by Rose Kent
Ice. I’ll get ice.
I locked the shop and ran to Bianco’s Pizzeria. They’d help.
Uh-oh. A CLOSED sign hung in the window. I walked two blocks in the creepy dark to a gas station with an ice machine. But I only had $1.75 change left from dinner, which bought just one bag of ice. I rushed back and dumped it over the ice cream.
Darn, it barely covered two tubs!
I found an old fan in the storage room. I dragged it out and propped it on a chair so it would blow right at the dipping cabinet. But thirty minutes later the ice was melted and I felt a panic attack coming on. All the ice cream we’d just bought with the last of our money would be ruined. I had to do something. If only Ma had gotten around to getting a cell phone and I could call her.
I picked up the phone. “Chief, it’s Tess. I need help.”
Chief came limping into the shop with a husky old man wearing a Yankees cap. “Mr. Murray here is Albany’s best retired refrigeration technician with a union card,” he said, unzipping his parka. “We play poker together, and he’s got a cool hand there too.”
The best retired refrigeration technician with a union card wasn’t into small talk. He didn’t say hello, but he mumbled that he needed the freezer on its side. So Chief and I unloaded the ice cream quickly, like nurses preparing a patient for emergency surgery.
Working on his knees, Mr. Murray tightened and loosened bolts, pulled apart coils, and blew dust off the metal underbelly. But half an hour later, he dropped his wrench and stood up, shaking his head. “Looks like your mother needs a new freezer. The compressor’s dead as a turkey on Thanksgiving.”
“Do they cost a lot?” I asked.
“Sure do, but you got no choice.” He grabbed a napkin and scribbled down the name of a secondhand-restaurant-equipment supplier.
Chief glanced at the wall clock. Nine-thirty-five. “Where’s your mother?”
“At a meeting. She’ll be back soon.”
He pointed at the ice cream tubs on the floor, already sitting in puddles. “Being so hot in here, this stuff’s melting fast. You can’t wait. How about we load the ice cream into my truck and drive over to Thrifty King? They’ll probably let you store it in their walk-in freezer until your mother figures something out.”
But Ma didn’t like Thrifty King. Jordan had accidentally dropped a plastic animal into the lobster tank, and the seafood-department manager had yelled at him, even after Ma explained that he was deaf. Ma had told the guy off and stormed out of the store, vowing never to return.
I remembered Ma’s words. She’d be back by ten. “Thanks, Chief, but my ma’s due back any minute.”
“Well, don’t wait too long. This ice cream won’t last,” Chief said, and he and Mr. Murray left.
Ten o’clock and no Ma.
Ten-thirty and no Ma.
Eleven o’clock. Still alone. It’s dark out with no one around. I’m sleepy, scared, and sweaty, babysitting lots of mushy ice cream.
At eleven-thirty Ma skipped in the door. “Delilah did it again—the mayor said yes to the ribbon cutting!” she shouted, jingling the car keys in her hand proudly like she’d won Olympic gold.
I glared at Ma with a sour taste in my mouth and my eyes cold as the dipping cabinet should’ve been.
“Delilah did it, all right. And here’s the twenty-eight tubs of melted ice cream to prove it.”
Chapter 18
Expect setbacks.—The Inside Scoop
When the sour taste finally went away, I felt sorry for Ma. Sure, she should’ve checked to make sure the freezer worked ahead of time, but you can’t foresee every single thing that can go wrong.
The saddest sound that night was the click-click of her red heels on the blacktop alley as we carried all that soupy ice cream out and tossed it in the Dumpster. Ma used to be a heavy smoker, two packs a day. She told me she started as a teen, alongside the ranch hands who worked for her parents, and she didn’t stop until ten years later, when she got pregnant with me. Quitting was the hardest thing she ever did. “I’d have taken a root canal over going without a cigarette any day of the week,” she said.
Years back, on the night Pop stormed out for good with all his stuff, I remember Ma sitting on the front stoop holding a toothpick between her lips. Puffing hard, like it was a cigarette.
After midnight, when we’d tossed the last of the ice cream, Ma started pretend smoking again—only this time, on a straw.
“Are we buying a new dipping cabinet today?” I asked at breakfast the next morning.
“Can’t,” Ma said as she scooped grits and corned-beef hash on my plate. Mascara clumped under her eyelids.
Jordan was still at Winnie’s sleepover. I’d slept in, though I’d woken during the night and noticed the kitchen light on. Ma’s calculator and working papers were scattered beside me on the counter.
I sprinkled Tapatío sauce on my hash. “Why not?”
“We’re broke,” she said, slamming the refrigerator door shut.
Broke? A told-you-so chorus played in my head. And flashbacks to those pricey banana-split ceramic napkin holders that Ma bought for each dining table. The jukebox. The speakers, menu board, and silk-screened aprons, not to mention the customized sundae dishes. How could she have blown all that cash and not saved for important stuff?
Something came to me then, something I’d read in the peer-mediation training manual: “Avoid accusing you-statements when you’re having a disagreement. That approach makes people feel threatened.”
“We have to get a dipping cabinet, Ma. An ice cream shop sells ice cream, and ice cream must be frozen!” I pleaded.
My stomach tightened. I pictured vultures swooping over A Cherry on Top, clutching eviction notices in their talons.
“I know, I know,” Ma answered with despair clipped to her words. “But you gotta have money to make money, and we plumb ran out.”
“What about the Inside Scoop? What’s it say to do when you run out of money?”
“Can’t find that section. Look, we’ve had more expenses than I expected. Who knew that the jukebox was broken, or that business insurance would be so expensive in New York State? And now we have to buy more ice cream and a dipping cabinet. Dawgonnit, I still gotta pay this month’s store lease—never mind the apartment rent.” Ma banged her fist down on the calculator.
Why had I let her draw me into her fool’s plan? After all our work, the only thing opening would be the door, to force us out—make that two doors, one on State Street, the other here at Mohawk Valley Village.
I pushed my plate away, my breakfast barely touched. My face felt warm, even though the wind blew cold through the drafty window.
Tart words started flying out like thumbtacks.
“So I guess it’s time to pack up again, huh, Ma? Same old, same old?”
“Aw, stop your picking. I’ll figure something out.” Ma glanced down at the frayed copy of the Inside Scoop on the counter, her messy gray-and-black hair flopping forward.
I went out to the living room, sat on the futon, and picked up my cushion patch and embroidery. My fingers trembled as I cross-stitched a microphone in Gladys Knight’s hand. Everything felt wrong.
Ma began washing pots in the kitchen. The scratch-scratching of steel wool was all I could hear for a while. But then the scrubbing stopped and she started singing.
First it was a country tune. Then one of Winnie’s Motown hits. Then on to that Elvis song about blue suede shoes. Ma kept singing and raising her off-key voice.
I tried to stay focused on my needlework, even though I suspected that singing meant something.
Sure enough, she marched into the living room, wearing a big grin and a dishtowel tucked in at her waist.
“I got a simple solution to a simple problem. Banks give money out, right? I’m going to visit a bank and get me a loan.”
That didn’t sound like much of a solution to me. I knew Ma’s credit report read like the Titanic, especially after the last two years of Shooting Sta
rs spending sprees. Any bank would find out about her evictions, bounced checks, and canceled credit cards.
“What about all our money problems in San Antonio?”
“Like you keep telling me, this ain’t Texas. And we only need a small bundle to hold us over until the shop opens. Then we’ll have enough cash to burn a wet elephant.”
I got another hundred on a math test on Monday, and my teacher said he was going to recommend that I move up to advanced math. I wanted to tell Ma, but our money dilemma was weighing heavy on my mind.
I took the school bus downtown, got off at Lafayette and State streets, and walked into the ice cream shop, only to hear sobbing from the storage room. I stopped before reaching the back so Ma wouldn’t see me.
She was leaning over the sink, dabbing a tissue to her nose and talking out loud to herself. “How come every time I lower my bucket into life’s well—snap!—the dawgone rope breaks! My own daughter must think I’m the sorriest person alive. I’m not fit to mother the rats I see out back in the alley.”
I froze. How bad were things now? And what rats?
Ma kept sniffling and rambling. “I wish I could crawl under a rock and sleep this off. Why does my life always feel harder than yesterday’s cornbread?”
Not now, Ma, I thought. Don’t lose it. I can’t handle carrying you and caring for Jordan again. This isn’t fair. Why can’t I be the moody middle schooler having hissy fits and meltdowns?
A tiny voice in my head told me what to do next. Run, Tess. Slip away. You need to chill. This was too much to take after school and practice for peer mediation.
I tiptoed back to the shop entrance and left.
I walked down State Street over to Broadway, bought myself a Dr Pepper at the deli, and kept going, past the hardware store. The cool spring air cleared my head, and the sweet soda moistened my dry throat. I glanced over at the trailers where Pete lived, and wondered which one was his. Maybe he was nearby, riding his tandem bike and taking pictures. Or maybe he was over at the dump with his dad, sorting through a fresh delivery, as he called it. Yuck—not my idea of entertainment. But at least they were together.
That made me think of Pop.
It was nearly five o’clock, close to quitting time. I imagined him punching his card and unstrapping his tool belt. “Later, Jake,” one of his big buddies in work boots would call, and Pop would touch his index finger to his ear and motion toward the guy. Then he’d jump into the Dodge Ram and head home.
With no wife or whining kids to pester him and nothing to stand in his way, he’d probably shower, splash on his Aqua Velva, and gun the truck on over to whatever watering hole he spent his nights in near Galveston.
I kicked an empty water bottle on the sidewalk. Who cares? He was missing out on seeing Jordan and me grow up. That was a big loss. For sure, Ma makes plenty of mistakes, but Pop’s the one who makes no sense. Beer always tastes the same, but with Jordan, well, every day has a new flavor.
I turned around. Time to go back.
Ma was standing on a chair behind the counter, writing on the mounted menu board. The jukebox was playing “Hey, Good Lookin’,” that whiny Hank Williams song Ma likes.
“Hiya, sweetie,” she called. I could tell she’d washed her face, though her eyes were still red.
“Hey, Ma. What happened at the bank?”
Ma shook her head. “Mr. Moneybags turned me down. So much for that CUSTOMERS ALWAYS COME FIRST sign hanging over his desk. That fellow is so stingy he wouldn’t pay the ransom even if his own mother was hog-tied.”
Ma turned back to the menu board, and I let out a sigh. She heard me and whipped her head around.
“Aw, quit looking like a frog in a frying pan. I got a Plan B.” She pointed to the menu board. “How do you like my ice cream specials so far?”
I glanced at Ma’s scribbling.
A Cherry on Top Mucho Delishous Specials
“Mohawk River Runs Through It” Carmel Swirl
SmAlbany Strawbery Shake
“Troy’s Gone Nutty” Taffy Sundae
Steel Magnolia Float
“They’re making my stomach growl. Better check the spellings. And what’s in a Steel Magnolia Float?”
“I dunno yet, but you know that’s my favorite chick flick. I just love Dolly Parton….”
I pointed to two large unopened boxes behind the counter. “What’s in there?” We were sitting on the brink of bankruptcy and Ma had done more shopping?
“The cash register and the waffle-cone griddle finally shipped. But don’t bat your eyelashes. I prepaid for them.”
“What are we going to do about money, Ma—and the dipping cabinet? We’re supposed to open next week!”
She hopped off the chair. “Stall, that’s what. Delay the Grand Opening for a little while till I make some quick cash.”
“How?” I asked, unable to hide my doubts.
“I’ll only tell if you quit your worrywarting.”
I crossed my arms. “Tell me.”
Ma took a straw from the straw dispenser and tucked it between her lips. “I’m going to be a barmaid at Little Miss Muffet’s on Eastern Parkway.”
“What’s a barmaid?”
“A waitress who serves booze. After being married to your father, I’ve got plenty of job experience.”
“Doesn’t that mean working late at night?”
“Probably from suppertime until one a.m., but only for a little while. Little Miss Muffet’s is a hole-in-the-wall, mostly for the Union College students. Tips are good and the owner says he’ll pay me off the books.”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes to make two thousand dollars.”
Two thousand dollars is a lot of money. It made me think about doing well on my math test and how the teacher recommended me for the advanced class.
But I didn’t tell Ma about that.
Dobson insomnia struck again that night. I got out of bed without stirring much so I wouldn’t wake Jordan beside me, and I pulled a spiral notebook from my backpack.
With the night-light softly illuminating the page, I sat cross-legged on the floor and started writing Pop a letter. Didn’t matter that I had no stamps or envelopes handy. I had something to say.
I formatted the letter like the script that peer mediators use in a session. I began with a greeting and told him a little about what was happening in my life. Then I got to what was (and wasn’t) going on between him and me since we hadn’t heard from him in two years. It’s hard to conduct a peer mediation when you’re both mediator and disputant—not to mention the other disputant not being present—but I tried my best to state the facts and my feelings using those empathetic I-statements. How at times I was doing his job. (Basic need: to play.) How Jordan and I missed being with him. (Basic need: to be loved.) Lastly, I closed with a few open-ended questions that gave him the chance to respond.
I tore the page out, placed it on the night table, and crawled back into bed. I was about to close my eyes and fade off to sleep when it hit me: Ma didn’t even have Pop’s address. After all that, I couldn’t even mail the letter.
So what? I was glad I did it.
I wrote that letter for myself.
Chapter 19
The R in retail also stands for resilience.—The Inside Scoop
I found a yellow slip of paper in our mailbox after school a week later.
RENT LATE. PAY IMMEDIATELY WITH $50 PENALTY OR BE SUBJECT TO EVICTION.
There was also a bill from Ma’s car insurance stamped OVERDUE! and one from Sears, the only credit card Ma still had.
I knew that the Mohawk Valley Village wasn’t going to be patient about missing rent. Rental managers smile and offer treats from their candy jars before you sign the lease, but afterward, all they care about is getting their money on time. This meant trouble. A few nights of work as a barmaid wouldn’t be enough to cover both the rent and store lease, never mind the dipping cabinet and ice cream.
My head felt like it
was balancing a sack full of marbles. And on top of this, Mr. Win had stopped me after homeroom to remind me that my first peer mediation was scheduled for Wednesday. Only two days away and I still hadn’t memorized all the steps in the process. Even worse, last night I had a nightmare that my first mediation turned into a slugfest with disputants throwing punches and me crying like a baby.
I left the mailroom and saw an OUT OF ORDER sign taped to the elevator again.
“Psssst, Tess—over here!”
Winnie and Jordan had just stepped through the automatic lobby doors. Jordan was carrying a bulky brown box. Winnie carried a grocery bag and held her finger to her lips.
I relaxed both of my Five hands in front of me, hunched my shoulders, and jutted my head forward a little. “What?”
Jordan let out a squeal, then tapped his A hand against his mouth. “Secret.”
My brother looked ready to burst with excitement. But if he kept making those dolphin-screeching sounds, I wasn’t so sure that whatever was in that box would stay a secret.
I touched the cardboard top. “Show me,” I sign-pleaded, and Winnie laughed. A blue headband was wrapped around her bouncy curls like a Hula-Hoop.
Jordan gently rested the box on the floor and lifted one flap, revealing a rectangular glass tank and a turtle about eight inches long. It looked like a red-eared slider, with a speckled shell and a red patch behind each eye. Just like Bandito back home.
No sooner had I looked in than Jordan covered the box and signed furiously, “Hide! No turtles allowed!”
Now, that was impressive. Not only did Jordan understand that turtles were unwelcome so he needed to be discreet, but he knew that hide combines secret and under. Lately Winnie carried a compact ASL dictionary in her purse everywhere, and she frequently whipped it out to look at the pictures and show Jordan.
“There’s a spring fashion show going on in Assisted Living,” Winnie said. “We’re taking advantage of that distraction to smuggle this in.”