Icy Sparks (33 page)

“I
s this Union Church?” I asked.

“Yes, it is,” the voice on the phone replied.

“May I speak to Miss Gooch?” I said.

“She's not in right now,” the voice said. “Would you like to leave your number and a message?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said. “Would you please tell her that Icy Sparks wants to try out for the Union Church Chorus?”

“For the celebration on the Fourth,” the voice added.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Best choral group in these free mountains,” the voice sighed. “Wouldn't that plaque be nice?”

“I been dreaming about it,” I said.

“Well, then, Icy,” the voice said, “I'll give Miss Gooch your message and have her get back to you. Your number, please.”

“Poplar Holler 0541,” I answered.

“Good luck!” the voice said.

“Thank you,” I said, before politely hanging up, readying my fingers to dial the next number. After all, I thought, a person couldn't trust Aggie Gooch. Too much communion, Ginseng folk said. Too much of last year's apple cider, they would add to be polite.

I telephoned three more churches which I had been attending and asked if I could audition for spots in their choral groups. Poplar Holler Pentecostal Holiness Church had already asked me to sing with them, and even though I had consented, I knew better than to count on Matanni's church. At the last minute, something always happened to that old bus and their choral group never showed up. I would not take any chances. I reasoned that if many pathways led to God, then singing for a handful of churches was the most righteous thing I could do.

“Y
ou've got yourself a heavenly voice,” Miss Gooch said, hiccupping, bringing the glass of cider to her lips, swallowing. “Union will be glad to have you. How long have you been singing?”

“Since childhood,” I said, relieved that I was auditioning for Mr. Leedy next.

“Clear as a bell,” Mr. Leedy said. “Second Street Baptist welcomes you.”

“It's an honor,” I said, “since you already have so many fine voices in your group.”

Persnickety Mrs. Reece, strutting in front of the piano at Old Vine Methodist, had praised me effusively. “Why, my child, you sing like an angel!” she said. “Your talent is a blessing from God.”

Pleased with myself, I smiled and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Reece. Coming from you, that means a lot.” But she could be fickle and had a habit of changing her mind.

Even decrepit Mrs. Fiedler at Ginseng Episcopalian appreciated my voice. “You're amazing,” she said, her voice quivering. “And you sing as pretty as you look.” Of course, I was afraid she might die by the Fourth of July. Then what would I do?

So altogether I had five auditions, hedging my bets, so to speak. Each choir had wanted me; and, by the third of July, I was signed up to sing for all five churches.

Upstairs alone in my bedroom, with the windows open and a rose-scented breeze wafting through, I stood in front of my floor-length mirror, the one that Patanni had hung for me, and practiced. “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord,” I sang out in a deep, rich voice. “He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored. He hath loosed the faithful lightning of His terrible, swift sword. His truth is marching on.” As I pranced back and forth in front of the mirror, singing with as much gusto as I could muster, the veins in my neck started to pop out and turn a dark blue. What power! I thought, singing on. “Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! His truth is marching on!” With my hands on my hips, in front of the mirror, I ordered my reflection to sing as if auditioning for God. This time my voice held even more power; I sang as though my soul were on fire. “In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea. With the glory in His bosom He transfigures you and me. As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free. His truth is marching on.”

“Icy, what on earth are you doing up there?” I heard Matanni yell.

“I'm practicing!” I yelled back.

“Time for bed!” Matanni cried, tapping up the stairs. “I'll get you up early,” she said, cracking the door, poking her head through. “You can practice some more then.” Before closing the door behind her, she cocked her head to the side and said, “Icy Sparks, you're going to make me and my church real proud.”

In the silence of the night, I could hear the night birds calling and the crickets singing. Just minutes before, I had been singing, too; and when I sang, every nerve in my body relaxed. Like everyone else, I was normal. No grotesque twitches overwhelmed me. No unnerving sounds jumped from my throat. My voice simply washed them away. Only my essence remained—simply that of a yellow-haired girl with a golden voice.

Stretching out my arms, I breathed in the sweet fragrance and felt the sticky night air on my skin. “Five churches have accepted you,” I whispered. “Five churches have said, ‘Icy, you have a heavenly voice.'” Five acceptances, I thought. I was about to repeat the words out loud when my breath got caught in my chest. I gasped, sat up, and clearly understood what was facing me. Like a bat blinded by the sun, I had been blinded by the glow of acceptance. For the past two weeks, I had been maneuvering rides into Ginseng with Darrel Lute. I had been sneaking around, rehearsing with five choruses of loving people who had grown to accept me. Swallowing my apprehension as if it were stone, I had easily substituted small twitches for big ones. I had gloriously fluttered my fingers—not flapped my arms—and simply sung. Filled with hope, I had wanted to make it all work, resolved to transform my hope into happiness, and, in my delirium, mapped out my future—one which would be filled with people and friends. At the big tent revival meeting, God had shown me the way to acceptance. Then He had shown me how. But in my wild excitement, I had overlooked one important thing. Tomorrow, in front of the Crockett County Courthouse, in front of all five groups, I'd be forced to choose just one; and when I chose, everything I had been working for, any respect I had won, would vanish. In that split second, all of my hopes would disappear.

Later, combing my hair in front of the mirror, I remembered Matanni's words:
“Icy Sparks, you're going to make me and my church real proud.”
A twitch started in my arm; my hand snapped up; my fingers spasmed. “Merciful, Lord!” I said aloud, shuddering as the comb hit the floor. “What have I done?”

P
eople lined the streets of Ginseng as Darrel Lute drove through. Red, white, and blue crepe paper decorated the shop fronts. The Darley Theater was showing a double feature. The marquee read
LAST OF THE MOHICANS
with Randolph Scott and
THE BUCCANEER
with Yul Brynner—neither of which, according to Miss Emily, was about the American Revolution. In front of the Samson Coal Company, vendors were selling fireworks. Two little girls were twirling around with sparklers in their hands. Even the post office had been draped in red, white, and blue. Colorful plywood cutouts of Paul Revere on his famous ride were positioned out front. The year, 1776, was hung above the door. In the distance, I could hear the sounds of the Ginseng High School Band warming up. Soon the parade would begin, but first the church choral groups would compete. Darrel stopped right in front of the courthouse and let us out. Immediately the smell of popcorn, hot dogs, and peanuts filled the air. A little boy with a cherry Sno-Kone coloring his lips swooped by me. Little old ladies wiped the sides of their faces with embroidered white handkerchiefs. Farmers in overalls chewed tobacco and spit the brown juice into the grass. Local businessmen in blue suits smoked quietly. Mothers, cradling babies, sighed in the noonday heat.

“Hey! Hey!” Miss Emily yelled. I spotted a fan with
TANNER'S FEED SUPPLY
stamped across the front. “Hey! Hey!” she cried, waving it back and forth. “I'm over here!”

I tugged at Matanni's dress. “She's over there,” I said, pointing at Miss Emily among a throng of people. “Beside the bench.”

“Well, I'll be,” Matanni said, scurrying forward, weaving around people in lawn chairs and stepping over legs sprawled out on blankets on the grass. “She's saved us the best spot.”

When my eyes caught sight of the courthouse, a low groan escaped my lips. In front of the building, just behind the stage, among all the competing choruses and their singers, I spotted my groups. Much to my horror, all five of them were huddling behind and to the left of Mayor Anglin, who, sporting an Uncle Sam top hat, stood in the center of the platform. Directly behind him was a small band. In the background, the U.S. flag and the Kentucky flag proudly flew.

“Here! Here!” Miss Emily screeched.

My eyes couldn't avoid her. There she was, wearing her red-, white-, and blue-striped dress, every bit the spectacle I knew she'd be.

“There's your group over there!” Miss Emily exclaimed, pointing at the mass of singers.

I shrugged and wiped my sweaty hands on my blouse.

Mrs. Reece, strutting by at that moment, grabbed my hand and pulled me along, saying, “Come along, Icy. We've got to get you robed.”

“Hey, there!” Miss Gooch said, waving the minute she saw me.

“How ya doing, honey?” Mrs. Fiedler declared when I brushed against her.

“Clear as a bell,” Mr. Leedy roared when his eyes caught mine.

Miranda Williams, one of the singers from Poplar Holler Pentecostal Holiness Church, yelled, “There's Icy!”

All of them, all five of them, are counting on me, I thought, swallowing hard, feeling the muscles in my throat tighten.

“Testing,” Mayor Anglin said as the microphone buzzed. “Testing. Testing.”

From behind the platform came the disjointed notes of a band warming up. Guitars hummed. An electric keyboard whined. Drumsticks coughed.

A young man in front of me bent over and retrieved a stone from off the ground. He cupped it, then shook his hand like a rattle. My heart skidded, and I ducked my head. What if love won't set me free? I thought.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Mayor Anglin announced when the band stopped. “Welcome, each and every one of you, to our great Fourth of July celebration!”

“Please, God!” I prayed, my hands gripping each other beneath my chin. “Please give me strength,” I asked.

At that moment, Mrs. Reece tossed a choir robe over my shoulders. “Oh, no!” I said when I saw it, shimmering green in the sunlight. “Bullfrog green,” I moaned, my hands dropping to my sides. “I'll be a frog child forever.” Nervously, I surveyed the crowd. There was Miss Emily, smiling and pointing hysterically. Here I was, covered in green, looking every bit as green as she did the night of the big tent revival. “Merciful Lord!” I pleaded. “Help me.”

“Our local churches have gathered here today,” Mayor Anglin continued, “to compete for the highest honor given on this day of celebration.” Grandly, he opened up his arms.
“Best choral group in these free mountains.”

The band let out a few more chords. Whoops rose from the crowd. The townsfolk clapped. Beneath my green robe, sweat oozed from my body.

“These will go first,” Mayor Anglin said, pointing to my five groups. “Thelma, will you and yours please come on up?”

Thelma Reece nodded politely.

“Lord, help me!” I said when the group moved forward.

“Old Vine Methodist!” Mayor Anglin shouted, stepping aside as we squeezed onto the platform.

“Mmmmmm,” Mrs. Reece hummed, turning toward the band. “‘Battle Hymn of the Republic,'” she said primly. Then, with a flourish of her hand, she turned back toward the crowd while the band began to play.

“Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord,” the others sang. “He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored.”

Afraid, I hung back, away from the microphone. My voice froze. It was lodged in my throat like a block of ice.

“He hath loosed the faithful lightning of His terrible swift sword. His truth is marching on.”

A jerk started in the toes of my left leg. “Ouch!” I squealed, grinding my foot into the stage, curling my toes against the wood.

“Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah!” the group sang.

“Ooh!” I whimpered, as the muscles in my leg tightened, the way they always did before a jerk.

“Glory, glory, hallelujah!” the group continued.

Up went my leg. It snapped straight out from my body at a ninety-degree angle. Alarmed, Mrs. Reece looked at me. “Lord, help me,” I prayed.

“Hold on, honey,” Mrs. Reece whispered as she took a step toward me.

My leg began to shake in midair.

“Don't worry, sugar,” Mrs. Reece said, stroking my cheek. “I'm right here.”

“His truth is marching on!” the group sang.

I felt the warmth of her touch. The heat from her fingers sizzled through my throat. “Yes, His truth is marching on!” I said, the block of ice melting away. “His truth is marching on!” I repeated, forcing my foot down in front of the microphone, liberating myself with a twitch of the toes instead of a jerk. “His truth is marching on!” I shouted ardently. My arms were moving; my legs were stepping high. With the aplomb of a Buckingham Palace guard, I marched. Up and down, I marched, parading back and forth. Grinning widely, Mrs. Reece motioned to the band, who had quit playing; once more they began to play. “In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea!” I belted, my voice bursting from my body. “With the glory in His bosom He transfigures you and me.” The music was finally engulfing me, mesmerizing me, holding me close. “As He died to make men Holy,” I sang in a deep voice, “let us die to make men free. His truth is marching on.”

“Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! His truth is marching on!” all of us sang until the crowd, clapping loudly, drowned us out and we could no longer hear ourselves. So, joining hands, we formed a semicircle and silently bowed.

Looking up, I stared at the townspeople, at all of those faces. Some were perplexed. Confusion twisted their features. Others were annoyed. They were shaking their heads. But many, it seemed, were happy. And, suddenly, the impact of their smiles flowed like warm water all over me.

“Old Vine Methodist,” Mayor Anglin shouted, pushing through our arms. “Good citizens of Crockett County, how about giving them another hand!”

Then, before I knew it, while the audience was still applauding and I was still basking in the heat of approval, royal blue robes began floating across the stage. “A little angel,” came the withered old voice of Mrs. Fiedler as she extended her arm and offered me a robe. Dizzy and disconcerted, I blinked once, inhaled deeply, then composed myself. Quickly, I took the blue robe. On it came, washing away the green. Immediately, the choral group from Ginseng Episcopalian pressed forward. A slight twitch tingled in my arms. For a second I felt the urge to flap them, but then the music started. “Onward, Christian soldiers, marching as to war,” we all sang. The melody seeped into my arms and calmed me. Its measured tempo soothed me. And when I ordered my arms to substitute flutter for flight, they did just as they were told. Daintily, I fluttered my fingers. A touch of love. A bite of cake. And next—full-throated and grandly—I was lifting up my voice in song. “With the Cross of Jesus going on before!” My heart liquefied. The music washed over me. “…Through the night of doubt and sorrow. On goes the pilgrim band, singing songs of expectation, marching to the promised land,” I sang. We all sang. And the crowd went wild. They marched, pounding their shoes into the grass, all the while chanting, “Onward, Christian soldiers,” over and over again. At the same time, the choral group from Poplar Holler Pentecostal Holiness Church was marching toward the platform—shaking it with the thumping of their feet.

“We didn't know you were singing with everyone.” Miranda Williams giggled, edging against me. “That's nice.” She handed me a white, discolored robe. “You've already got on two,” she said. “Now it'll be three.” Instantly, a wave of white, like a blanket of foam, splashed forward. At once, ten people burst out singing. “Up to the bountiful Giver of life. Gathering home! Gathering home!” they sang in rich, melodious voices. “Up to the dwelling, where cometh no strife. The dear ones are gathering home.” With arms locked around each other, all of us started to sway. Like a huge wave, that soft blanket buoyed me up and exposed me to the sun. The Holy Spirit burned through me, and I began to sing alongside my brothers and sisters. “Gathering home…gathering home,” I sang out. “Never to sorrow more, never to roam. Gathering home…gathering home. God's children are gathering home.” My face was wet; my eyes were filled with tears. “Up to the city where falleth no night. Gathering home! Gathering home!” we all sang together, rocking from side to side. “Up where the Savior's own face is the light. The dear ones are gathering home.” Releasing our arms, we raised them upward and looked toward the sky. “Gathering home…gathering home,” we ardently chorused. “Never to sorrow more, never to roam. Gathering home…gathering home. God's children are gathering home.” Thereupon, each of us joined hands, and like a big net, we swung our arms outward. “Up to the beautiful mansions above. Gathering home! Gathering home!” we all harmonized, bringing our arms back to our sides. “Safe in the arms of His infinite love. The dear ones are gathering home,” each one of us sang, our arms still swinging. “Gathering home…gathering home. Never to sorrow more, never to roam,” our voices sang out. “Gathering home…gathering home. God's children are gathering home.”

“Here we come!” Miss Gooch said, as we finally stood still on the stage. “For you,” she said, grabbing my arm, pulling me over, and wrapping a gold robe around me. “You gotta stay. We need you,” she said, as the group from Matanni's church stepped down and the group from Union Church took their place. “Oh, beautiful for spacious skies. For amber waves of grain,” her strong soprano voice rang out.

“For purple mountain's majesty. Above the fruited plain,” we all joined in. Like wheat blowing in the breeze, our gold-draped bodies leaned from side to side. Our voices were ripe and hearty. “America, America, God shed His grace on thee. And crown thy good with brotherhood. From sea to shining sea.”

“Oh, beautiful for patriot's dream,” we were singing when Mr. Leedy bellowed, “Make way!” And with his words, in a flash of red, the choral group from Second Street Baptist Church materialized. “This is yours!” Mr. Leedy shouted, throwing a red robe high into the air, where it opened up like flower before falling to my shoulders. “Now sing!” he commanded, theatrically shaking his arm like a baton.

Whereupon all of us began to sing, “My country 'tis of thee. Sweet land of liberty. Of thee, I sing. Land where my fathers died. Land of the pilgrims' pride. From every mountain side, let freedom ring!” Mayor Anglin, who had been frowning, was now lifting his voice in song. And soon, in a transfusion of sound, every group was singing, and every person in front of the courthouse was singing, too. “My native country, thee. Land of the noble free. Thy name I love. I love thy rocks and rills. Thy woods and templed hills. My heart with rapture thrills, like that above.”

I was sweating profusely beneath all five robes—the green, the blue, the white, the gold, and the red. “Our Father's God to thee. Author of liberty. To thee we sing,” all of us sang. I was singing rapturously when suddenly my eyes met Matanni's; and, for an instant, my heart froze. Her arm shot up, waved, then she smiled. “Long may our land be bright. With freedom's holy light. Protect us by Thy might. Great God, our King!” At that moment, a handwritten sign shot up like a crown above the heads of the crowd. Dressed in red, white, and blue, Miss Emily was tilting on top of the bench like an unfurled, massive flag, propped up by the sturdy shoulders of Darrel Lute.
WELCOME TO THE WORLD
, the sign read. Right then and there, I believed in my future. In front of the whole of Ginseng, beneath that mountain of cloth, my heart was finally beating bright red and strong for all to see.