Icy Sparks (32 page)

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.

U
pstairs 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.

A
s 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 apron, 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.”

“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.”

M
atanni 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:

“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.”