Excerpt from “The Woodman’s Daughter” “Do it again,” Nellie Ann cried. She laughed and opened her mouth even wider. Dalia plucked another grape from off the bed of vines and, narrowing her eyes as though peering through the scope of a rifle, reared back on one arm, then, lunging forward, pitched with all of her might. The grape curved upward and dropped, bull’s eye, into her sister’s mouth. Nellie Ann wrenched her lips together, sucked greedily, and spit out the skin. “I want more!” she yelled, as a scuppernong ricocheted off her arm. “More,” she spluttered. “More. More. More.” Dalia kept it up, hurling a volley of champagne bullets at her sister’s lips, wounding her face and splattering her shirtwaist while she hopped up and down, swatting the air with her cane. “Not so fast!” Nellie Ann shouted. “Throw them slower.” Dalia snipped off a scuppernong that was near to popping. “Be still,” she said. Nellie Ann thrust her neck out and upward, keeping her mouth open like a hungry baby bird. “Here it goes,” Dalia said, heaving the grape over the trellis. It shone golden in the sunlight before hitting the dark crater of Nellie Ann’s mouth. Pleasure softened her features. With puckered lips, she whooshed out the skin. “Thank you,” she said. “It was my pleasure,” Dalia answered, plucking a grape, popping it between her lips. She slurped, smacked, and spit the tough peel out—those little stabs of jealousy completely forgotten when she caught sight of Nellie Ann, squatting, her hands dipping down like fruit bats, her fingers finding a scuppernong in the grass, shoving it into her mouth as though it might be her last.   Excerpt from “Icy Sparks” Through the glass door, I saw the sunlit streets of Ginseng with its buildings traced in gray, coal’s bold signature. Ginseng had always been prosperous. Through coal’s boom and bust, it liked to brag on itself. It bragged about Samson Coal and the contracts that kept its miners working even during hard times. It bragged about young Dr. Stone and his brand-new office that stayed busy with soon-to-be mothers, victims of car accidents, miners with black lung, and sick folk who didn’t have to travel all the way to Lexington for treatment anymore. It bragged about being the county seat, about having a movie theater and decent schools. It bragged, bragged, and bragged, all the while averting its eyes from the nooks and crannies deep in the hills where life could be hard, where good and bad times depended upon the price of coal and the future plans of the coal companies. Pressing my hands against the glass, I stared at Ginseng Full Gospel Baptist Church, stuck between Willena’s Café and Dr. Stone’s new office, and spotted the Church of Nazarene, inserted in the tiny space behind Schooler’s Funeral Home. In town there was no root cellar in which to hide, no shadows to eclipse my fears. The many churches, squeezed into corners, offered little refuge. They were for righteous, truthful people. As I twisted the doorknob, turning around to wave good-bye, feeling lonely, I remembered Miss Emily. As the sun’s warmth burned through the glass and caressed my skin, I knew that Miss Emily would not betray me. Although lately I was too scared to trust anyone, I knew that the child inside her would not turn on me if she caught me jerking. Hadn’t her soft fat arms always sheltered me and kept me warm? Long before I met Miss Emily, I had heard about her strangeness. At Comb’s Restaurant on the river, I had heard the townsfolk gossiping. “She comes by it naturally,” they’d say. “Both her parents were fat. Huge tubs of lard.” At Margaret’s Bakery, I had listened to housewives whispering in superior voices, “She buys three dozen sweet rolls every morning and eats all of them at once.” The men at the barbershop snickered and said, “No God-fearing man will marry Miss Emily. If she took to hugging him, he’d be squashed.” Women at Stoddard’s Five and Dime milled around the lingerie, held up pairs of underwear, snorted, and said, “They don’t make panties big enough to cover Miss Emily’s broad behind.” Then they’d giggle, cup their hands over their mouths, their eyes darting from side to side, and feel pleased with themselves and the unanimity of their attack. At six, I hadn’t understood everything I’d heard, but I had understood the sound of disdain and knew it was mean. In spite of this, I hadn’t connected such meanness to the people expressing it, but rather to the one at whom it was directed. So when Patanni first took me to Tanner’s Feed Supply and asked me to come inside and meet a really nice woman—Miss Emily Tanner—I had been afraid. She was in the backroom sorting out corn feed as we had walked through the door. When the bell above the doorway jangled, I had jumped back. “Patanni,” I whined, my toes trembling inside my shoes, “I don’t want to. Can’t I just wait in the truck?” “I reckon not, Icy,” he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me forward. “I brought you over to meet Miss Emily and you’re gonna do just that.” “What if she don’t like me?” I said, straining in the opposite direction. “I’ll be coming directly,” a voice rang out. “I’m shoveling corn.” “What if she don’t like me?” I repeated, leaning so far toward the door that my grandfather’s fingers popped. “Doggone it, Icy!” Patanni barked. “Straighten up. The woman ain’t no witch.” “But she’s fat. Her bottom don’t fit inside regular underwear.” “So?” my grandfather said. “What does her bottom have to do with her heart?” “She eats three dozen sweet rolls every morning,” I spewed out. “She’s too fat. She could crush a person if she hugged her.” “Nonsense,” said Patanni said. “Miss Emily ain’t crushed nobody.” “But—“I pleaded. “Shush!” Patanni cut in, holding a finger up to his lips. “Mind your manners.” From the back of the store, I heard wood scraping along a floor and heavy breathing. Suddenly Miss Emily laughed loudly. “What she laughing about?” I asked, tightly squeezing Patanni’s hand. “Ain’t nobody back there with her.” “Maybe she enjoys her own company,” my grandfather said. I swallowed hard and nodded. “Maybe she’s a nice woman who likes to laugh.” “Yessir,” I peeped. “Maybe—“my grandfather went on, but stopped short when he saw Emily Tanner, red-faced and sweating, emerge from the backroom. “Hello, Miss Emily,” he said, extending his hand. Ignoring my grandfather’s hand, she grinned broadly and said, “Mr. Virgil, I’m gonna hug you instead.” Then she lunged toward him, wrapped her huge arms around him, and clasped him ferociously to her chest. “I heard my grandfather groan, saw his head buried in her blue plaid cotton dress, and her face, all bunched up and creased with fat. My heart raced. My palms began to sweat. I could see myself suffocating in Miss Emily’s quicksand of blubber, and I stammered, “Not me, oh no you don’t!” Releasing his hand, I inched toward the door and threatened, “You ain’t gonna squeeze the life out of me. You ain’t gonna squash me.” Quickly, I pivoted on my toes and ran. “I’m gonna hug you, too!” Miss Emily squealed, chasing after me, her flesh crawling forward like a blue-stained snowdrift. And before I realized it, she had snatched my shirt and was pulling me toward her, right into her rotund arms. But instead of moaning from pain, I had groaned from pure delight, cognizant only of her sweet warmth.