The Country of Ice Cream Star

by Sandra Newman

  ‘Fools never heard of poison?’

  ‘That’s a terrible thing to say. I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.’

  When I look, he smiling at me with some mischief kindness. I feel jittery bad. Be sour to lose my life this way, ain’t nothing of myself. Is like a frog caught in a fishing net, drown without sense.

  I say, ‘If I ain’t drink?’

  ‘Their dresses aren’t here. But yes, it has occasionally happened. So, if you don’t drink, you’re treated as a false Maria just the same. The crucial difference is that you’re still alive when your body is burned.’

  ‘Shee, you burning peoples?’

  ‘Before my time.’ Anselm make finicky mouth. ‘Let’s keep it that way, please.’

  I start walking slow, look superstitious at these guilty dresses. Some got only speckling at the bottom, or a wipen mark. Yo, some is splashen full. As I go, they getting older. Reddish color fading various, and the lace gone smutten yellow. I think how all these girls pass proof. Twelve cups been yes for them, feel like some risky luck.

  Then I come to one unblooden clean. I hold, inspect it careful.

  Anselm come behind, he tap one fingernail to the glass. ‘Maria Condenada. Our Lady of the Living Jesus.’

  ‘Ho,’ I say, remembering. ‘Girl who keep her Jesus by?’

  ‘Yes, like you.’ Anselm smile pologetic. ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing, because I was listening at the door.’

  ‘Sure, I do the same, if there be doors to listen. But how she been, this girl?’

  ‘Well, not great.’ He sketch an X upon the glass. ‘She killed a lot of people. Or her Jesus did, it isn’t clear. To give an example, all of her apostles were murdered, which left a bad taste. In the end, she was killed by her own guard.’ He give me gentle look, coy in his eyes. ‘Officially, this all happened because she was a false Maria, wed to Antichrist. In fact, some people object to the inclusion of her gown here, but it’s all history. And he who does not remember history, after all, is doomed to repeat it.’ Then he pooch his lips. ‘Less officially, she was having sex with Jesus.’

  Take me a moment, while I sift they mystery definitions. Then I say shy, ‘This ain’t allow?’

  ‘Senyora, Maria is a virgin. Virgin Mother, Virgin Bride, Virgin Widow. Virgin virgin.’

  ‘Got this,’ I say nervy. ‘Child unfuck.’

  He laugh up bright. ‘You got this. Good, I hope so. Anyway, my educated guess is that there was another side to this story. There are feelings about white people here. You could call it superstition, or you might just say it’s prejudice. Anyhow, it’s been a long and thorny history.’

  ‘But they Jesus, you believing that.’

  ‘Oh, our citizens will worship Jesus dead on the cross, no question. But if some living, breathing white man tries to tell them what to do – well, it was a very unpleasant war. They do say civil wars are the worst.’

  I look again upon the unblood dress. See where a fly got in this case, is looping scarum round. It stop in itsy focus on the mankin shoulder.

  I put my fingers to the glass, notice a sketch of blood on my own knuckle, hurt in gathering wood. Been two nights before, in making camp beside the highway. I grit to this remembering, come like rain morose in me.

  Fly skit up, replace itself onto a reddish dress along.

  ‘Anselm,’ I say soft, ‘it be no way, they leave me free? Ain’t care to be Maria none. I mostly wish to go from here.’

  ‘Don’t say that to people, senyora. And no, you can’t just leave.’ He tap the glass beside my hand. When I look to him, his face gone tense. ‘Now, please pay attention. There are a lot of arguments going on right now about you. And when I leave you, I’m going to go and argue myself – that they ain’t kill you, just so you understand. But you’d make my life much easier if you’d just say, “Yes, I’ll complete the sacrament.” Jesus will die for our sins again, and everyone will be happy.

  ‘Honestly, if you want a white boy living in your rooms, I don’t think it would be the end of the world. Some people would be upset, but it’s wonderful gossip. It would spread joy among the common folk. However, I won’t be pouring your wine.

  ‘It’s not too late, if that’s what you think. Tell me now: “Yes, Anselm, I’ll complete the sacrament. Now I understand.” I’ll go and pass it on, and all your worries will be over.’

  I look past him to a blooden dress. Its skirts be furrish, where the blood gone moldy. ‘But be some chance without this?’

  ‘What if I say there isn’t? There is no chance, senyora, do this or else you are going to die.’

  I swallow rough. ‘My people – children who been with me. They be hurt?’

  Can see his eyes gleam like temptation. But this pass in wisty look. ‘Not really, senyora. But you’ll die, you will certainly die. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Die or murder, what you saying.’

  ‘If you fail your proof, Jesus dies anyway. Do you understand that?’

  I nod, lost in darkness feeling. When Soledad been warning this, ain’t felt like truth. Now it come real. A poison cup I drink. Or I be took to burn in agonies. Be tomorrow, at a definite hour. This day be my whole life.

  And now, my coward self begin its weaseling. Pasha self will comprehend, they kill him neverless. Yo, if I be dead, ain’t trust that no one fetch the posy cure. Driver dying certain, I be trading life for life. And my fear repeat: roo die the same, is only sense.

  But then my heart skeer wrong. I see how Pasha watch my treachery, as I raise this spear. How will I stab, his suffering cry. How I turn, wet in his blood, from his unliving body. His blood hang here in ever witness.

  And I know, this ain’t myself. I be only Ice Cream Star, a bird of hotness, fool for tears. This act ain’t mine, can never be in life. Ain’t strong for treachery.

  Soon as I decide this, all my conscience come back clear. It realize, I never get the cure without the roo. Driver ain’t in this. It only be myself I waste.

  I say soft, ‘Death ain’t no argument to me. Can die for this, be right.’

  Anselm take his breath. When I look, he got some complicating sadness in his eyes. ‘I thought you were just ignorant. But now you’re making me wonder if you’re actually in love.’

  ‘For Pasha? Nay, ain’t this. Foolish heart, can guess.’ I turn from the line of dresses, look where the Panish ermanos standing. They whisper with bald heads together, scalps drawn various with flowers. I smile strange to this, feel how I never learn these drawings’ meaning. Ain’t no time. And the glassen hall be painful in its actual self. Is here. Is all things join to my last life.

  Anselm say, wisty slow, ‘You’re sure you understand?’

  I shrug. ‘Kill Pasha, or I die. I understand enough.’

  ‘You’re a very dangerous person, senyora. You’re making me have feelings.’ His brow furrow up. ‘Oh, well. Let’s not despair just yet. With the right support, there’s always hope. Where there’s money, you know, there’s hope.’ He perk then, his attention shift. ‘Perhaps we’d better go. The doctors will be wondering where we are.’

  He wave the Panish ermanos to, turn to the elevator wall. I give one parting look at all the dresses, their red cowardesse. Go with shaky brightness in my legs.

  38

  OF MEDICALS

  We take another elevator trip, come to a different hall. Is grayish paint and grayish tiles. Got pue of bleaching wash. Come along this hall, and my mood changen to a joy precaire. Begun to love this single day jalouse, my living body. Feel even happy, these ermanos got no danger self. Their life seem endless sweet, and already it be strange to me I ever been the same, can live uncounten days.

  And Anselm pause before a door, gray painten like the rest. Open this door to brighter light. He nod me past. I go with dreaming fear. Yo I feel this fear like bliss – be mine, is life bonesse.

  Here be two girlish children never met. From their shaven heads, all drawn upon, guess they ermanas. But they clothen differ
ent. Is almost like a rifle garment, but in bluish cloth. Anselm come behind, and speak some Panish to these medical strangers.

  They talking, while I breathe the bleachen air, look at the room. Is bureau cabinets built along the walls, with petty signs in Panish. All be nett with curiose objects, jars and standing artifacts. Middy to the room, a table be, is covern with thin paper. Ain’t no chairs to this, and now my mind begin to wonder what we do. What they expect. I scout the room for some escape, but be no windows here. Be nothing.

  Anselm explaining to the blue ermanas, sketch in the air with hands. They nod in sympathy, then they all look toward myself. Anselm say to me, ‘Okay. I’ll be outside. This shouldn’t take too long, and then you’re finished for today. The doctors just need to know if you’ve eaten anything since this morning.’

  ‘Eat?’ I think to this, ain’t hardly recollect this day at first. Must go through every part before I say, ‘Ain’t eaten nothing.’

  ‘Good, that’s helpful. Though I can’t see what they’d do about it, if you had. Oh, well, not our problem.’ He turn back to the blue ermanas, speak some petty words. They both nod smiling, look approval.

  Then Anselm go, wave one hand fluttery over shoulder.

  How they do this medical, be scary fascinations. First I must change to an uncraft dress, ain’t got no zip nor buttons. Ermana use some tuben object that attaching to her ears, press its cold end to my chest. Must breathe, and breathe again. Then some fatty bracelet going on my arm and puff up tight. Injection needle using backward – make its tiny hurt into my arm, then it pull blood into some cup. This cup taken out, and it replacing with another cup, which fill with blood the same. Be some queery feeling, watch my blood go splashen out. Feel I should fear, but I only admire its perfect red. Wonder if all children be so red, or if this meaning something. Then I must go to toilet room, piss in a plastic jar. Be finicky worst, how this jar feeling warm when I be done.

  Then the small ermana take all these blood and piss jars, covern tight. Go out in tasky mood. Now I must lie down. The tall ermana probing me with fingers. I try to bear this courteose, though it be miliations. She touch me like she testing fruit. In this, her face join seriose.

  Last work, she put her palm flat on my stomach, pressing fast. Reach between my thighs. Push tensen fingers into myself inside. This be some ugly misery. Is like a petty rape. Almost, I start to fight this treatment, when my mind stop cold. Remember Anselm’s words: Maria is a virgin. Virgin Mother, Virgin Bride, Virgin Widow. Virgin virgin.

  Now panic join in me. Feel these probing fingers and I wonder if this notice. Try figuring if it help to lie – say it been accidents, ain’t sex. Want to beg her, they ain’t kill me now, will leave me to my proof. Keep my last day, is all I want.

  And the fingers ease from me. As she stand back, I see her face gone grim. She turn away. I try to see her face again, but she go hasty by. Pass out the door.

  I sit up, breathing strange. Try to tell myself, ain’t been no hope. But all my loving mood be gone. Behind the door, come risen voices. Some argument be forward, and can feel, they arguing my life. I want to listen to the door, but sure will all be Panish. My life decide in mystery words. I cross arms to myself, is panic scorching in my mind. Try to think escapes, but these all baffle in the rifle children round this edifice. The elevator. Start thinking nonsense, how I crawl into a cabinet. Kill them with injection needle, stab their throat. Somehow I can.

  Then the door come open hard. Fear catch in me when I see, it be the Panish ermanos. I stand to my feet, be saying, ‘What? What you need?’ But they ain’t heed, they rush and catch me simple by my arms. Then my sense be gone, I fight in terrify scramble, kicking feet.

  Ain’t knowledge in this minute. I kick the papern table hard and then my leg be caught. Is twisten hard. I kick my other leg, and this blow finish sound, but then this foot be caught, and I get a freaken sorrow when I see is Anselm. He hold my foot with grit frustration, muttering words. I yell blind, ‘Yo leave me! Leave me free! Goddamn, ain’t done you nothing!’

  Through this, Anselm speak in scolden voice. ‘It’s going to be all right. We’re going to be – all – right.’ And I be on this papern table, held again. Some madness fear in me, that they go rape me. I tear my arms, hard as I can, and loose one hand a second. Bring this scratching by, and catch a blue ermana’s face. She wheel back screechen. But my hand be caught again before I even make a fist.

  I start to say, ‘My proof tomorrow. Got to leave me for this,’ and Anselm talking through, ‘Just calm yourself, we’re going to be all right. Please trust me.’

  Then the tallish blue ermana be above. She got injection needle, smaller than the one before. I stare to this like it will give me knowledge. Then my arm be held in steely pain while she come bending close. Slip this needle in my fearing skin. Press the injection and I know, even before the blackness start its closing, I be done.

  I try to say, ‘You leave my Sengles, they ain’t hurt for this,’ but these words drown into darkness. And I still hear their voices talking in relief, relief malicieuse, as all my struggling empty into death.

  39

  THE NIGHT BEYOND OUR LIFE

  Wake from your death, can think, you will surprise. Can be, you guess this be some ghosten afterworld. Rise with unconfidence, take time convincing life be real. Then can expect, you tearful gratty, holler for your joy.

  But I only waken slow, in usual laziness. First worden thought be, ‘Ho, I living.’ I still be half in dream, about some cows I got to steal. Only way to steal these cows be to convince with lies, but they frustrating cows ain’t comprehend my English speech.

  Through these dreams, I feel myself lain on a springy bed. Ain’t wearing normal clothes, my arms be bare. Cows drift back into forgetting, and I start remembering the city, all its glassen lights. Even in sleep, I ain’t forgot this be my final day, and now I feel some gratty luxury, that life remain. My body real, is feeling warm and tired.

  Then it notice that some bigger person hold me from behind. Arm be loose around me, and their body resting to my back. Yo, is covering blankets – holding person lain upon these blankets. Cautieuse, I open eyes.

  It be a princen sleeproom. Got furniture with every gaud and falala richesse. Fantasky rug and furnitures; painten pictures on the wall; brocks of swanly flowers. I be lain in a jumbo bed, with blankets broidern silver. Ain’t no one I can see. Even the stranger arm be hid in blankets. I keep careful still. I only lie considering a picture on the wall, show Jesus bloody on his sticks. Feel some defiance to this Jesus, left to die by coward Maria. But the golden frame be wolfen, carven thick with leaves.

  Yo, as I attend this, it notice that my belly pinch. Be uncanny wrong, an almost pain, an almost hunger. Only then, I worry clear who holding me. I shift in natural fear, and I be loosen. Grandy arm flee by, is rummage commotion in the springy bed. I rise up panicking, catch for balance with a clumsy hand.

  Behind be Pasha, staring his frosten eyes. We tense at each other, wild in startle.

  Then he ease. Lips soften to a smile. ‘Ice. You bone?’

  ‘We ain’t escape?’

  ‘Nay. We here.’

  I spy a window behind him, and my heart go small when I see it be dark. ‘Damn, is night?’

  ‘Ya, is night. You sleeping long.’

  ‘Goddamn, ain’t got to sleep.’

  I feel that griping pinch again. Touch my hand down to my belly, seeking for its hurt. Flesh be healthy normal, got no injury can tell. Yo between my legs, be something thicken. Is like a serviette for bleeding times. I touch this superstitious. Wonder if this bleeding can begin, while they been probing me.

  Pasha waring on me, got his rooish worry face. He say rough, ‘You bone? You want some water?’

  ‘Water, sure. You right.’

  He get up, go to a bureau and fetch a china brock. Pour water in a shope of carven glass. While he doing this, I pull the blankets by, look down myself. Almost expect to find some strangeness, but
is me the same. Be wearing whitish silk, a nighting dress long to my knees.

  Then Pasha bring the shope and I drink thirsty. In this, I tense my belly, try to find its injure place. Ain’t like no hurt I felt before. Is like they add some part to me, and this new part ain’t fitting right. I finish the shope and set it on the bed.

  Pasha stood by with crossen arms. Got his same rooish clothes, though he took off his pocket jacket. Whitish tee look almost clean, but pants got mud to shin height. His blue eyes feroce with thought.

  I say, ‘Where we be? Is still their – what it be?’

  ‘Ministerio, ya. Room above.’

  ‘How I come here?’

  Pasha make discomfort face. ‘Children here, ermanos, bring you.’

  Take a second before this word ermanos recognize. Then Anselm come disgusting in my memory. ‘Ermanos, right. You talk to them? Swear, they doing something to me. I feel queery.’

  Pasha look guilty at the floor. ‘We got wine. You want some wine?’

  ‘Damn, answer questions. Sure I want some wine, but answer questions.’

  ‘I talk to them, yes.’ He turn by nerviose, go to a skinny-leggen table. Fetch a bottle, already been half drunk.

  ‘They told you any knowledge?’

  Pasha lift the wine, drink greedy. Then he come with sad respect and reach the bottle to me. I keep eyes on him while I drink. Wine be smooth and sour. I ease the bottle down and hold its cool against my pinching belly.

  Pasha sit down on the bed, rubbing at his face. I start to think some better question, when he look up miserable and say, ‘Ice. You was pregnant.’

  I ware on him precarious. ‘Pregnant? Like with enfant?’

  ‘Ya, they say. Say to tell you.’

  I press the bottle harder to my belly. ‘I be pregnant.’

  ‘Nay.’ He grimace, look down to the floor. ‘Ain’t pregnant now. They end this.’

  ‘End this? Nay, how they can – how they even known?’