Icy Sparks (10 page)

“Good girl,” Mr. Wooten said, nodding. “That's a good girl.” Picking me up, he folded me in his arms and said, “Icy, you need to rest. I'm going to take you home.”

Before I knew it, with my head on a pillow and a cotton blanket over my legs, I was lying down in the back seat of Mr. Wooten's Buick. It was new and smelled like freshly cut cedar.

“I need to talk to your grandparents,” he explained. “Have you told them about these spells you've been having?”

“No, sir,” I said. “I told Miss Emily Tanner. But she said I shouldn't worry. They'd probably go away.”

He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “You have to tell your grandparents.”

“I'm afraid to,” I muttered. “I don't want to disappoint them.”

“But you must,” he said firmly.

“I know,” I said in a weary voice.

“Rest now,” he suggested.

“Yessir,” I mumbled, tightly shutting my eyes, seeing only the white splotches of sunlight that flew against my eyelids. “I'm kind of tired,” I said, and felt myself sinking. I longed to sleep and never wanted to pop, repeat, or curse again. I wanted to dream in a place where pasture roses bloomed and goodness thrived, but just as I was falling asleep, the Buick lurched to a stop. As I opened my eyelids, I saw through the window the oranges, yellows, and reds of fall, our white clapboard farmhouse with its red metal roof, and heard the whine of the front door and my grandmother's voice.

“What brings you out this way?” she said as he opened the car door.

“I got a sick girl here,” Mr. Wooten explained, “in the back seat.”

“Oh, my!” my grandmother said, scampering down the steps over the rough yard. When the rear door opened, I saw the worried look on her face. “If you don't mind, please bring her inside,” she said as he leaned over, slid his arms under me, and lifted me up. “I'm going to fetch Virgil.”

“Gosh darn!” he said under his breath, rising too soon, banging his head against the doorframe.

But Matanni didn't notice. “Put her on the sofa,” she said, already scurrying away. “I'm going to the barn to get Virgil.”

M
y head was resting in Matanni's lap, and Patanni was rubbing my feet. Mr. Wooten sat in my grandfather's easy chair—red and brown plaid with patches on both arms. Too tuckered out to tell my side of the story, I listened while Mr. Wooten spoke. “I've never heard her talk this way before,” he said.

My grandmother shook her head. “Heavens, no!” she exclaimed.

“She comes with me to town,” my grandfather said, “and spends time at Margaret's Bakery, but she wouldn't hear nothing bad there. I've caught her at Harry's Garage. No telling what Chiggar and Frank talk about. Once I found her at the barbershop. A bunch of old codgers, getting their whiskers shaved and their hair cut, cussing up a storm.”

“This was foul language,” Mr. Wooten said. “No garden-variety curse words.”

“Oh, my,” my grandmother said, stroking my forehead. “I don't understand. Icy's never talked that way.”

“Never a problem,” my grandfather said.

With her hand beneath my neck, Matanni raised my head, bent over to look into my eyes, and asked, “Sugar, why?”

I fluttered my eyelids. My voice broke. “I don't know,” I said weakly. “The bad words just take over. Even when I try to stop myself, I can't.”

Mr. Wooten rose. “Icy needs to rest,” he said, putting an arm around my grandmother. “She needs to stay home tomorrow and think about what she's done. When she comes back to school, I know she'll be herself again.”

At that moment, my face crinkled up and I began to cry. Like a waterfall, the tears washed down my cheeks.

When Principal Wooten left, I retreated to the safety of my attic room, where on notebook paper I composed a letter to Miss Emily.

I folded the letter into thirds, the way Miss Emily had taught me, and sealed it in an envelope. Next, I addressed the envelope and put it on my nightstand. Tomorrow, I would ask Patanni to take it with him. He was going into Ginseng and could, I thought, drop it by Miss Emily's house. I rolled back my quilt and eased into bed. I desperately needed someone to talk to. Without Miss Emily, my anonymity was complete. Closing my eyes, I felt the darkness, like loneliness, envelop me. Fitfully, I slipped into sleep.

I am hanging suspended in midair. Like a puppet, my arms and legs dangle loosely. Exhaustion drags down my eyebrows and the corners of my mouth. Darkness flows around the contours of my body, avoiding my skin. It seems that nothing wants to touch me. “You were restless,” my grandmother says, “even in your mama's womb.” In an instant, my left arm whips out. My right leg kicks at the emptiness. “Louisa always knew you'd be different. She said that you were too eager to be born.”

All of a sudden, my arms and legs begin to scramble frantically. My lips and eyebrows turn upward, energized. Around and around I twirl until the darkness begins to whirl with me, losing its round shape, oozing, splashing, jetting me forth.

In the soft light of morning, I am born. Dancing through the air, my movements are delicate and graceful. A welcoming sparrow pecks me on the cheek. A butterfly caresses my lips with its wings. Gnats, June bugs, and dragonflies dip down to taste the sweetness of my skin. I am wrapped in wings. It seems that everything longs to be near me.

T
he following morning upon awakening, I stretched and yawned. Nebulous time, those moments between sleeping and waking, engulfed me; and, for a split second, I thought that my dream was true, that I had been born again as graceful as a gazelle. But then the second passed, and I was Icy Sparks, trapped in reality, a time which would last forever. Hurriedly, I put on jeans and a red-striped shirt, raced down the stairs, and stopped my grandfather at the door. “Patanni,” I said, tugging on his sleeve, “please take this. It's for Miss Emily.”

Nodding and mumbling, he slipped the letter into his shirt pocket and shut the door behind him. I crossed my fingers, closed my eyes, and imagined a big hook plunging into the endlessness of time's straight line and jerking it up. With one humongous tug, present time would be altered, and another, better time would be born.

Throughout the weekend, I marked time, waiting for Miss Emily's visit. When she didn't come, I invented excuses for her. Naturally, she'd be busy raising money for the volunteer fire department and picking out books for the library to buy. And even though she didn't go on dates and wasn't invited to social events like baby showers and weddings, she was always on some committee or other, running the show, acting official. As always, fall was a busy season at Tanner's Feed Supply. The farmers stocked up for the winter ahead. Johnny Cake would be tending his family's farm; all the work in the store would be left for Miss Emily to do. Of course, before the first frost, when the ragweed flourished, she always felt poorly. The rims of her eyes turned red; her nose watered constantly; her head ached. Often she was too tired to do anything after work. Still, though, on Sunday morning, I clung to the hope that maybe she'd visit.

When she didn't show at suppertime, I felt more alone than ever. “Patanni, did you take my letter to Miss Emily?” I asked, spooning some corn pudding into my mouth.

Without looking up, he just nodded.

Throughout the rest of the meal, I caught him studying me. In response, I averted my eyes, avoiding the displeasure I thought I saw in his face. I didn't want to see how much I had let him down. For it seemed that I had disappointed everyone, including Miss Emily, and it was only right that now I should pay for it.

“T
his will be your new classroom,” Mr. Wooten said as he led me to a small supply room adjacent to Nurse Coy's infirmary. He unlocked the door, eased it open with his foot, and flipped a switch. The room lit up. Against the walls on three sides were bookcases, cluttered with materials—chalk, erasers, paper clips, construction paper of all colors, staplers, tape, tin coffee cans filled with scissors, folders, boxes of pencils, stencils, clear glass bottles of glue, rulers, puzzles, books, bandages, gauze, and bottles of disinfectant. Mr. Wooten pointed at a desk. “See, we've brought your desk inside and cleaned off a shelf for your books. Mrs. Patterson, from fifth grade, will be your teacher. She'll spend the lunch hour with you.”

“I'll be by myself?” I asked.

Mr. Wooten laughed and lightly squeezed my elbow. “Nurse Coy is next door.” He knocked on the wall. “I'm a few yards away.”

I nodded.

“You need some time to yourself,” he said, “to think. It's only for a few weeks, just to see how you do, Icy. Then you'll go back to Mrs. Stilton's class.”

I shrugged.

“Really, Icy, it's not so bad. Look at the books we got you.” He walked over to a shelf and motioned for me to follow.

My textbooks and twelve others lined the shelf. At home, fifteen books rested in my small blue bookcase with its four sagging shelves. At Christmas, on Valentine's Day, or on my birthday, Miss Emily would bring me a book. I hadn't read them all because some, as Miss Emily said, were beyond my years, but I'd get to them eventually, she always insisted. Now I had twelve new books to choose from, twelve more books to eventually get to. Mr. Wooten touched each book and read the title. “
Little Women
,
Little Men
, and
Spinning-Wheel Stories
by Louisa May Alcott,” he said. “
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
by Lyman Frank Baum,
Cabbages and Kings
by O. Henry,
The Call of the Wild
and
White Fang
by Jack London.” He stopped and took a breath. “
Anne of Green Gables
,
Emily of New Moon
, and
Jack of Lantern Hill
, all by Lucy Maude Montgomery.
The Raven and Other Poems
by Edgar Allan Poe. And finally,
Tarzan of the Apes
by Edgar Rice Burroughs. Well, Icy, what do you think?” he asked, turning around to face me and plopping his square hands on my shoulders.

“They look hard,” I said.

“Mrs. Patterson will read the difficult ones to you,” he said. “Some of them, though, you can handle yourself.”

“It'll take a year to read them all,” I said.

“You don't have to read every one of them.” Mr. Wooten was laughing again. “Just read what you can, all right?” He patted my shoulders. “See that little blackboard in the corner?” he asked.

I looked up at him and smiled.

“You can write on it whenever you want.”

“Anything?” I asked.

“Whatever you want,” he said. “Your thoughts, your ideas, your dreams, anything.”

I turned to face the window. “Can I go outside?” I asked.

He cleared his throat. “After recess, when everybody else comes back,” he said. “You'll have the swings all to yourself.” He grinned broadly; his full lips stretched into half-moons. “Icy, we have to do this, understand?”

“Yessir,” I said, “I'd better behave or else.”

“Or else what?” His voice was concerned; his smile had disappeared.

“If I don't act right,” I said, “something bad is going to happen.”

He shook his head. “Not true,” he said. “Nothing bad is going to happen. Be a good girl and do what I say. Then everything will be fine.”

I walked over to the desk. The initials
CW
were carved into the upper right-hand corner. A blue ink stain zigzagged down the front. It was mine, all right. “What do you want me to do?” I asked.

Mr. Wooten retrieved a slip of paper from his coat pocket. “Read chapters eight, nine, and ten in your geography book and answer all of the questions at the end of each chapter. Then grab a book from the shelf and start reading.”

“Any one I want?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said, smiling. “Mrs. Patterson will be here before you know it. Oh, by the way…” He tapped his fingers against my desk. “Think hard on what you've done.”

“Yessir,” I said.

“And if you need anything, poke your head through the door and holler.”

I grinned and opened my mouth to say more when he twisted the doorknob and strode through, leaving me all alone with my books.

Two hours had passed when I heard voices and laughter outside. Rising from my seat, I walked over to the window. In the distance, a group of boys were banging sticks against the white picket fence that encircled the fish pond. Then a voice called out, “Look, it's the big, orange one! It's Jonah!”

I squinted into the sunny, hazy day. Light glinted off the bars of the jungle gym. The swings whined. I pressed my nose against the window and stared at a boy, glowing in the sun in front of me. He pirouetted like a ballerina, twirled within my line of vision, then disappeared. Again, he circled nearby. I made a tight fist and rapped against the glass, but he ignored me. I tried to make him out through the sun's glare but couldn't. Once more, I rapped against the window, but he continued to spin like a top. Then, frustrated, using both fists, I pounded the glass. “Hi, there!” I yelled at the top of my lungs.

On a dime, he came to a stop and turned toward my voice.
“Icy!”
he screamed in surprise.

“Lane!”
I yelled back.

“Icy!”
he repeated, running over to the window, tapping it wildly.

“Lane!”
I shouted.

Then, suddenly, we both began leaping up and down, our heads bobbing, our fingers traveling over the window.

“But I thought you were at home,” he said, all at once standing still.

“No, I'm here,” I answered.

He cocked his head jauntily to one side; a clownish grin covered his face. “Where?” he asked.

“In the supply room,” I said.

“By yourself?” he said.

I nodded.

His fingers sashayed over the glass. “Oh, we're going to have so much fun!” he squealed.

“How's that?” I asked. “I'm not allowed to play with any of you.”

“At recess,” he said, “we'll talk. Right here. Right now. Right through this window.”

“You think?” I asked.

“Oh, it'll be fun,” he added. “The two of us inventing new ways to play. The two of us against the world.”

“The two of us against a woodpecker,” I said.

“A redheaded peckerwood,” he said loudly, just as the second bell rang.

A
fter my recess was over, I looked around my room. Bandages sat beside rulers. Staples and paper clips were scrambled together in the same box. Red sheets of construction paper were shuffled among sheets of blue. Bottles of glue tumbled over stencils. Crayons were scattered along each shelf. Carbon paper dirtied onionskin paper. Rolls of toilet paper were stacked against the wall. All of this clutter bothered me. Such visual disorder disturbed the silence in the room and upset my mind. My thoughts began to taunt me. Curses shrieked inside my head. Frantic, I slid to the floor and pressed my hands against my lips. Broken pieces of chalk rested beside whole sticks. Coloring books were piled with textbooks. Tightly, I closed my eyes and shoved a fist into my mouth. Angry thoughts pushed against my skull; swear words filled my throat; and I was about to curse loudly when an idea burned through my brain and, like a swallow of whiskey, soothed me: Bring order to the room, and you'll bring order to your mind.

Quietly, I rose. From now on, red construction paper would be stacked beside boxes of red crayons. Red pencils would come next. Red with red. Yellow with yellow. Red and yellow mixed produced orange. Orange would be third. Orange with orange. The disinfectant was orange. Therefore, I set it beside the orange crayons. Since the black stencils were trimmed in orange, I put them next to the disinfectant. The rolls of toilet paper, in orange wrappings, were lined up next to the stencils. Pencils with orange erasers were plunked into a peach-colored coffee cup because everyone knew that peach was just lukewarm orange. And so on and so on, my logic unfolded until my supply room was in perfect order, until it resembled the root cellar back home, where the canned red beets sat next to the strawberry jam and the green beans rested beside the collard greens, where every jar was color coordinated and the room was a palette of harmonious color. Stepping back and admiring my handiwork, I knew that I had hit upon the answer. I could organize my surroundings and also organize my mind.

I
t was Saturday. As usual, I was running in the hills beyond our farm to spend my anger; and, becoming tired, I decided to rest behind the black pine near Little Turtle Pond. I felt a slight tingle in my left foot. Not knowing if it was the start of a twitch or a muscle spasm, I stretched out on the ground and rolled my leg from side to side, pine needles crunching against my jeans. The pine trees against the cool November sky seemed orderly. Only a few leaves remained on the oak trees. The jimson weed, milkweed, and burdock were gone. Uncluttered, the landscape was tidy, appearing as if the flora had been penciled in. Rolling my head on my shoulders, I looked at the stripped field, unruffled as a sheet, and enjoyed a calm I hadn't felt in days. Nothing stirred. The water was smooth and tranquil; the rock eye in Little Turtle Pond seemed to be looking at me; the trees were motionless; the animals were tucked away and quiet. Nature, I felt, had mastered her handiwork. A feeling of relief swept over me, and I was on the verge of leaning over and grabbing the tips of my toes when—out of nowhere—came the sound of footsteps.

Quickly, I jumped up and hid behind the pine's thick trunk. In the distance, wearing a green patterned dress, Mamie Tillman was marching. Her body was much thinner. Her stride was measured and sure. Every few feet, she zigzagged abruptly, either left or right, all the while moving precisely, almost mechanically, like a soldier during a drill, following, I realized, the old path leading from her place to the pond.

When she entered the woods, her movements became more trancelike, her face as emotionless as a mask. There was, I recognized, a uniformity to her, a symmetry in the way she blended into the background. Beautiful order, I thought, touching the pine's old, weathered bark, realizing that for the first time in a long while my hands were twitch-free.

But as Mamie drew closer, I saw her differently. Deep lines cut into the corners of her mouth, and her raw, red skin was damp with sweat. Though I knew she was a young woman—twenty-eight, I'd heard Matanni say—she had aged ten years since I last saw her. Sprinkles of gray ran through her dark black hair, unkempt and straggling down her back. And in her large, dark eyes there was a sadness so deep it seemed to eat its way through her. Strangely, she was cradling a burlap bag in her arms. Every so often, she rocked it to and fro.

When she got to the water's edge, she extended her arms, leaned over, and gently placed the bag in the water. In the cool, eerie silence, it floated for a second, then, with a little sucking sound, slid under.

A moment later, she held out her arms. For an instant, I feared that she was going to throw herself into the pond, too. But instead, with her arms outstretched, embracing the air like a lover, she fell gracefully to her knees. Leaning over, she gently kissed the water. For several minutes, with lowered head, she stared down. Then, as if something inside her were prying itself out, her lips suddenly twisted, and she moaned—a low, anguished cry, the purity of which seemed to transcend sound. Scrambling to her feet, she threw her arms across her chest and, bending over, began to run. She sprinted wildly—zigzagging through the trees—her hands still clutching her shoulders. Her worn boots tore through brambles. Her hair snagged on twigs. And like a madwoman, she faded up the hill.

Trembling, I glanced around me. The woods were not the same. Order, it seemed, had dissolved, simply evaporated into the air like mist. The pine trees were gnarled. Their limbs, twisting upward, pointed accusingly at the sky. Even the stillness of Little Turtle Pond had changed. No longer serene, its quiet water had become frightening, smooth like a shroud, final as death. “Help me!” I whispered, running toward the pond, my hands swishing through the cold water. But my fingers touched nothing. The burlap bag was gone. It had vanished into darkness.