Icy Sparks (18 page)

“Oh, yes!” she said, clapping her hands. “He's easy. Look at his drawings. They're real. Drawn from love. Ace loves his pictures the way he'd like to love the world but can't.”

“Do you ever want to be like Gordie?” I said, cleverly bringing the conversation back to him.

For several seconds, Maizy gazed vacantly in front of her. “No,” she finally said, turning around and meeting my gaze. “I don't ever want to be like Gordie.”

“Why's that?” I asked.

“His father's a military man, a two-star general,” Maizy stated, taking one deep breath. “And Gordie worships order, just like his dad.” The air hissed back out through Maizy's teeth. “Everything in his room is perfect,” she explained. “All his underwear's in neat little piles. He stacks his briefs in the top drawer. He puts his T-shirts in the second. His socks are last—perfectly matched—black with black, dark brown with dark brown, and so on.” Sadly, she shook her head. “All of his shoes are polished and lined up in his closet. He's neater than I am, and he dresses better than anyone here, including the doctors.”

“He dresses fit to kill,” I agreed.

“He's obsessed with cleanliness,” she went on. “If Delbert wants a trash can emptied, Gordie will empty it. He follows Tiny around, cleaning up what he misses. He hates dust. Before anyone can grab the feather duster, Gordie's got his hands on it. Once, I even caught him going through Tiny's medical cart. The medicines were safely locked away, but he had spotted some cotton balls on top and was sorting through them before Tiny came back. Those that had imperfections, a hint of lint, not perfectly round, he was tossing away.”

“Yeah, but what about that head-butting thing? Why does he do that?” I asked.

Maizy tilted her head. “I'm not sure,” she said. “Maybe he just wants to feel something. Feeling pain is better than feeling nothing.”

“Maybe he just wants to hurt people,” I said.

“Or maybe he simply hates disorder and tries to butt it out of the way.”

“His disorder and mine.” I snickered. “I reckon that was why he was in my room.”

“In your room?” Maizy arched her eyebrows. “You never told me that.”

“That's what I was trying to tell you. I caught him in my room looking for one of my books,” I said. “I stopped him before he got to my closet.”

“You stopped him?”

“I told him to get.”

“And he got?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said.

“Icy Gal, you amaze me!”

“Sometimes I amaze myself!” I said proudly. Then, amazing myself even more, I asked Maizy the one question which I had been holding back. “Tell me, Maizy,” I said forthrightly. “How come you know so much?”

She answered simply. “I read,” she said. “Long lists of books that my friend gives me.”

“I read, too!” I declared. “Miss Emily helps me. Does your friend help you?”

“All the time,” she replied.

“Why?” I asked.

“'Cause he understands me. He feels what I feel.”

“Em-pa-thy,” I said, stressing the syllables the way Maizy had.

I
n the privacy of my room the following day, I thought about empathy. If Maizy felt empathy was important, then perhaps I should, too. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I stretched out my legs, flexing and pointing my toes. Of course, I didn't know if I could really trust her, but she had begun to win me back. Spreading my legs out wide, I rotated my feet. After all, she was just an aide; I was just a patient; neither of us had any power. In this way, both of us were alike. I was pondering these matters, goose-stepping in midair, when someone knocked.

Immediately I sat up.

“It's me,” Maizy said. “Open up! I've got something for you.”

“Come on in,” I said, my feet dangling.

She came toward me carrying a small, rectangular package, wrapped in baby-blue tissue paper, secured with a pink ribbon. “I saw this last night and thought about you.” She extended her arms. “Here.” The present trembled in her palms. “Well, aren't you going to take it?” she asked, stepping closer.

“Thank you,” I said, placing it on the mattress beside me.

“Aren't you going to open it?”

“Now?” I asked.

“What do you think, silly?”

Slowly, I untied the ribbon and loosened the tape, making certain to preserve both. Next, I unfolded the paper. Before me was a box with a sublime yellow heart surrounded by stars on its cover.

“Open it!” Maizy ordered.

Inside were two dozen cards. Outside, each had the same yellow heart and the same blue stars. Inside, each was blank.

“Now you can write to your grandparents,” she said. “The golden heart will remind them of you.”

The muscles in my throat began to quiver. “But…” I began. “But…”

“I spoke to Dr. Conroy, and she agreed. Too much time has passed. Your grandparents need to hear from you.”

Speechless, I wiped my eyes. “Cross my heart and hope to die,” I said, “it's been months since anyone's been this nice to me.”

“So why don't you start writing?” she said, heading for the door. “I'll mail your card for you when you're finished.”

“But I don't have any stamps,” I said.

“Don't worry,” she said. “I got a whole roll in my purse.”

D
r. Conroy—her head down, her hands clasped in front of her—walked through my bedroom door unannounced. The minute I saw her, I knew what she was going to say, so I spoke before she could. “I'm lying here thinking about Christmas.” I talked rapidly, slurring words together and spitting them out. “Me and Patanni always pick a cedar from our woods. A tall and fat one that goes clear up to the ceiling,” I said. “Patanni uses his axe. Just a few swings, it's down. Matanni's got this little angel, dressed pretty in pink and baby blue, that we put on top, and—”

“Icy,” Dr. Conroy interrupted, lifting her head, standing stiffly before me. “Icy, we must—”

“Patanni sets it up, away from the fireplace so it won't catch, in the far corner, next to his easy chair. He puts on two strings of lights—every color—red, blue, yellow, white, and green. Matanni buys a bag of cranberries and pops some corn on the stove. We always thread two strings—one out of cranberries, the other out of popcorn—and drape them around the tree, from top to bottom, like icing on a cake.”

“Icy, please!” Dr. Conroy insisted. “We must talk about Christmas.”

“And we have boxes of ornaments,” I went on, ignoring her. “Little knitted candy canes and stars and Santas made out of wood. Matanni and Patanni do it all. They do every little thing. Every little thing for Christmas. To make it special for me, for us, 'cause we're a family, a real family that I need to go home to, to go home to for Christmas…. Please!” When I looked at her, my eyes were watering. I gritted my teeth to keep from crying. “Please, don't say those words!”

And for a minute she didn't. She simply held out her hand and with her fingers motioned me to come. Reluctantly, I went to her. “Please don't say those words!” I repeated.

“Icy, you need to be patient just a little longer,” she said quietly. “Give us a few more weeks.” Gently, she folded her arms around me. “We both have to give some.” She patted my back. “It's called compromise.”

“But writing ain't the same as being there,” I said into her hard, starched shirt.

December 18, 1956

Our Darling Icy,

Your grandpa and me miss you so much. Right now, there's over three inches of goose down on the ground. The cedars look like they've been dipped in sugar, and the smell of wood smoke is in the air. Christmas is just around the corner, my precious Icy, but without you here it won't be so merry. No, it won't be merry, at all.

Every morning, your grandpa and me go to your room, and he sits on the edge of your bed and talks to you, just like you was here. He says that even Essie and Ellie miss you. Whenever he goes to feed them, he says they look up with their big brown eyes, expecting to see you, then hang their heads real low when they realize you ain't with him. Ain't none of us happy without you.

I'm trying my best to get into the Christmas spirit, like I always do. I'm making us fruit cake. Using some of Patanni's whiskey for flavoring. The alcohol cooks out when the cake is baking so I reckon it's okay. Ain't the same as pure consumption. Ain't the same as your grandpa sneaking out to the barn the way he does, stealing those long, stinging gulps. Tomorrow, I'm gonna make a batch of Christmas cookies. Patanni got me a new mold from Stoddard's. A great big ole star. Won't those cookies look pretty with yellow sprinkles on them? We'll probably send some to Miss Emily 'cause, Icy darling, she has been ailing. I'll let your grandpa tell you about that.

Icy, hope you can make out my chicken scrawl after reading your grandma's prissy hand. Anyway, this here part of the letter belongs to me since it's my doing, truth be told. Sugar, I've a confession to make. Your grandpa, here, never gave your letter to Miss Emily. I never told her your troubles 'cause we knowed she'd get upset, and we knowed you'd get upset if we told you about hers. So, all this time, your grandma and me been keeping our mouths shut, not saying a peep. But seeing that it's nearing Christmas, we wanted to tell you the truth. Miss Emily has been feeling puny, of late. She's down to Florida, we done heard, resting up and taking care of her heart. Was what the doctor ordered. Last week, we got notice that she's feeling better. You're feeling better, too. So, your grandma and me decided it was time to tell the truth. Now, the truth is out. Now, all's right with the world, except you're not here with us. Sugar, come back to our loving arms.

Your grandpa loves you.

So does this grandma of yours.

We're keeping your presents under the tree for when you come home and sending our love your way.

Love & kisses,
Matanni & Patanni

“T
hat damn Tiny started flapping his gums. Now everybody knows,” Wilma said to Maizy over breakfast. “I might as well play Mary.”

“I can barely tell,” Maizy said. “You're showing a little but not too much.”

“It don't matter,” Wilma said, smiling suddenly. “I want to be the Virgin Mary. It suits me, don't you think?”

Maizy nodded. “Well, if you don't mind,” she said.

I stared at Wilma's stomach, which was puffing out more than usual, and at her mustache, which had become thicker and hardier in the past few weeks, and gagged at the thought of her being pregnant and even more at her being the Virgin Mary. “Poor baby Jesus,” I whispered.

Wilma turned toward me. “Did you say something?”

“Nothing,” I said, stirring my oatmeal. “It's cold.”

“'Cause you were late,” she scolded. “Ain't nobody's fault but your own. Moping and whining since you got the news. For two days straight, you been making everybody around you miserable. If you can't change a situation, you best accept it.”

“Maybe, I don't want to,” I pouted.

“Maybe you just like misery,” she said.

“Maybe I like going home for Christmas,” I said, “and not being stuck in some crummy old hospital.”

“You best count your blessings!” Wilma pointed a fat index finger at me. “In some faraway country, some little girl is living in the streets, with no roof over her head.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I muttered.

“Icy'll perk up,” Maizy said, walking over, putting her arm around me. “Give her a little time.”

I shrugged her arm off. I was tired of mending broken promises with time.

But Maizy was persistent. “Be patient, Icy Gal,” she said, touching my forearm. “You'll see them soon. The doctors always give in.”

Reid chirped at the end of the table. Arching his back, he held up his bowl and plopped it down.

“He wants more oatmeal,” I sneered.

“He's always hungry.” Maizy cupped her hands around her mouth. “Delbert!” she yelled. “More oatmeal over here!”

“Reid?” he hollered back.

“Who else?” she screamed.

Delbert strode toward us with a large, two-handled pot in his hands. “Here you go,” he said, dipping a ladle of oatmeal into Reid's bowl. Frenetically, Reid began cheeping and flapping his arms, waving his silver spoon like a conductor's baton. “Calm down!” Delbert said. “You're upsetting the others!”

Then pretty Ruthie picked up her spoon, painting oatmeal all over her face and down her blouse.

Wilma passed behind Deirdre and deliberately poked a finger into her back. Deirdre sprung up and out like a jack-in-the-box. A second later, Wilma was standing beside her, spooning oatmeal between her lips. Swallowing, she curled up again.

Ace was painting on his napkin. He dipped the sharp edge of his knife into grape jelly, wildly sketching a purple Santa Claus.

From the opposite end of the table wafted a foul odor. I turned around and spotted Stevie, grinning crookedly, rocking back and forth. “Look at him,” I snorted. “Grinnin' like a possum.”

“He's had another b.m.,” Tiny moaned.

“Phew!” Wilma pinched her nose. “He should eat in his room like Gordie.”

“But he's not Gordie,” Maizy cut in. “He means no harm.” Quickly, she twisted around and popped a fingerful of toast into the Mouth's mouth, who in turn vacuumed it in. “See!” Maizy pointed at Mary's pink gums and four pointed teeth. “If you keep food in her mouth, she's all right.”

“That's it!” I yelled, leaping up, waving a carton of milk over my head. “This ain't nothing but a madhouse!” I screamed, the milk frothing rage in the air. “I hate it here. If you think you can make me stay, you're dead wrong!” With these final words, I threw down my milk carton and marched out the door, my feet tingling with fury.

“Y
ou'll enjoy it,” Maizy insisted. “I'll glue black yarn on your face. It'll look just like a beard. And you'll wear a cone-shaped hat, made out of bright yellow tinfoil. Delbert has contributed his red satin bathrobe 'cause he's gained so much weight, and I'll hem it up. You know, shorten it to fit you. You'll look just like a wise man.”

“But I don't want to be a wise man,” I whined. “I want to be Icy Sparks; I want to be back home for Christmas with my grandparents.”

“Icy,” Maizy said firmly, “we can't control that. The doctors have already said no. But we can control what kind of Christmas you have here. If you don't try, you'll make yourself even more miserable.”

“Let someone else do it,” I said. “Let Wilma be a wise man. She's got a mustache.”

“Wilma's playing the Virgin Mary,” Maizy said.

“I thought the Virgin Mary was pretty,” I said. “Not ugly as homemade sin.”

Maizy took one step back. “Icy Sparks!” Both hands clutched her hips. “I've never heard you be deliberately mean.”

I screwed up my face. “Then you haven't heard the real me,” I said.

“A person can't help how she looks,” Maizy said.

I glanced sideways at her. “You know that old saying?” I asked.

“Which one?” she said.

“Pretty is as pretty does.”

Maizy glared at me.

“Well, in Wilma's case, it's ugly is as ugly does.”

The muscles in Maizy's neck grew taut; she thrust out her jaw. “Icy, I'm disappointed in you,” she said coldly.

“Don't that beat all!” I said defiantly, holding my head up high. “You hate Wilma as much as I do,” I said, raising my voice, scowling, “but you won't admit it. Wilma's right. You ain't nothing but a Goody Two Shoes.”

At once, the fire left Maizy's eyes. She looked down at her feet and sighed. “I didn't realize how much you dislike me.”

“I didn't know you liked Wilma better than me!”

“I don't,” she answered, then turned around and left.

F
or two days, I sulked. Christmas felt like it belonged to everybody else, not me. In the dayroom, I sat by myself. When Maizy greeted me, I refused to say hello. If Wilma passed nearby, I pretended she wasn't there. Even Delbert, who had done nothing, received the same treatment. Once, while I was eating, Dr. Conroy came over and placed her hand on my shoulder. Since she was the one I most hated, I sneered at her and shrugged contemptuously. Slowly shaking her head, she walked away.

I sank into the rut of feeling bad. There was no other way to feel. Anger turned into depression. My secrets had cut me off from Christmas, my grandparents, and Miss Emily. That poison part of me had attached secrecy to everything. When Miss Emily didn't visit, I had decided that she secretly hated me. When Maizy defended Wilma, I reasoned that all along she had secretly liked the woman. Feeling low—sinking down further and further—became easier than lifting myself up. Depression grew comfortable and familiar. Not only did my sadness affect me, but it also took a toll on the others. Whenever Maizy brought over a deck of cards and asked sprightly, “Want to play rummy?” I'd relish the urgency in her eyes. Lowering my head, I'd refuse to look at her. Concerned, she'd try again, “Just one game?” After which I'd mumble some insult and feel vindicated. Then I'd sit in my room the rest of the day. If I heard footsteps in the hallway, I'd strike a pose of indifference. My resolve to make everyone, including myself, miserable amazed me. So intent was I on fulfilling this task that impulses to tic, croak, jerk, and curse just disappeared, as though I had never felt them. If I couldn't have a Merry Christmas at home, then—by damn—no one would have a Merry Christmas here.

Yet after two days, the staff's concern began dropping off. At first, I noticed little lapses. Maizy would see me in the dayroom but would just walk by, not saying a word. Dr. Conroy would nod hello. When I didn't nod back, she'd smile, cheerily say, “Good day,” then continue on her rounds.

Wilma, who was never worried about me, was now blatantly irritated. “Poor pitiful Pearl,” she snarled.

Delbert, too, dismissed me. No longer did he tease me. Instead, he joked with Maizy, held mistletoe above her head, and kissed her every chance he got.

Feeling bad began to feel really bad, even worse than I'd imagined.

Sitting by myself in the dayroom, I studied the smiling faces around me—Maizy singing “Jingle Bells,” Delbert sucking on a candy cane, Dr. Conroy wearing a jeweled Christmas tree brooch, Tiny sporting Santa's stocking cap, Wilma tenderly caressing her fat belly—and I couldn't stand myself a minute longer. “Delbert,” I said with forced gaiety, “who are you going to be in the Christmas play?”

He ignored me and, turning to Maizy, said, “Maizy, darling, I want you to be the angel on the top of my tree.”

Maizy giggled. “Only if you'll be my star,” she whispered breathlessly.

“Are you playing Santa Claus?” I asked Tiny.

“Ho! Ho! Ho!” he roared, stomping over to Dr. Conroy, retrieving a candy cane from his front shirt pocket, and with a flair giving it to her.

Dr. Conroy smiled and waved the candy cane like a wand. “Thank you, Santa,” she said, curtsying to everyone—everyone, that is, but me. “Merry Christmas to all and to all a good day!” she said grandly before waving good-bye at the door.

“Merry Christmas!” they all said, waving back.

But I was too busy eyeing Tiny. “Ain't Santa gonna give me one?” I asked.

Tiny took no notice of me. Instead, he approached Wilma and gently pressed a candy cane into her palm.

“Really!” I said, indignantly, looking at candy canes protruding from their mouths. “Where's the Christmas spirit?”

“The last candy cane goes to…it goes to…” Tiny said, dramatically lifting a candy cane over his head. “Goes to our angel, Miss Maizy—a true Christmas spirit!”

“Humbug!” I snorted.

Maizy deliberately approached me holding the candy cane in front of her. She was walking so slowly she seemed to be floating like a sleepwalker. “An angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream,” she said, with her eyes glazed over. “And the angel said, ‘Joseph, thou son of David, fear not to take unto thee Mary thy wife: for that which is conceived in her is of the Holy Ghost. And she shall bring forth a son, and thou shalt call His name JESUS.'”

“‘For He shall save His people from their sins,'” I quoted.

Maizy narrowed her eyes. “But Herod, the king, was jealous,” she said, slapping her hands together.

Tiny jumped. “Tell us why!” he said.

“Because,” Maizy responded, “wise men from the East came to him asking, ‘Where is He that is born King of the Jews? For we have seen His star in the east, and are come to worship Him.' This made Herod furious, so he ordered the wise men to find baby Jesus and let him know where his rival was.”

I lowered my voice and began quoting again, “‘Go and search diligently for the young child,' Herod commanded. ‘And when ye have found Him, bring me word again, that I may come and worship Him also.'” I stopped, quickly looked around, and saw that all of them—Maizy, Tiny, Delbert, and even Wilma—were listening. I raised high my voice, threw out my arms, and dramatically pushed on, “‘And, lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the young child was.'”

“In Bethlehem of Judea,” Maizy broke in.

“‘When they saw the star,'” I recited, “‘they rejoiced with exceeding great joy. And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary His mother, and fell down, and worshiped Him.'” Smiling broadly, I tossed back my head and caught my breath.

“Well, I'll be damned, Icy!” Delbert joked.

“‘And when they had opened their treasures, they presented unto Him gifts; gold, and frankincense, and myrrh. And being warned of God in a dream that they should not return to Herod, they departed into their own country another way,'” I finished, remembering the verses that Matanni had taught me.

“That was beautiful!” Maizy said.

“What's that stuff, Frankie's scent?” Delbert asked.

“Something that smells good,” I answered.

“Gordie's bringing myrrh,” Tiny said.

“That's a perfume,” I said knowingly.

“You know a lot for a kid,” Tiny said, winking.

“Not how to get a candy cane,” I replied.

“I reckon you've earned one now,” Maizy said. “You did real good.”

“Thank you,” I said, peeling back the wrapper. “I get a lot of practice. Matanni likes me to quote from Matthew every Christmas Eve.” Shoving the candy inside my smile, I waited for more compliments, but they didn't come. Instead, Tiny turned around, looped his arm through Maizy's, and along with Wilma and Delbert started to walk away. “Hey!” I hollered, pink saliva drooling from the corners of my mouth. “What does a person have to do to be a wise man around here?”