through my lips.

“I can't understand a word,” Matanni said, glaring at my grandfather.

Patanni cleared his throat. “What Icy, here, is trying to say,” he intervened, “is that she's gone and got herself a beau.”

Matanni threw up her hands like exclamation marks on either side of her head. “Land sakes!” She giggled. “Where—around here—did you find a beau?”

“On the path to Clitus Stewart's place,” I volunteered. “We ran into each other.”

“Well, who is he?” Matanni asked, slipping over, putting her arm around me.

“Peavy Lawson,” I said softly.

The arm around me dropped. “Peavy Lawson!” she exclaimed. “Ole frog eyes!”

“Not anymore,” I said, whipping my head from side to side. “He's changed.”

“He'd be Maybelle and Randall's boy,” my grandfather said.

My grandmother nodded, and a faraway look clouded her eyes.

“See that?” my grandfather said, winking. “That means she's studying the Lawson family tree.”

“Tell me, Icy,” my grandmother said, suddenly clear-eyed and eager. “How come he's way over here?”

“Clear across the valley,” Patanni added.

“'Cause Old Man Potter hired him,” I explained, “to help with his livestock and fields.”

“Well, then,” Patanni said, his eyes gleaming.

“That young man of yours is a hard worker,” Matanni said.

“Randall's got a good tobacco base,” my grandfather said.

“Maybelle's birthed at least nine children,” my grandmother said. “I ain't ever heard an unkind word about any of them.”

“Decent, honest, hardworking folk,” Patanni said.

“The salt of the earth,” Matanni said.

“And the boy likes our Icy,” Patanni said, rolling his eyes. “'Cause she's a looker,” he went on, “and, mind you, Icy Sparks, if that young man knows what's good for him, he better stick to looking.”

“Shush!” my grandmother warned, wagging a finger at him. “Peavy Lawson is our granddaughter's first fella. You'll not tease her. Do you hear me?”

Patanni jutted out his jaw. “Wasn't I the one who called you out here?” he pouted. “Wasn't I the one who let loose the good news? Didn't I tell you everything with a big fat grin on my face?”

“I reckon you did, Virgil,” my grandmother said, stepping over to him, patting his stomach. “I reckon I married me a sweetheart.”

“Peavy Lawson is sweet, too.” I was enjoying my newfound status. “He's as sweet as molasses,” I said, wanting to regain the spotlight.

But already it was too late. Patanni was leaning over, way over, because he was so tall, and Matanni was reaching up, high up on her toes, and both of them were kissing, giving each other tiny, little pecks, like two birds grooming one another. None of it was romantic. Nothing like that tender kiss I placed on Peavy Lawson's lips. Their love's wonderful, I thought, watching my grandparents kiss each other. But it was nothing like Peavy and me, nothing like our young love, our Romeo and Juliet love.

My stomach rumbled uneasily. “Aren't we ever gonna eat around here?”

“I
don't want you to go back to school,” I said, my voice cracking, my white cotton blouse sticking in the heat to my skin, my pink seersucker shorts chafing my thighs. “I'm gonna be so lonely.”

“I don't want to go neither,” Peavy said, gently tugging at the bottom of my blouse. “But I ain't old enough to drop out.”

I tilted forward on the tips of my tennis shoes, already darkened by the dust, closed my eyes, and we kissed. “I'm afraid you might forget me,” I said, opening my eyelids, the sun off the rock face blinding me. “There are other fish in the sea,” I pouted.

Leaning back on his heels, he widened his eyes and shook his head. “But I ain't going fishing,” he said.

“I'm talking about other girls,” I said. “You might meet somebody else—some girl at school—and like her more than me.”

Peavy stomped his right foot. “Oh, no!” he said as dust rose and settled on his boot and the bottom of his blue jeans like gray talcum powder. “You're my woman. Ain't no cause for you to worry!” he reassured me. “I done seen you all summer. Every Thursday for weeks. Nine sweet times. And once summer comes around, I'll be right back here, helping Old Man Potter, spending time with you.”

“What about all the months in between?” I asked, my mouth trembling. “What'll I do?” I bit at my lip and screwed up my eyes and nose. Sorrow lined my brow. The desolation of the trail was depressing me, reminding me of the loneliness to come. The grass had turned yellow and parched; many of the wildflowers had withered. By August, the goat's-beard that had once been so plentiful had long since dried up and disappeared. Only alumroot, its blossoms sprouting like thin beards, dotted the ridges.

“It ain't so long,” Peavy said, stepping forward, trailing his pinkie along my forehead. “Maybe I can come see you in the spring, after the snow has melted, when the weather's good.”

“You think?” I asked, barely smiling.

“Why not?” he replied.

“And will you write me?” I asked.

“Only if you write me,” he said, tapping his chest, leaving behind little dots of sweat on his green shirt. Then he held out his arms.

The minute he folded his arms around me, pressing me against him, my anxiety evaporated. Like a shot of Patanni's whiskey, his presence calmed me. With him, I was free of the urges and compulsions, of the disorder that had plagued me for so long. I want to bottle him, I thought, as he held me close. I want to sprinkle Eau de Peavy all over my body.

I
n the spirit of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, I wrote Peavy love poems and letters. “You are my knight in shining armor,” I wrote, “my own Sir Lancelot, riding off to school, battling to defend my honor.” Tucked between the pages, I slipped in one of Matanni's late-blooming white roses. “White stands for purity—pure, like our love for each other,” I went on. “Peavy, my brave knight, pin this rose to your undershirt beneath your cold armor. It will keep you warm and safe.” Smiling, I signed the letter, “From Icy, your own golden-haired Guinevere.”

Peavy answered. “Roses are white. Violets are blue. You are Icy Sparks, and I love you.”

“O, my luve is like a red, red rose,” I replied, quoting Robert Burns.

“Roses are red. Violets are blue,” he wrote back. “My name is Peavy Lawson, and I love you.”

In a book of Victorian poetry, which Miss Emily had given me, I discovered a poem, “Tristram and Iseult,” by Matthew Arnold about the tragic love affair between Tristram, one of the most famous knights of the Round table, and Iseult, wife of King Mark. Filled with longing, I imagined myself as Iseult, separated from my own true love. “Blame me not, poor sufferer! that I tarried,” I copied carefully. “Bound I was, I could not break the band. / Chide not with the past, but feel the present! / I am here—we meet—I hold thy hand.” I ended the letter with “Your loving Iseult.” Below the signature, I drew a cracked heart.

Peavy replied, “Roses are red. Violets are blue. What are you talking about? It don't matter 'cause I still love you. P.S. Is your middle name, Insult?”

Twice a week we wrote to each other. When a letter of his arrived, I'd tenderly carry it to my room, hold the envelope up to the sunlight, and marvel at the curve of his
y
in Icy, at the sensual sweep of his
s
in Sparks.

For Christmas, I sent him a present. “Christmas isn't merry,” I wrote, “because you're not here with me. But I made you something anyway. It's an ornament for your tree, a papier-mâché heart. The yellow crack down the center stands for my own heart; it's breaking for you. Do you like it? I put my name on one side and yours on the other. Two halves make a whole, sweetheart. Two halves of our heart beat as one. Hang this ornament from your tree, my brave knight, and when you look at it, be sure to remember me.”

“The heart's real pretty,” he replied. “I hung it near the top of our tree. Ain't nobody, but me, knows it's there. Do you like what I sent you? Uncle Ed took it last summer when we went to the hog show at the Crockett County Fair. That smile on my lips is there 'cause when he snapped it I was thinking of you.”

“Happy New Year, my dearest, sweetest, handsomest Peavy!” I jotted down on New Year's Eve. “Soon, we'll be seeing each other again. Soon, spring will be here.” Then, with the help of Emily Dickinson, I giddily added the following verse. “‘If you were coming in the Fall, / I'd brush the Summer by / With half a smile, and half a spurn, / As Housewives do, a Fly.' I'm always thinking of you, too.”

Peavy responded immediately. “Icy,” he scribbled, “I thought we were going to see each other in the spring, the Saturday before Easter. Sorry about your fly problem. Tell your grandpa to check under the house for puddles.”

I answered him, “At the same place! At the same time!”

“The snow is melting,” he replied. “Soon the redbuds will be blooming. That's how soon I'll see you.”

W
e spotted each other at the same time. As soon as I caught sight of him in his brown suit and yellow tie, my heart heaved, and my head seemed to float above my body. “Peavy!” I yelled, racing toward him in my new yellow cotton dress, with my arms flapping, my yellow handbag dangling from my forearm.

“Icy!” he screamed back, running toward me, stumbling once but not falling in his glossy brown shoes.

Simultaneously, we threw our arms around each other, pressing chest to chest. My pocketbook, slipping, hung weakly from my wrist. The tips of my shoes lapped over the tips of his. One of my barrettes, covered with yellow voile flowers, had slipped from the side of my upswept bun, and several strands of hair now hung loosely around my neck. My breath was wet and hot against his shirt. His shirt was stiff from too much starch. I leaned back and gazed at his face. His hair was slicked back, smooth and oily. The freckles across his nose had faded. Two blemishes stood out on his chin. I inhaled a powerful cologne.

“Oh, Peavy!” I gushed, letting my arms drop to my sides. “You've bottled yourself for me.”

He smiled broadly. A diamond of saliva plopped from his top lip onto the ground. His eyes, befuddled, clouded over.

“Oh, Peavy! I just love your cologne,” I added.

“You do?” he said. “It's called Brut. It's my brother's.”

“Are you a brute?” I asked teasingly. My eyes toyed with him. My mouth watered slightly.

Tenderly, he touched his chest. “What do you think?” he asked. From his front shirt pocket, he pulled out a rose, the white rose which so many months ago I had sent him.

“Peavy!” Once more, I wrapped my arms around him and urgently kissed his lips.

“Icy!” he said, kissing me back.

I could feel his teeth, scraping against mine, and his body, vibrating.

“Now,” he urged.

“Now, what?” My skin tingled all over.

“Let me hold you.” His voice was high and shrill.

“But you are holding me.” My mouth was cupped against his cheek; my lips felt drunk and heavy.

“I want to hold you close,” he said breathlessly. “Behind those pines, over there.” He freed an arm and pointed to the spot where he had hidden that first time we met.

My limbs felt weak. “If you want to.” My voice was tremulous.

Tightly, he gripped my hand and, without talking, led the way. In a daze, I followed him. I would have done anything for this young man who carried my rose beneath his cold armor. The spring sun shone down, illuminating pennywort, inches high with its white funnel-shaped flowers, and star chickweed, with its five deeply cut petals, growing in the distance along the wooded slopes. To me, the star chickweed blossoms were guiding lights, fallen from heaven, showing us the way. As we neared the little group of pine trees, Peavy pointed at a clearing five feet away and smiled.

“My Tristram!” I said, suddenly overcome with emotion. “Blame me not, poor sufferer, that I tarried! Bound I was, I could not break the band. Chide not with the past, but feel the present! I am here—we meet—I hold thy hand.” With these words, I firmly squeezed his palm.

Hand in hand, we walked to the clearing, where he began cleaning away rocks and sticks. Thereupon, he ran back to the copse of pine trees, jerked off his coat, gathered up fallen pine needles, and tossed them on his jacket. Then, using his garment like a knapsack, he returned and scattered the pine needles all over the ground. “Our bed,” he said, his eyes as green as the new shoots popping up.

“Our bed?” I said. Feelings of ecstasy mingled with those of fear.

Taking both of my hands, he gently pulled me down. On our sides, several inches apart, we stared into each other's eyes.

“Icy.” His hand snaked toward me. “Icy.” His fingers tugged at one of the pockets on my dress.

“P-Peavy,” I stammered, leaning toward him.

“Icy,” he repeated in a quivering voice.

“Peavy,” I whispered, and felt his fingers slide down my neck.

“Icy,” he said, stroking my Peter Pan collar.

My tiny breasts ached. “Peavy!” I moaned.

His green eyes twitched and popped out of his head. “Oh, Icy!” he cried.

Alarmed, I glanced down. His hand was on my bodice, cupping my breast. And although I liked his touch, it also terrified me, so much so that in that instant, I envisioned my real future—Peavy Lawson's wiggly inside me, spewing forth pee-pee and sperm, babies leaping from my stomach, yowling and crying, a brown-weathered shack clinging to the side of a mountain and the bitter stink of coal fouling the air. I saw all of my hopes and dreams lying dead, lined up side by side, in the happenstance of one touch. “P-Peavy,” I stammered, feeling a croak building up in my throat and a jerk collecting in my muscles.

“Oh, Icy!” Passionately, he squeezed my breast. “It feels so good!”

Fiercely, I clenched my teeth and forced my lips together.

“Icy! Oh, Icy!” he said, his eyes popping from his head.

The croak shoved against my mouth. My eyes flew out.

Blinking and breathing heavily, he clutched my breast. “My sweet Icy!” he groaned.

At that moment, for the first time in a long time, I saw his froggy green eyes gazing at me and felt his muscle-hopping body pressing against mine. Disgusted, I stared at his amphibian, dead white skin and at his thin-lipped, fly-catching mouth, and I panicked. A convulsion of sheer terror shook me, and my whole body—arms, legs, neck, and torso—began to jerk.

“Icy?” Peavy said, arching away from me. “Icy?” he said loudly.

“C-R-O-A-K!”
I roared.

“Icy!” he said, jerking back.

“C-R-O-A-K!”
My body whipped to the left.

“What the heck!” he said, leaping up.

“C-R-O-A-K! C-R-O-A-K!”
My limbs surged to the right.

“By damn!” he said, looking down at me. Then, staring a hole right through me, his eyes bulging, his lips grinning, he guffawed like a thousand frogs disrupting the night. “You do beat all!” he yelled, slapping his thighs.

“C-R-O-A-K!”
I bellowed, jumping upward, landing solidly on the ground. I shot out my right leg and twirled around on my left.
“C-R-O-A-K!”
I screamed, turning around and around.
“C-R-O-A-K!”

“You're crazy!” he said, laughing nervously. “A nutcase!” he added, scrambling backward.

On a dime, I stopped spinning.

“A loony person!” He snickered, pointing at me. “Just like everybody says!”

In that instant, I breathed in deeply, gulped down all of my anger, and spewed it back out. “You frog-eyed piece of slime!” I snarled. “Why don't you jump back into that pond where you belong?”

There we stood—face-to-face.

Out popped his eyes. “Monster!” he growled.

“Frog eyes!” I cried.

“I don't need this!” He smacked his hands together.

“You need a pond to swim in! You need some lily pads to hop on!”

“I need me a normal gal,” he said angrily. “A gal people like. Someone like Emma Richards.”

“Well, you can have her!” I shouted, my voice shaking. “Just get out of here!”

“Don't mind if I do,” he said, plucking his coat off the ground. “You've made your blister.” He clicked around on his heels and began to walk way. “Now sit on it!”