by Rose Kent
When it comes to food retail, cleanliness is next to godliness.—The Inside Scoop
“Trouble alert: Lucky’s on the loose and a newshound is sniffing for a story,” I whispered to Gabby.
Gabby’s eyes bulged. “Uh-oh. You handle Lois Lane, and I’ll stay here and help your brother search,” she said.
I walked out from behind the counter and greeted the reporter.
“I’m Christine Perkins. News anchor at Channel Thirteen,” she replied, clutching a clipboard. “We’re doing a story on Schenectady’s business revitalization, and I’d like to interview Delilah Dobson.”
Ma’s moment to shine had arrived, yet she wasn’t here. I could feel tears pooling just thinking about it, but no—I wouldn’t let that happen. Cleansing breath, Tess.
So, as Ma would say, I stayed calm as a platter of spit. “I’m Tess Dobson, acting shop manager. Delilah is tending to other affairs, but I can help.”
Ms. Perkins looked slightly suspicious. “You sure you’re old enough?”
“This is a family operation, and I’m the Dobson family spokesperson,” I said firmly, pointing quickly toward Winnie and Catherine, who were sitting eating their ice cream with the Salty Old Dogs, as if they were my aunts.
Without leaving room for further questions, I jumped right into my shop spiel and tour. “A Cherry on Top is for all kinds of ice cream lovers.” I paused and gestured toward Chief and Adelaine in the corner, licking their cones and making lovey-dovey eyes at each other. “As you can see, we welcome the young and the young at heart.”
Ms. Perkins nodded but didn’t say a word, so I kept going.
“Our ice cream is made with only the purest, freshest ingredients, starting with milk from black-and-white Holstein cows,” I said, recalling everything Pete had told me about manufacturing ice cream.
Just as I continued describing ingredients, Elvis’s “All Shook Up” blasted from the speakers, and Jordan dashed toward the dining area. Scooting from one table to the next, he lifted tablecloths, squatted down, and looked between customers’ ankles, searching furiously.
Fortunately, Ms. Perkins didn’t notice. She was distracted, telling the camera guy to film customers walking in—people of all ages, shapes, and looks. Some wore designer clothes as if they shopped at Victoria’s Classic Interior Design, while others had frayed jackets and unshaven faces.
Pointing the microphone at me, she said, “So tell us about this Resuscitate State Street Association. And why did your family choose to launch a business on State Street, of all places? Most retailers would stay clear of this no-growth area.”
What a rude statement! But this was no different from peer mediation. I had to state the facts without getting defensive. I recalled what Pete had told me during our ride to Central Park, about Schenectady’s glory days and later hardships, as well as Ma’s plan to make State Street more welcoming.
“Sure, this city has some wear and tear, but so does a scruffy old teddy bear and that’s lovable,” I said. “From the Erie Canal to the first railroad built in New York State, Schenectady has been the cradle of innovation. Sure, maybe jobs have left for the Sun Belt since then, but resuscitating State Street is going to bring the sparkle back.”
Then I cut to the chase, rattling off reasons why ice cream and State Street went hand in hand. “And it’s only a short stroll from the renovated Proctor’s Theater, where people have been enjoying live entertainment since 1926. Now folks will have scrumptious ice cream to enjoy after the show!”
Ms. Perkins said she’d heard we came from Texas. “So what brought you all the way to Schenectady?”
Tough question. Tougher than my worst batch of fudge. I couldn’t tell her about Jimbo’s wife’s cousin’s stepsister, who convinced Ma to come here and then bailed out to sell lottery tickets in Buffalo. That wouldn’t give us points for credibility.
Desperate, I pulled out two of my favorite words.
“Was it destiny or serendipity? You be the judge,” I said with a voice smooth like a circus announcer’s. “All I know for sure is we were drawn to this city and its lovers of frozen treats.”
I kept loading Ms. Perkins up with local trivia. I explained how the upstate New York town of Ithaca claims to be the birthplace of the first ice cream sundae, back in 1891. “But as far as I know, nobody offers a Schenectady Snow Shake but us.”
Ms. Perkins didn’t look impressed. Or like she believed me. She had to become a believer. What could I do? Mr. Win says be an advocate for resolution, and always speak the truth, I remembered.
“There is another reason why we opened A Cherry on Top here,” I said, lowering my voice. “A reason that’s more confidential and juicy, if you must know.”
Ms. Perkins’s waxed eyebrows jumped up an inch. “What?”
I touched her suit sleeve. “Have you had a bad day lately, Ms. Perkins—and I mean so bad that if it was a fish, you’d throw it back?”
She shrugged. “Who hasn’t? Yesterday I woke up with an allergy attack, and that construction traffic on Erie Boulevard made me late for work.”
“Delilah Dobson created A Cherry on Top as a welcoming watering hole for when life leaves you roughed up. Trust me, she’s got her share of bumps and bruises, and she’s met plenty of Schenectady folks who’ve also struggled through heartbreak. Down but not out, that’s what Delilah says.”
I pointed to Pete, who was serving up a smile along with a Rotterdam Root Beer Float. “Our soda jerk doesn’t exactly live in a penthouse, but he’s a budding photographer who always pictures the good in the world. And Gabby, our curly-topped scooper—well, she’s an enlightened tiger-vegan who’s always willing to lend a hand. That’s the kind of people A Cherry on Top attracts. Sweets for the folks who need a little sweet in their lives.”
Ms. Perkins jotted that down on her clipboard. I almost detected a smile under all that makeup.
I gently suggested that her cameraman switch from filming the cracked sidewalks and graffiti-covered buildings outside and instead home in on the happy families licking cones and enjoying themselves on State Street, thanks to the RSSA’s cleanup and neighborhood watch.
And then I had to pass on Ma’s famous one-liner. Only now it was starting to feel like it belonged to everybody at A Cherry on Top. Walking Ms. Perkins toward the front counter, I spoke clearly into the mic. “We like to say, ‘Ice cream warms the heart, no matter what the weather.’”
She scribbled that down too, and then started checking out all the flavors in the dipping cabinet.
I could almost hear Ma’s twang. Attagirl, Tess. You got her two-stepping.
“How about a cone, Ms. Perkins? I bet we’ve got your favorite flavor!”
She grinned. “It’s peanut butter, and it’s hard to find.”
“We’ve got it, all right. My brother’s a huge peanut butter fan.”
I walked behind the counter, washed my hands, and grabbed the scooper. I was about to reach for a cone when I heard a scream from the dining area.
“What’s moving over there?” a woman yelled.
“Tell me it’s not a mouse!” a second woman said, her hand covering her sundae.
All eyes were fixed on the front display window. My heart felt like it would skip a beat. I knew exactly what was going on, what was moving under that blinking banana-split sign.
Just then, Jordan charged the window, shrieking his bat shrieks. He jumped up on the ledge, knocking down a collection of ceramic smiley-face cones and reaching his hand under the light until he pulled out Lucky.
The camera guy filmed it all—like he was collecting evidence—as the crowd in the dining area looked on. Kids abandoned the clowns to watch Jordan. Most of them were giggling, though some of the adults looked bothered.
“Turtles carry diseases, don’t they?” Ms. Perkins asked, her words dredged in disgust. She didn’t look like she was willing to let this red-eared slider slide.
My voice locked, sensing danger, dreading that Channel 13 would have a bre
aking news story later: “Ice Cream Shop Shut Down After Serving Up Salmonella and Sickening Hundreds.”
Suddenly a clown stepped in front of the microphone—make that Son of Clown. “Aha, there’s my stage assistant. Hard to get good help these days.”
“You brought that reptile into this food establishment?” Ms. Perkins asked, frowning.
He nodded, shaking his wig. “He’s a special turtle—show sanitized. You see, I promised the kids I’d bring an empty sundae bowl to life. Guess I should’ve warned them it wouldn’t sit still.”
Boys and girls holding twisty animal balloons rushed toward Jordan, who was holding Lucky, and shouted, “Ooooo!”
Ms. Perkins said nothing. Son of Clown had made a gracious cover-up attempt, but I knew she wouldn’t buy it. She just kept staring over at Lucky in Jordan’s arms with the camera guy standing beside her, filming away. I had this sinking feeling he was filming the rise and fall of our business.
But on closer look, it was Jordan she was watching now. Then she turned to me and asked, “Who is that boy?”
Speak the truth, I told myself. No more holding back. I opened my mouth. “My brother Jordan. And that’s his turtle. He went missing.”
After another moment she walked over to him and signed, “I’m Christine. Cute turtle.”
Jordan squealed like he always does when someone unexpectedly signs. “His name is Lucky. Okay to pet his shell. But careful. Lucky shy.”
Ms. Perkins turned back to me. “My cousin is deaf,” she spoke, then signed, facing Jordan so he’d see.
Quickly I took Lucky from Jordan, put him in the big bowl, and whisked him back to the storage room, letting out a Texas-sized sigh. I thought Jordan would follow, but he didn’t. He stuck around signing more to Ms. Perkins, something about seeing her on TV and could he get on TV too?
At that point I washed my hands again and began S&P’ing two perfectly shaped cones with peanut butter ice cream, feeling relieved that Channel 13 wasn’t going to ruin our big day. At least not on account of turtle trouble.
Winnie called me to the storage room just as the crowd gathered for the ribbon cutting. “Where’s your ma?” she asked. “I haven’t seen her all day.”
I swallowed a lump. “At the apartment. Shooting Stars is back.”
Winnie’s eyes widened like her sombrero. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted to, but things got so busy.”
She listened to the whirl of talking and motion up front. “You mean you’ve managed all this by yourself?”
“Everyone’s helped. Pete, Gabby, Chief—and you too.”
Right away Winnie arranged for Melvin to go back to Mohawk Valley Village and check on Ma. “Bring her a sandwich and sit with her,” she told him. Then she hugged me so tight, I felt the sequins on her gown. “I’m so proud of what you’ve done,” she said.
“Tess? Mayor Legato’s here!” Gabby shouted.
Uh-oh. I turned to Winnie. “The mayor could cause problems if he finds out that Ma’s not here. What’ll I say?”
“Act like a politician and say as little as possible,” she said, rubbing my back as we walked out front. “Don’t you worry, girl. When the mayor gets a look at the crowd whipping out their credit cards on State Street and the TV crew covering it, he won’t have any questions.”
Sure enough, the mayor arrived in a perky mood, shaking hands, name-dropping, and taking credit for Cinco de Mayo like he’d dreamed up the whole idea. And as soon as the camera was running, he delivered his speech, smiling while he used punchy power words like urban renewal and economic development. He credited Delilah Dobson and the RSSA for “revitalizing State Street and choosing to invest in the future of Schenectady.” I couldn’t help but feel proud hearing him go on about Ma. A part of me wanted to giggle, especially when he described her “natural flair for business.” I kept thinking about the flares the cops set up on the road when Ma ripped his car door off.
After the ribbon cutting, all the kids ran outside for the piñata ceremony. The clowns went too, and Pete and Son of Clown took turns covering kids’ eyes with a bandanna and spinning them before they took a whack. Wouldn’t you know it was a teensy, tiny Asian girl named Theresa who finally broke it open and sent candy flying on the sidewalk and kids scampering to grab it.
For the first time all day, Gabby and I were the only ones in the shop. She scooped herself a cup of lemon sorbet (“nondairy and vegan friendly”), and I had a double scoop of Rocky Road. Then we sat in the dining area with our feet up.
You’d think that ice cream wouldn’t be appealing after the billion cones we scooped today, but it was. Rocky Road always tastes like ice-cold heaven in my mouth.
“Ooh, my tired tootsies,” Gabby groaned, pulling her feet out from her heels. “I don’t have what it takes to make it in retail.”
I grinned. “If it means chapped hands and achy shoulders, I don’t want what it takes.”
“But look at all this,” Gabby said, pointing outside. “People are strolling and smiling when they used to rush to get past State Street. Lots of kids from our school came too. And did you hear Mr. Win? He said we’re going to have our end-of-the-year Peer Mediation Club party here!”
I smiled. “My ma deserves most of the credit. You, too, Gabby. You’re a true friend.”
“This tiger is lucky to call you my friend,” she said, playfully punching my shoulder. “And speaking of special friends, I was right about ice cream shops offering romantic possibilities, wasn’t I?”
I bit into a chunk of marshmallow. “I know. Our superstar soda jerk stole your heart.”
“Peter is really nice. And guess what? He wants to come to my Zen archery class later in the summer and take photos. But I’m not talking about him. Someone else has been watching you—a cute male someone.”
I stopped licking my cone. “Who?”
“Son of Clown.”
Son of Clown? With highlights in my hair and a brand-new outfit, I got noticed by Son of Clown?
“No matter what, I am not dating a clown!” I shouted. After I said it, I felt a little guilty. He had tried to save the day with that smooth line about a show-sanitized turtle.
“C’mon, Tess. Embrace life’s adventure. Romance with a clown could be thrilling,” Gabby teased.
Thinking about that, a silly volcano erupted from deep inside my stomach, and I couldn’t stop giggling. It must’ve been contagious, too, because Gabby joined in, laughing so hard she practically tipped her chair over.
Chapter 30
The wise retailer will heed Aristotle’s words: “We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.”—The Inside Scoop
The sign on the door said A Cherry on Top closed at ten p.m., but a chartered bus pulled up at nine-forty-five. It was a church group from way north in the Adirondacks, packed with chirpy people singing show tunes, and we didn’t have the heart to turn them away. We scooped the last cone about forty-five minutes later, and then quickly flipped the sign to CLOSED and got to work cleaning the shop.
It was just Gabby, Pete, and me left. Winnie had taken Jordan home earlier, and Chief was outside helping RSSA members sweep the street and stack the benches on loan from the funeral home.
“Yikes, this floor looks like somebody’s been finger-painting with fudge,” Gabby said as she swooshed the mop in the dining area.
“Can’t say us hired help have been much tidier,” Pete said as he scrubbed the prep counter, which was covered with sauces, nuts, and melted ice cream.
I emptied the trash, restocked the freezer, and pulled apart the hot-fudge dispenser like I’d seen Ma do. Sanitation was a top priority for her, and even though I felt like I could stretch out on the counter and fall asleep in five seconds flat, I wouldn’t dare stop until all the equipment looked shiny new again.
Thirty minutes later, Pete and Gabby were yawning and looking like they’d just run a marathon. Gabby’s feet were so blistered, she’d taken off her heels. Pete
had raccoon eyes, and his tuxedo tails had strawberry syrup stains like he’d done battle.
I took money from the cash register, sorted it into two piles, and then added an extra ten dollars to each.
“Here you go. A day’s wages plus a bonus for outstanding service,” I said, giving them the money. “Now go home. Get some rest.”
After they left, I reorganized the topping jars and filled out the inventory chit for reordering. Mac Kelsh had been nice enough to offer to open the store tomorrow so I could take care of Ma, and I made sure to leave the store-opening checklist on the counter. Then I counted the money. I’d heard Ma say breaking even on Opening Day meant pulling in eight hundred dollars. We’d brought in double that amount!
I wiped down the dining-area tables, and then Chief and I locked up. We walked slowly to the truck, drinking in the refreshing night air. Mr. Bianco was standing in front of the pizzeria with Mr. Harley, his arm resting on a broom.
“Super job, Tess. You made State Street proud!” Mr. Bianco called.
Mr. Harley whistled. Then he said, “You go home and tell the Can-Do Cancan Lady we’re all thinking about her.”
I checked on Ma as soon as I got into the apartment. She was sleeping deeply on the futon, snoring. I wished I could wake her and tell her all about the day. But she wasn’t up for that talk, and I could barely hold my head up. Instead, I tossed my filthy clothes into the hamper, put on my pj’s, and jumped into bed.
The soft pillow under my head had never felt so good.
I woke the next morning to the smell of fried eggs and onions. Someone was in the kitchen whipping up a Tex-Mex breakfast to die for. But who? It couldn’t be Ma. Not after Shooting Stars.
But it was Ma in the kitchen, leaning over a frying pan on the stove.
“What are you doing up?” I asked as she turned around.
“Making huevos rancheros. Lord knows you deserve this and a whole lot more,” she said, her voice faint but sincere.
Ma looked awful—pasty pale and scrawny like a desert lizard. Her hair was tangled and matted, and her whole body trembled as she held the spatula.