Rocky Road

by Rose Kent

  “You didn’t go to bed last night, did you?” I asked, noticing she was wearing the same outfit from yesterday. Only now her shirt was wrinkled and covered with food stains.

  White smoke rings coiled from her mouth like an old-fashioned telephone cord, but still she said nothing. She turned her back slightly and looked away, toward the daffodils planted beside the parking lot.

  Twelve years Ma had fought off the urge to light up again. Twelve years—my whole life—and here she was smoking again. I wanted to grab that dumb cigarette from her mouth, break it in half, and grind both pieces in the dirt.

  But I couldn’t.

  I couldn’t because Ma was sick.

  “What is it, Ma? Tell me what’s wrong!”

  She kept looking over at the parking lot, and then she mumbled softly, “The corn husks. I didn’t soak ’em long enough. I should’ve known better. The tamales won’t be perfect.”

  “Nobody from Schenectady is a tamale expert,” I said. “Pour some hot sauce on ’em and they’ll be great!”

  But Ma kept shaking her head, repeating the same thing. “I should’ve known better.”

  I thought about how Ma had been working double shifts, at the bar and at A Cherry on Top. Day and night. How she’d planned hundreds of details for Cinco de Mayo—not only for us, but to revive all the businesses that were hurting on State Street. Mr. Harley wasn’t the only one who considered her the Can-Do Cancan Lady; everybody did.

  Now, on the biggest day of her retail life, she was slumped in the dirt, gloomy and doomy like the sky was falling down, all because of how long she soaked the corn husks.

  I squeezed closer and touched her shoulder, trying to mix words together in a healing potion to get her up on her feet. “No wonder you’re wiped out from all you did, Ma, especially staying up late making tamales. But they’ll sell big today—I know it. Go take a shower and you’ll feel better. I’ll make you coffee with the socks on and get Jordan up before we leave.”

  Ma shook her head and exhaled. “I’m not going, Tess. My rocket’s run outta fuel. I’ve hit bottom again. What a loser I am….”

  My hands shook. “You’re not a loser! It’s Shooting Stars! No, it’s got a real name. Bipolar disorder. We’ve got to get you back to that doctor to get medicine.”

  “Medicine won’t change a thing,” she said, wiping her wet cheeks. “We’re all stuck with whatever life dishes out. My paw saw all sorts of doctors, and he killed himself anyway.”

  A chill went up my back. My grandfather died long before I was born, but Ma never mentioned suicide. Why hadn’t she told me?

  Tears streamed from Ma’s eyes like she was chopping onion. “You were right when you said I was crazy to start a business again. I tried my darnedest, but I can’t handle all this pressure. I just want to hole up and sleep. For a long, long time. With no noise, no troubles, no nothing.”

  “I was wrong!” I yelled. “State Street is going to be bursting with customers today, and it’s all because of you.” I told her that the Inside Scoop said you had to be willing to be flexible and revise your plan, and we would. Gabby, Pete, and I would scoop ice cream so she’d be off her feet. The RSSA shopkeepers could take over the parade and Cinco de Mayo activities, once they knew she was sick. And her tamales—well, they’d practically sell themselves. “But you’ve got to be there. You’re the owner. You hear me?”

  Ma didn’t answer. She crushed the cigarette butt with her shoe and walked back inside.

  Maybe this was a good sign. Maybe she was snapping out of it. I followed.

  “You’re going to get dressed now, right, Ma?” I asked as we stepped out of the elevator to the fourth floor.

  But Ma didn’t utter another sound. And when we got into the apartment, she wrapped herself in a blanket, sank into the futon, and started weeping again.

  I sat dazed at the kitchen counter, staring at the “Saratoga, Top of the Stretch” poster and smelling the tamales. Jordan was still sleeping in the bedroom, and I could hear her weeping in the living room, her voice muffled by the blanket. I wanted to cry too. If Ma couldn’t work, there would be no Grand Opening, and the shop would close. We’d go belly-up and get kicked out of Mohawk Valley Village. They’d given us a one-time-only rent extension. No matter how well I mediated, the manager wouldn’t let us stay here for nothing. That meant another move and another new school for Jordan—just when he was finally settling in.

  Same old, same old. Nothing had changed.

  Or had it?

  What Winnie had said was true: both Ma and I had become stronger since we moved here. Shooting Stars was awful, but maybe it didn’t have to destroy everything we’d worked so hard to start in Schenectady. Maybe I’d changed, ’cause like Pete with that camera, I saw things differently now. There was our family to fight for and others that Ma had helped too. State Street would still look dumpy and neglected if it hadn’t been for the Resuscitate State Street Association—and that was all Delilah Dobson’s doing.

  Resuscitate. The word pumped oxygen down my dry throat. No way would I watch our lives get ruined like the melted ice cream.

  As Gabby might say, the hardworking, dependable ox would take charge.

  But how? I hadn’t read the Inside Scoop cover to cover like Ma. And I sure didn’t have her howdy-doody welcoming way. Plus I didn’t know how to work the cash register.

  Could I pull it off?

  Chapter 26

  Repeat after me. The customer is always right, even when he’s wrong.—The Inside Scoop

  Twenty minutes later, Chief drove Jordan and me to A Cherry on Top. I explained as best I could about Ma crashing and that I’d be running the business today. I asked him to stick around all day, in case someone official came looking for an adult in charge. Then I braced myself for a long string of his bossy orders, but it didn’t happen. Instead, he nodded, put his bony hand on my shoulder, and softly said, “Sure, Tess. I’ll do whatever you need.”

  It took several trips to unload our supplies from Chief’s parked truck, including the tamales and the giant concession-stand sign I’d painted. Jordan carried Lucky’s travel case and heat lamp with the cord dragging behind him looking like a tail. He’d fussed when I explained that Ma wasn’t coming. Letting him bring his turtle was the only way I could get him out the door.

  Once Ma and I watched a movie about a guy who had to crash-land a jet plane, even though he wasn’t a pilot and, worse, he was afraid to fly. Standing there behind the ice cream counter and knowing I was in charge—well, I had that same in-over-my-head feeling. My throat was dry. My knees shook—so much that my new capri pants made a scuffing sound. And my shoulders felt heavy like I’d been lifting dumbbells.

  First thing I did was read Ma’s start-up checklist, which told me to turn on the waffle-cone griddle, the shake machine, the soft-serve machine, and the hot-fudge dispenser, just like I’d seen Ma do. I checked the freezer temperature—five degrees below zero, where it should be. Then I turned my attention to the cash register. Sure wished I’d listened when Ma told me to practice on it. No matter how many buttons I pushed, I couldn’t get the dumb drawer to open.

  After the tenth try it was still stuck. “Darn!” I shouted, whacking it with my fist.

  Chief looked up from loading napkins into the dispenser. “Let me have a look,” he said. “I operated sonar in a navy CIC for thirty years. A cash register can’t be more complicated than that.”

  So Chief pulled out the operating manual that was stowed under the counter, and I turned my attention to mixing waffle batter. Then Jordan came out from the storage room, plopped Lucky’s travel case on the dining-area floor, opened the top, and started pouring crickets into the food bowl.

  “No. Lucky stays in the storage room,” I signed firmly. “Turtles don’t go with ice cream.”

  “No! No! Lucky wants to crawl,” he signed, puffing his lower lip.

  I couldn’t bend on this rule. I remember Ma saying that a health-code citation is the fastest way to
shut down a food business. Time for a win-win solution. “Turtles can’t be near food,” I signed again, pointing toward the back. “Lucky can crawl in the storage room. That’s okay.”

  So, reluctantly, Jordan carried away the travel case and the sunlamp with the dragging cord just as the front door opened.

  “¡Olé!” Gabby shouted, clicking castanets and wearing strappy heels and a sparkly gold skirt. A rose was tucked behind her ear, and her pretty dark cheeks were dusted with glitter.

  “¡Qué bonita!” I called, remembering Juanita’s abuelita’s favorite saying.

  Chief whistled. “Fine sight like that makes me wish I was a young sailor again,” he called.

  Gabby pulled me from behind the counter and twirled me around. “Cute outfit, Tess! Love those highlights, too. Fiesta chic!”

  I thought of how Ma and I had spent the perfect mom-daughter afternoon yesterday, getting our hair done and shopping. I must have tried on twenty pairs of pants, with Ma at my side in the dressing room all along, sipping a Dr Pepper and saying I looked as pretty as a polished pearl. My heart sank to the midseam of my smocked top. Yesterday felt like a year ago.

  “Something’s happened,” I told Gabby. “My mother won’t be here today. She’s sick.”

  Gabby’s pink-lip-glossed smile faded. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “It’s called bipolar disorder, and it’s kind of like this roller coaster she rides of happy and sad spells. Right now she’s sad. Really sad. Can’t-get-out-of-bed sad.”

  Gabby’s eyes watered up. “Poor Miz Dobson. I’m so sorry. Doesn’t seem fair—she’s always cheering everybody else up.” She glanced over at Chief at the cash register and asked, “Who’s in charge?”

  I rested my hands against the bowl of waffle batter. “Me.”

  Gabby paused, then took the rose from her hair and gently tucked it behind my ear. “Then this place is in good hands. And you’re not alone. We’re in this together. Right, Chief?”

  “Right as rain, Gabby,” Chief called. “And speaking of right, this cash register is squared away now. So as you young folks say, ‘Show me the money.’”

  I found Ma’s clipboard and reviewed the schedule. The Cinco de Mayo parade and sidewalk sales would start an hour after A Cherry on Top opened. The raffle would be held at lunchtime. And Mayor Legato and the TV reporter would arrive later in the afternoon for the ribbon cutting, with the piñata to follow. The clowns would be here all day.

  As I finished reading the schedule, Gabby got the jukebox cranking, and the door jingled open. “Thought you all might enjoy some bagels to kick off your Grand Opening. Compliments of Barley’s,” Mac Kelsh called, smiling as he dropped a brown bag on the counter. For a big guy, he sure had a soft voice.

  I walked over to him. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Kel—”

  “Call me Mac,” he said, gazing around the shop. He wore a sage-green collared shirt that matched his khaki pants nicely. His STORE MANAGER KELSH, HERE TO SERVE YOU name tag was centered neatly above his shirt pocket.

  Gabby reached for a poppy-seed bagel, and I started slicing a plain one for Jordan.

  “Is Delilah around?” Mac asked.

  I shook my head, reluctant to say much.

  He looked surprised. “When do you expect her?”

  “Not sure. She appointed me acting shop manager. You need something?”

  “I wanted to compliment Delilah on her presentation and merchandising,” he said, looking over at the fudge display and topping jars and up at the beaver cycling overhead. “Engaged customers make more impulse purchases, and this place is a real attention grabber.”

  I smiled. “I’ll pass on your kind words.”

  After he left, a familiar voice called from the storage room. “Soda jerk reporting for duty!”

  Pete walked out and Gabby, Chief, and I all spoke at the same time. “Whoa!”

  He was dressed like he’d time-traveled back seventy years, with a spiffy white tuxedo jacket with tails, a bow tie, and a paper hat covering his slicked red hair.

  “Look at you!” I blurted out.

  Pete grinned proudly. “Miz Dobson expects us soda jerks to serve with distinction. In the old days we were the superstars. Knowing that, well, I did some serious picking to upgrade my wardrobe.”

  “Through trash?” I whispered, grimacing.

  “Naah.” He straightened his bow tie. “The Salvation Army just got a new shipment.” Then he whistled at Gabby and me. “Never mind me. Get a load of you ladies. Not one, but two eighty-seven and a halves!”

  “Huh?” we both said at once.

  “That’s soda-jerk slang for pretty ladies,” he explained, pulling an index card from his back pocket.

  I motioned for him to come behind the counter and wash his hands. “Gabby and I could use a refresher lesson on sundae making. My ma won’t be here today, and everything has to operate on schedule, just the way she planned.”

  Pete raised his eyebrows, then nodded without asking any questions. “Good thing I memorized the recipes for all forty of the sundae specials. Miz Dobson trains her soda jerks well, plus I took notes from the last S&P session.”

  “S&P session?” Gabby asked.

  “Scoop and pack. The top two essential skills for a soda jerk,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Gabby gazed at Pete with amorous eyes as he scrubbed his hands. “I can see why soda jerks were considered superstars.”

  I couldn’t take any more of this employee flirting. I spread peanut butter on a bagel for Jordan and walked back to the storage room.

  The smell of smoke struck me before I even got there.

  “Oh no!” I shrieked, my heart racing.

  Flames shot out from the corner of the storage room. Lucky’s sunlamp had fallen into Lucky’s travel case. The box was melting and browning, with a giant hole through the center getting bigger and bigger.

  “Jordan!” I yelled. He was on the opposite side of the room, his back to the fire, kneeling over Lucky, unaware of what was happening.

  Ring! Ring! The smoke alarm went off.

  I rushed over and grabbed the fire extinguisher from under the sink. Ma’s fire-safety training flashed through my mind, and I quickly pulled the pin off the extinguisher. Aiming at the base of the fire, not the flames, like she told me, I squeezed the trigger and swept side to side.

  “Should I call 911?” Gabby shouted, rushing in.

  “No, definitely not!” I said, worried that firefighters would discover the owner wasn’t here and shut us down.

  Back and forth I swept the foam for a good five minutes until the flames subsided. A gray smoke cloud hovered above the sink, but the danger was gone.

  I waited a few minutes and then picked up the charred remains of the box, only to realize the ash and extinguisher foam had ruined the tamale sign beside it too. I gathered it all and a giant ruined box of plastic spoons and tossed them out back in the Dumpster.

  When I returned, Jordan was clutching Lucky to his chest, crying. “Stuffy nose. Smell nothing,” he signed.

  I rubbed his head and wiped his wet cheek. “It’s okay. Don’t be scared,” I signed.

  Pete, Chief, Mr. and Mrs. Bianco, and Mr. Harley were all huddled in the storage room. Chief grabbed paper towels and started wiping up the mess. I pulled the box of tamales away. Luckily they hadn’t been destroyed.

  “Everything’s under control,” I said, reaching for a broom to clear the soot on the floor. Pete gave Jordan a big bowl to hold Lucky temporarily.

  “And I’ll get more spoons,” Pete said.

  “Where’s your mother?” Mr. Harley asked me, his face worried.

  “Home. She’s in bed, sick,” I explained yet again. “But Cinco de Mayo goes on as scheduled. It must.”

  Mr. Bianco’s mouth dropped open. “But you’re a kid. No one can expect a—”

  “Please, Mr. Bianco,” I said. “I’ve got to do this. For my ma’s sake. I can’t let her down.”

  He nodded and then, along with Mr.
Harley, picked up more ashy debris as Mrs. Bianco took the broom from my hands. “Delilah Dobson reaches out every time she sees someone needing a hand on State Street. You don’t have to do this alone,” she said.

  Mrs. Bianco put her hand on my shoulder. “We won’t let you do it alone.”

  Chapter 27

  Forewarned is forearmed. Study your local competition like a general preparing for battle.—The Inside Scoop

  “Here you go, ma’am, two twist cones with rainbow sprinkles,” I said to the lady with a stroller. “Enjoy!” I added, using Ma’s closing salutation.

  Quickly I started mixing the next customer’s SmAlbany Strawberry Shake. No time to idle. The line was out the door and snaking down the sidewalk. Pete had just dashed off to Barley’s for more spoons, and we were already missing him behind the counter.

  “If only I’d memorized the sundae specials like our soda jerk did,” Gabby whispered as she ladled blueberry syrup on a Yankee Doodle Dandy.

  “Yeah, I’m getting whiplash from turning around to read the menu board. And we’re running out of spoons. Sure hope Pete gets back soon,” I said.

  “I hope Peter hurries, because he’s soooo funny,” Gabby gushed as she placed three pieces of caramel fudge in a box with tissue.

  “Peter?” I asked.

  She nodded, handing the box to a customer. “Peter sounds more fitting for a soda jerk.”

  A Cherry on Top was wall-to-wall customers. People were laughing, talking, digging into sundaes, and licking away at cones. Silly Billy & Son had just arrived, and little kids were crowded around them as they set up their show. The clown son looked about my age, though it was hard to tell with that bushy red wig and white-painted face.

  Then, with a shockingly loud honk from a bazooka, the clowns got busy, shouting out jokes, squirting water guns, and twisting balloons into animal shapes.

  I’d never seen so many kids giggle at once. “Me! Me!” they squealed when Silly Billy asked for an assistant for a hat trick. Nearby, two older girls in softball uniforms pressed their faces against the jukebox, studying the song selections.