Rocky Road

by Rose Kent

  Victoria was giving the customer her undivided attention. “I’ve come up with some fantastic ideas for your sunroom, Diana,” she said, reaching for a folder on the table. “Knowing you like southwestern style, I think this poncho weave would make a lovely sofa upholstery,” she said, holding up a fabric swatch.

  The lady touched the fabric, then wrinkled her nose. “Too itchy.”

  Victoria pulled another fabric swatch from the folder. “Well then, how about chenille in a soft pastel?”

  The lady shook her head. Uh-uh.

  “This cotton blend would give the room a soft feel, and the fading-sunset pattern is soothing,” Victoria suggested.

  “It clashes with my wrought-iron furniture,” the lady said. “I prefer a more natural look.”

  Listening to Victoria offer ideas reminded me of the time Juanita’s grandparents asked me to spruce up their den. I had to do a sell job there too, especially since their budget was under fifty dollars. I found a tin-framed mirror tucked away in their basement that hung nicely next to their old chair, which I reupholstered in a cheery floral chenille. Then I tossed some Native American–inspired pillows on the daybed and rearranged some of Juanita’s abuelita’s pottery on the coffee table. Pardon the bragging, but that den ended up looking like it belonged in a homes and gardens show (Tex-Mex edition, of course).

  I turned toward the lady in boots. “Excuse me, ma’am. I couldn’t help overhearing. I’m from San Antonio, and I decorate for friends and family. These samples here—well, they really capture the look you’re after.”

  “Really?” The lady looked intrigued.

  I nodded. “When you choose a southwestern style, you have all kinds of images to play with in your fabrics and accessories. Stuff like cactus, horses, sunsets, and cowboy hats. And don’t shy away from daring colors like oranges, yellows, and reds.”

  “But I’ve got lots of dark-toned furniture in that room,” the lady said.

  “Woods and metal accessories mix in beautifully. For example, you might consider espresso leather for the couch—accented with fiesta-patterned red cotton throw pillows. And a Pueblo-weave tapestry would work nicely behind the couch, along with some metal wall art.”

  “Espresso leather does have that rustic look I like. I ride horses myself,” the lady said. “And I bought some metal sconces at a swap meet in Tucson last year.” She turned to Victoria. “Show me what you have in espresso leathers.”

  “Gladly,” Victoria said, turning toward the fabrics.

  “Good luck!” I called to the lady as Gabby and I started to leave.

  But before we reached the sidewalk, Victoria was out the door after us.

  “Wait. Tell me your name again, young lady,” she said, looking at me, and I told her.

  “Thank you, Tess. I’m very impressed. You have a real flair for design. Did you help your mother decorate her ice cream shop?”

  Gabby answered for me. “You bet. And that place is cute as a button.”

  Victoria smiled and extended her hand. “That woman is not easy to please. Your ideas really helped. On second thought, I will take a flyer. I’ll let clients know about A Cherry on Top—as long as you pass on my suggestion for improving that part of State Street.”

  “You’ve got a deal,” I said, handing her the flyer.

  For the first time since she took the barmaid job, Ma had a night off. She’d heard about a diner in Schenectady’s Goose Hill section where kids eat free, so we went there for supper. While we waited for our food to be served, I told her all about the Stockade District with its stately buildings and manicured lawns. “It’s been a settlement since 1661, and there’s an awesome statue of an Indian named Lawrence who helped out the settlers after a massacre.”

  Ma seemed interested. “Jordan would like to see that. Me too.”

  Then I told her what Victoria said about State Street being sloppy and unsafe. When I finished, I leaned back against the creaky booth, expecting her to let loose about snooty rich dames looking down on straw-hat folks.

  But—surprise, surprise!—she agreed with Victoria.

  “State Street does need to clean up its act. Who wants to stroll down dirty sidewalks and visit shopkeepers with mopey, glum faces? But you can’t saddle all the blame on the shopkeepers. Seems to me that Mayor Legato buddies up with the Schenectady neighborhoods that make him look good. And from what I’ve seen, State Street hasn’t been doing that for years. Plenty of its businesses suffer from low self-esteem caused by folks flat leavin’ them for more appealing shopping elsewhere.”

  The waitress put a plate of chicken fingers in front of Jordan. He dropped the plastic animals in his hands and reached for the hot sauce.

  “How is A Cherry on Top going to make money if customers don’t like coming to State Street?” I asked.

  “Oh, they’ll come if we give ’em a reason to come. Una razón especial,” Ma said, hiding a yawn.

  I bit into my pulled-pork sandwich. The meat wasn’t quite as tender as back home, but the tangy sauce swooshed and tingled in my mouth. “And what would that reason be?”

  “Not sure yet, but I’m working on it.” Ma looked across at Jordan, then back to me. “Tess, what’s the sign for good day again?”

  When I showed her, she signed to Jordan, asking about his day.

  He flashed a bubbly smile, then started signing quickly. “Teacher read book. Mouse with big ears and many mean—” He paused then, narrowing his eyes, trying to come up with the right sign. Then he brushed his nose twice with his R hand. Rat.

  “What’s the name of the book?” I signed.

  But he couldn’t sign the name, just more about the mouse with big ears and mean rats. “Mouse loves princess!” he added.

  “Oh, I know,” I signed and spoke, finger-spelling The Tale of Despereaux. I loved that book too.

  “Despereaux, now that’s a great name,” Ma said, with a salty smile. “It’s got character, and who hasn’t felt desperate? After this past year, my fingers should be able to sign desperate by themselves.” She looked away, toward a couple with a baby in a high chair, her eyes suddenly teary.

  I snuck a look at Ma. She hadn’t had a color rinse in months, and her silver-streaked hair reached past her waist, scruffy like frayed rope. Her eyes were underlined with dark shadows, but her skin was still pillow soft. She wore no blush or lipstick, just a dab of mascara. Ma loves the bluebonnets that grow wild along the roadside in Texas, and something about her accidental beauty reminds me of them.

  Ma yawned, then explained how she’d worked even later than usual last night—at a private bachelor’s party—and that she almost hadn’t heard the phone ring early this morning.

  “Wouldn’t ya know, it was Jordan’s teacher,” she said, biting into her sandwich.

  “Uh-oh. Did you get in trouble?” I signed, facing him.

  He smiled with a French fry sticking out of his mouth, then pointed to a gold-star sticker on his shirt pocket.

  “Jordan got picked as Second-Grade Superstar. That means he’s been paying attention, doing all his work, and behaving himself. Imagine that, teachers calling when kids are acting good!” Ma said, grinning.

  “Yeah, Jordan!” I signed. I looked across at Ma. “Have you noticed how much more he signs now? Yesterday he called Lucky a brilliant reptile. I didn’t even know the sign for brilliant or reptile.”

  Ma smiled at Jordan. “Yessirree, he’s coming along nicely. I owe a world of thanks to Winnie.”

  Thump! Jordan’s elbow hit the ketchup bottle and knocked it into the napkin holder. The noise startled both Ma and me, but not Jordan. Even after all these years, it still saddened me that he couldn’t hear sounds around him. I wondered if he imagined what a rocket ship sounded like. Or a dog barking, or a whistle blowing. I wondered if he even thought about sound. Once, I shared this with Winnie, but she told me to stop thinking that way. “That child is perfect just the way he is. Who says hearing is better than not hearing?”

  Ma wiped h
ot sauce from Jordan’s mouth. Watching her made me realize that she too had been helping Jordan adjust. The school here in New York was good for him.

  Maybe Ma buying the shop wasn’t messing everything up. Maybe she was proving me wrong. Maybe she could hold her own and her business if she got a little help. Something to keep her on track.

  I had an idea. Now I needed to present it in a way that respected her feelings.

  “Ma, you know how I helped you move the dipping cabinet, even though I had something else planned?”

  She nodded.

  “Sorry for having a bad attitude about it. Making that delivery was important. I’m glad I helped.”

  “That makes two of us,” she said, winking.

  “Well, I need you to do something that’s important too.” I kept up the eye contact with a sincere but nonthreatening facial expression.

  “What?”

  “Go to the doctor. Opening this ice cream shop is really demanding. I don’t want you to get sick.”

  Or crash, I thought. I don’t want you to crash.

  Ma started singing her old tune about doctors being good-for-nothin’ time wasters. “What does some pill wrangler with a stethoscope swinging from his neck know about my inner workings? I’ve been holding my own for thirty-five years without those quacks. I’m not about to let them tinker with my brain now.”

  Time to redirect this nonproductive talk, but how? I thought about how Winnie repeats her favorite sayings. She calls them mantras, and they do have a way of driving home a message.

  “A retailer must be healthy, Ma. A retailer must be healthy.”

  “Who says I’m not healthy?” she asked accusingly. “I was just over at Knickerbocker Shoe Repair helping Flora repair a giant shoe rack that got loose from the wall and came undone. The day before, I kept Mr. Harley from losing it when his alarm system tripped and wailed for three hours straight. If that didn’t require bucketloads of sanity, what would?”

  “I know you’re sane, Ma. I’m just saying the pace you keep could make you sick, and then what would happen to A Cherry on Top? A retailer must be healthy.”

  Finally, she agreed—just so I’d stop with the mantra, I think. “Enough. Quit badgering me. I’ll look around for a doc when I have time.”

  Once again, peer-mediation training played in my head. An agreement needs a specific action plan. “Tomorrow,” I insisted, swallowing the last of my pulled pork. “Winnie knows a clinic where you can walk in without an appointment.”

  “Okay then, tomorrow,” Ma said, reaching for the dessert menu that the waitress dropped off. “Can we change the subject now? I’m more interested in discussing what kind of pie they got.”

  That should’ve had me yahooing like I’d made a breakthrough. Ma just agreed to go to a doctor. Progress! I should’ve been doing a belly-bursting, high-fiving cheer inside. But instead I sat there quietly, poking my pickle.

  Why? Because I watch the Weather Channel. The eye of the hurricane is where everything feels calm and secure—right before the worst winds blow. Even here in Schenectady, with our new friends and the promise that Ma might get help, the same fears swirled in my head like a soft-serve twist. What if Shooting Stars came back and ruined everything?

  Chapter 23

  Nothing beats a themed promotion for driving traffic to your shop.—The Inside Scoop

  It took two hours to make the Peer Mediation Club shirts on Wednesday, but everyone loved how they came out. Gabby called them “bold and daring, even if we are a peace-seeking group.” Malika liked the chain of handprints on the back. And Ritchie said the turned-up collar gave him the slick look he was hoping for to impress the ladies.

  Afterward, I caught the bus to downtown Schenectady.

  “Hey, Ma!” I shouted as I walked into A Cherry on Top.

  “Be right out!” she called from the back storage room. Giant bags of M&Ms, Oreos, chocolate chips, nuts, cookies, sprinkles, and gummi bears were lying near the open glass jars on the counter. I washed my hands and started filling them.

  “Get a load of me!” Ma shouted as she strutted out wearing shiny red lipstick, a puffy blouse, hoop earrings, and high heels.

  “Wow. Why are you dressed like that?” A sparkly orange bow dangled from her hair, and a blue ruffled skirt flowed past her ankles.

  “I got these clothes at a thrift shop. I couldn’t resist their fun fiesta flair. As president of the newly formed RSSA, I figure I should make a splash at our first meeting.”

  “What’s RSSA?” I asked.

  “The Resuscitate State Street Association. It’s my idea for getting local merchants to join forces,” she said, reaching behind the counter for her jacket.

  “Join forces for what?”

  “To wipe the cobwebs off their marketing plans and blow life back into their profit margins. We need change around here. I just passed Polaski’s Dry Cleaners. The sign in the window said CLOSED FOR THE DAY DUE TO INDIGESTION. For crying out loud!”

  Ma listed all the improvements she was going to pitch to the RSSA, like starting a neighborhood crime watch, sprucing up storefronts, and group advertising on TV and radio to draw more customers to the area. “The way I see it, we’ve got to stick together and give folks a reason to return to State Street. That’s what I plan on telling them.”

  It sounded good to me, but Ma sighed as she reached for her pocketbook. Even with those festive clothes and her go-get-’em attitude, she looked blue like her skirt. Blue with black circles under her eyes.

  I walked over and adjusted the bow in her hair. “I bet all of State Street’s businesses will want in on the RSSA. So why aren’t you excited?”

  “’Cause I’m feeling overwhelmed. Who knows? Maybe the shopkeepers might think all this Grand Opening hullabaloo is only going to help my business, not theirs.”

  “They won’t think that way. Don’t you think like that.” I looked her square in the eye. “Did you go to the doctor today like you promised?”

  She batted the air with her hand. “As a matter of fact, yes. I wasted two hours in a stuffy doctor’s office, sitting next to a slob of a fella who never learned to cover his mouth when he sneezes.”

  “What did the doctor say?”

  Ma wouldn’t look up at me. “A whole lot of gobbledygook medical jargon. Ten-dollar words like bipolar, manic, and rapid cycling. As if I’m a looney-tune with two poles sticking out of my brain. How would she know? It’s not like there’s a blood test that proves anything.”

  “I’m glad you went,” I said sincerely. “I’ve heard of bipolar disorder, but what does that mean, exactly?”

  She shook her head and started to look angry. “Nothing, that’s what. Look, I promised I’d go to the doc, and I did. Now let it go. There’s too much going on right now that needs my attention.”

  “But there’s got to be things we can try. Medicine you can take—”

  “I said it before and I’ll say it again. I’m not letting a total stranger tinker with the chemicals in my brain!” Ma yelled, swinging her pocketbook over her shoulder. “Put a fork in it, Tess. This conversation is done!”

  And it was. Even peer-mediation training didn’t give me a rebuttal to that.

  As soon as Ma left for the RSSA meeting, I started crushing Oreos in a bowl and pouring them into a candy jar. I thought about how badly Ma needed a big crowd for the Grand Opening. It made me think of Cinco de Mayo back in San Antonio. Ma always took the day off from Albertsons, and we went to Market Square. The air was filled with sweet, spicy smells from the vendors selling Mexican food, with visitors from all over Texas and beyond. We’d stroll around for hours, listening to mariachis strumming, and looking at the craft booths. Ma always bought Jordan a balloon.

  The crowd … the food … the music … Ma’s fiesta clothes … That’s it!

  I charged out the door and ran two blocks. “Wait up, Ma!” I shouted when I saw her flashy outfit up ahead.

  She turned around, surprised.

  “I’ve got
an idea for the RSSA. Tell them that we’ll host a streetwide Cinco de Mayo celebration—outside, up and down our part of State Street. The Grand Opening is on May fifth, after all. And you said yourself that themed promotions bring in customers, right? Everybody will get in on the moneymaking!”

  Ma’s eyes brightened like her hair bow. “Catch your breath, honey, and then keep talking. I like the way those wheels are turning inside your head.”

  “We’ll decorate the shops with southwestern flair, and we’ll have sidewalk sales just like the booths back home in Market Square. A parade too!”

  “Yee-haw! That sure would fill customers with a slaphappy spending spirit. I could talk to Winnie about having the Salty Old Dogs perform. And I’ll open a concession stand on the sidewalk selling delicious homemade tamales.”

  We always eat tamales on Christmas Eve. Everyone in San Antonio does. Ma cooks them the authentic way, which takes a long time, but they sure taste delicious. Mexicans say tamales bring good luck.

  “And I’ll paint a sign for the concession stand!” I added.

  “That’s my girl!”

  We walked another block down Jay Street. Ma stopped in front of the Open Door Bookstore, right in front of a cheery display window full of gardening books. “The RSSA is meeting here,” she said. “Wish me luck. Thanks to you, I’m armed with a strong case for Cinco de Mayo.”

  Ma skipped into the shop an hour later holding two Dr Peppers. The RSSA had voted unanimously to support the streetwide Cinco de Mayo celebration.

  “Being from New York, they hardly knew how to say Cinco de Mayo, never mind what it’s all about,” Ma said, pausing to drink her pop. “But I told the shopkeepers we were chock-full of fun fiesta ideas. They’re interested in using your free-of-charge decorating services to add some south-of-the-border flair to their shops.”