The Country of Ice Cream Star (30 page)

Ya, be times, I get a sneaking wish to never go. My weakness think, no child can change all problems of this evil world. Go to roos, be moron suicides, like Pasha ever sworn.

But my contradictions fail to nothing when I see my brother.

These days of tired wandering, Driver sicken past no comfort. His hands be thick with posy sores. His cough be raw and long. He skinny in his clothes, and now he lose his careful dignity. Will ride a cart among all enfants, drowsing in the middy day.

Yo, his heart be bitter. He dead-among – must walk unseen through Sengles like a starving ghost. Sure, Lowells talk to any, ain’t
respect this definition. But Driver narrow and contrary to their every friendship. And to myself, his manners most like hatred. Any a careless thing I say, he hear it vain or selfish. Avoid me how he can, and when he ain’t, his face be cold dislike.

The only talking he befriend be with the simper, Hak’s girl. Seem she always by him, laughing nervy, make her pinchen smile. Ain’t a week gone by before she sleeping in his hammock. Be times, he sit her on his Piglet horse, teach her to ride. Then her scar face be enfant seriose. Her hand go in forgetting to the horse’s mane, stroke wondering. When Driver touch to shift her leg, her eyes be desperate sweet. Then any blindness see, she gone in love.

In manners, the simper be a strange and worry animal. Flirt with some male, then she look angry murder as he go. Wear a Lowell workshirt deep unbutton, showing most her breasts; yo any boy go look, she grasp this shirt together feary. Every change be fickle: is skitty and rude and shy and hard.

I never get the bravery to ask how she know Driver. Prefer my own excuses over truths I cannot fix. But at last I learn this sideways from another history.

Been our first Connecticut night. I gone to Driver to tell about my loves with El Mayor. Be my first trial to say this secret, for El Mayor his hurting pride. Yo, now I going to roos in seriose, I mind this less. Already El Mayor be like a gentle past I miss.

So, after evening meal, I follow my brother to his hammock. Begin in hopeful nerves.

‘Was thinking, ya, of El Mayor. How you always say, we can pair well. You mind this saying? Been feeling, it be sense to choose this. Now is better sense.’

Driver been readying his sleeping goods, but now he frown to me. ‘Sense?’

‘How you said, our Sengles be too few. Ain’t keep without no help.’

‘So you trade yourself for gifts?’ He narrow on me cold.

‘Foo, ain’t like this.’

‘How it is?’

‘You always say, he love me well. Ain’t remember to you?’

A doubt show in his eyes. ‘Ain’t thought I driven you to this. I know I ain’t been thinking well, sometime.’

‘Nay, you only saying, it be politics to do.’

‘Politics.’ He scoff his breath and reach by to a branch. Crack off a skinny twig, then twist it in his fingers, thinking. My eyes go skitty to his hand, watch for the posy sores.

At last, he say, ‘Ridiculous enough, you get an enfant belly now. But ain’t need El Mayor in this.’

‘Yo, he ain’t right with you?’

‘Child go with every girl he see. Can make your politics without that.’ He break the twig between his hands. Toss the pieces by.

I take my breath unsteady. ‘Ain’t necessary is politics.’

‘Ain’t bone politics,’ he say, and make his bitter smile. ‘But it be like yourself, these days.’

‘What this going to mean?’

‘It mean, you ain’t gain nothing from this. El Mayor will use you gratty. But this never change your wealth. He got more pride than this, to pay for love.’

Then some misery freak in me. I spit out blind, ‘Truth, El Mayor ain’t go with simpers none. Is better sort.’

Driver’s face go stiff. ‘Forget this, Ice. You put this notion by.’

‘Nay,’ I say desperate, like I catch at something slipping from my hands. ‘You ain’t listen. How we even talking so? You blame me always.’

‘Can be some failures in me, sure.’ He turn sharp to his hammock. ‘But you name them without me.’

‘Driver, ain’t meant nothing. I done worser things than ever you done.’

He rub his palm against his brow. Say cold and soft, ‘I know.’

Then the world go weak in me. I want to ask him what he know. I want to pologize and beg. But I only step away and mutter some by-salue that come out griping.

I go to the bosky darkness, seeing nothing real. See Mamadou the NewKing over me in angry love. Karim in all his blood, and every stank deed of my life. And in my darkness heart, I see the simper smirk her pinchen mouth, her mouth full of all ugliness. Her mouth that Driver heed.

I go in painful mind to seek, and find her where I most expect. She dabbit by the Sengle fire, is lurking like she fear some insult. Truth, my littles do her petty evils, been occasion. Toss her shoes into a brook, or tell her Armies looking for her. My brats jalouse on any stranger pairing with a Sengle jones.

As I walk to, she look up wisty in her blackish eyes. But when she know myself, she brighten gratty.

‘Ho, girl,’ I say. ‘Can talk apart?’

‘Be sure.’ She haste to fetch her sack, and come behind with eagering step.

I lead her to our walking highway, private at this nightish hour. Road be like a valley of sky between the forest’s detail life. Where we come out, a roadsign lean: SPEED LIMIT 65. In woods across, is horses tethern, and one blackish pony look up to us curiose. Munching sprig hang from his mouth.

I sit in the middy road, and she sit to me, smiling. She wear old jeans of Asha Badmouth, patch on both their knees. Look glad attention, like a hound who wait to do his trick.

‘Bone,’ I say discomfort. ‘Only got one question to you.’

‘Heeding,’ she say, and touch her ear.

‘I only wondern, ya. You spoke to Driver of me somehow?’

Her smile weaken puzzling. ‘Nothing you ain’t like to hear. Be all bonesse I got for you, ain’t mysteries in this.’

‘But you told some knowledge? Ain’t got to be a thing is mally.’

‘What sort knowledge?’

I look up at that watching pony. He still gazing, switch his tail against some pester insect. I want to drive away his stare, but he look brainless on.

I say, ‘From Army camp.’

Mention Army camp, her face change inward. She shake head reluctant.

‘All it is,’ I say, ‘when I been hurt there. By they feathers? You callen me the NewKing’s Sengle. Always wondern to this.’

‘Shoo, I known you gone to him.’ She pooch her lips, look cautieuse.

I catch my breath. ‘And you told Driver?’

‘Ain’t guess I done. He never known?’

‘Nay, been something … hurt him if he learn.’

‘Ho, I see. He going to think, been harm in this.’ Her plum lips gather to this thought. ‘You like, I tell him how there ain’t no harm.’

‘Ain’t got to learn I been there,’ I say hasty. ‘Best be so.’

Then her frighten telligence be sharp. ‘I keep this. Never fear me.’

I sigh. ‘Gratty, truth.’

‘Easy favors.’ She laugh happy. ‘Saying nothing ain’t no work.’

‘Ya.’ I brush my hand along the road, pick up a straying pebble. ‘But only wondering … how you known I gone to Mamadou?’

‘Shoo, how you think?’ She grimace sly. ‘The NewKing told all ears.’

I startle nasty. ‘Shee, he told?’

‘Told, the fool he be. Then feathers bother him all right, how he go bring them cooties. Sengle love disease.’ She laugh harsh and cover her mouth.

‘Love disease? He said we doing love?’

‘Nay, ain’t fret.’ She shoo her hand. ‘He got no tempers for a lie.’

Word ‘lie’ come fresh in my relief. I notice my hand be crushing painful on its pebble. Loose it down. ‘So what he told?’

‘Mostly said you got some fight with him. Bringing it to the camp like some big jones will do. But – how he said – you be a skinny girl, is some ridiculous. Some terrify virgin lose her sense. It been …’ She hold and bite her lip. ‘Is how they talking, ya.’

I breathe through my frightening nerves. ‘Ya, I gone to fight. Been once.’

‘And then he want you queen.’ She pooch her lips like preciation. ‘Foo, sister, if you seen they brawls! A Sengle queen, you magine!’

‘Feathers want no Sengle queen?’

‘They fearing murder wars, it been. But all they going to say, your Sengles stank beneath no pride. Call Mamadou a wolf who do with chickens.’

‘Ho!’ I laugh peculiar. ‘Who be chickens? They the chickens.’

‘But you guess, why Mamadou wanting you?’ Her eyes grow sharp with mischief. ‘What he saying, Christwives all been using backwards-forwards by some digger. Or they twelve. He want no twelve. Yourself – be bell, and grown fifteen, and virgin.’ She laugh high. ‘You heed? A virgin, what he want!’

This take me in bad surprise. Almost, I say I be no virgin. Mamadou known this best of any, months before he want me queen. Been work he do himself.

But I catch in sense. I only look back to the pony, want some witness to this rat injustice. Yo, he drowsing now, eyes shut. Lean sleepy to a tree.

‘Truth, Driver told me,’ I say low. ‘How Armies think to take me.’

In my corner-eye, her hand stir on the road, touch there like thought. Fingers spiderish in moon. ‘Yo sho, I warn him self. How Driver known.’

Then I feel the night like blackness ghosts that watch my tensen shoulders. ‘You known him then?’ I say in careful voice. ‘At Army camp?’

‘He never mention this?’ Her face go hurt, but then she nod like thinking. ‘Sure, ain’t going to mention. See this right.’

‘Nay, why he ain’t mention?’ I take shorter breath. ‘Been something wrong?’

‘Now, ain’t wrong.’ She shrug. ‘They times, he kept his sickness quiet. Why he come to OldKing Hak.’

‘Hak?’

‘Hak selling papa. Child who want it secret, go to him.’ She look to me, face shy in memory. ‘Any a child ain’t want to talk to Hak
so much. But Driver stop with me sometimes, we talking. Like two friends will talk. I
going
to warn him how they think to steal you.’

A moment, I only stare and breathe. Then I look down easing to my hands. ‘Been right.’

‘Then Driver never come to camp again. Gone sour on Armies, sure. But I gain him back. You seeing, sugar? All be evens. Give good, or you give evil, it come back to you again.’

I nod, gone staring at the grainy road. ‘Be evens, ya.’

Then the simper touch my arm. I flinch at this but smile up hard.

‘Ho, I got some Lowell wine in here.’ She heft her pinkish sack. ‘You like some wine?’

My shoulders ease. ‘Wine I can use.’

She fetch out a corken brock. Is sleeper glass, with sticker glue still bleary on its sides. She uncork the brock and take a drink. Hand it to me smart.

In this, it notice that her pinkish sack turn round. Show the side she always keep close-held against her belly. Got no written names on this. But in the full moonlight, can see where broidery been yank out rough. A word sketch there in holes. SOLEDAD.

When I look up, she watching on me sweet. I point to the sack. ‘Soledad?’

She flinch, look hasty to it. ‘Ya, Soledad. Been my name, sometime.’

‘Ain’t want this name no more?’

‘I give it up.’

‘Always want to call you by a name. Ain’t like to call you simper.’

‘Can call me Soledad, you like.’ She touch the sack, frown down at her unpicken name. ‘Driver call me this sometimes. Been stubborn to this, but I easier now.’

‘Foo, ain’t need to bide they Armies’ filthen rules. You gone from them.’

‘Nay, I rid this name before. Ain’t lost it to no feathers.’ She look up seriose. ‘When I gone to be Maria.’

*

Maria she explain to me before, for any lengths. Be a matter of her people – children living in a city grandiose in wealth. Got every science there. Is lectric lights and tower buildings; photographs and working cars. Had a cat she call Bigote, drank his water from a glass.

Simper’s town been Christings – though she disrespect this name. How she explain, our Massa Christings be in fallen creeds. ‘Sleeper faith,’ she calling this, and say the sleeper faith be wrong, though how this prove I never learn. Right faith call ‘catolico’. Prettieuse word enough, can be a wolfen name for enfant.

Catolicos believing two-stick Christ. Get all this Bible story with its water-walking and generose fish. How Jesus born to Mary who been virgin. Papa Joseph stand by whistling, got no sex to do.

Their Mary call Maria, and catolico Maria go from unfuck birth to all adventures. Since this been sleeper times, when Jesus grown to size, she living still. Then she become Christ’s queen and bride. Still they do no sex, is more like animoses here.

When Jesus dying murdern, his ghost go into Maria. Survive in her, so god remain, available to children. And when she die, the spirit move into some new Maria. This repeat in every history. Maria die and be reborn, is usual nonsense gods will do.

In the simper’s people, the living Maria rule the town. This a person child. Ain’t special nothing. Maria walk on feet and eating food and making shee. But they believe god live in her. They do some church accomplish this, with godly clothes and blessing wine. When this finish, she know wisdom, be unblemish right.

Can tell without no wondering these be diggers. Senseless as a moth.

I say, ‘Ho, you try to be Maria? Kept this quiet some. But why you leave your town for this?’

‘Gone to find a Jesus.’ She gaze along the road, bright thinking. ‘How Maria be known.’

‘Easy found, you bear him pregnant. Once you learn this trick, is done.’

‘Foo!’ She laugh up sudden, push my knee with shooing hand. ‘Ain’t looking for no enfant, crazy.’

‘You get a finish Jesus somewhere?’

‘Sure. Take your apostles, go to yonder miles and seek.’

‘What these opossums useful for?’

‘Opossum! You know vally well it ain’t opossums!’ She laugh breathless, press her fist up to her mouth. Then she say, like she bait my mischief, ‘If you become Maria, your apostles going to rule the burrows.’

‘Burrows being what? Opposums living in these burrows?’

‘Known you going to say that!’

‘Foo, burrows ain’t no name to me.’

Her smile go shy. ‘The town be grandy, ya. It rule in parts. These parts is callen burrows. Apostles rule the burrows, ya Maria ruling over all.’