Rocky Road (22 page)

Then I stormed out of the apartment, down the elevator, and into the woods behind the building, where I cried until my eyes puffed up like pink balloons.

T
he only reason I climbed into Chief’s truck to get the dipping cabinet later was because I knew I’d have to fetch Ma from the ER after she threw her back out moving it without me.

What a crummy way to spend a Saturday. As darkness blanketed State Street, Ma, Chief, and I grunted as we lugged the dipping cabinet through the alley. The darn thing felt like a tractor-trailer without wheels.

Despite Ma’s pleas, Chief refused to sit this one out.
He carried the dipping cabinet right beside me, wearing steel-toed boots and camouflage pants like he was the moving crew foreman. I tried not to stare, but his right boot was so loose, it made his prosthesis look like a pole in a bucket.

I hadn’t uttered one word to Ma since lunch. I kept remembering the opening page of the peer-mediation training manual, which explained how conflict can be productive if people express their feelings in a positive way to reduce anxiety and reach a resolution. I hadn’t done that earlier with Ma. But then again, she wasn’t an easy disputant to deal with.

“Steady as she goes, Tess!” Chief barked.

Ugh. My hands were barely holding on, much less able to steer.

I thought about Gabby. She’d sounded so disappointed when I called and said I couldn’t come to her house. I hadn’t explained everything—I was too upset to go into the whole bit about picking up the dipping cabinet. Right now the Peer Mediation Club was probably sponge-painting their handprints on the back of the shirts. I sure hoped they understood the directions I’d given Gabby, especially the part about making sure the peace-sign decal was smooth before ironing.

Meanwhile, here on the chain gang, Ma was bragging to Chief how A Cherry on Top would be offering thirty-four fabulous flavors. Three more than Baskin-Robbins, she said, thanks to this deluxe, extra-deep dipping cabinet.

“Big whoop,” I muttered to myself, adjusting my grip.

“Variety matters to customers,” Ma said. “You agree, Chief?”

“Don’t go by me, Delilah. All my life I’ve been a one-flavor
guy. Used to be this great ice cream stand by the Norfolk Navy Station. Every time our ship came off deployment, I’d grab my best girl and head over there for some butter pecan.”

I tried to imagine Chief as a young sailor with a girl on his arm. He must have looked so different then, before he lost his leg.

Ma started quoting that silly
Inside Scoop
again—research about the “flavorology of ice cream,” or how the flavor you pick reveals your personality.

“So what does butter pecan reveal about me?” Chief asked, between grunts.

“As I recall, it says you’re orderly, careful, ethical, and fiscally conservative,” Ma said.

“Yes to all of that,” Chief replied proudly, like he’d been showered with compliments.

“As for me, I’m a coffee ice cream lover, and you can’t keep our kind down,” Ma said. “We’re lively and dramatic, and we thrive on the passion of the moment. And we go by our hunches when we make decisions.”

I could say a thing or two about Ma’s hunches, but I kept quiet. Like they say in peer mediation, why use words to wound? I was too weary to talk anyway. This dipping cabinet had to weight ten thousand pounds.

“One other point,” Ma added, all smiles. “Coffee fans are romantically compatible with strawberry fans. I’m putting that out there in case you notice a good-lookin’ bachelor eating a strawberry ice cream cone.”

Chief paused for a minute, his eyes gazing off like he was
thinking. “I know a bachelor who eats strawberry ice cream, but frankly, he’s not your type. Cal is at least thirty years older than you, Delilah, and he’s addicted to Match.com.”

Ma let loose a loud laugh.

Chief looked over at me. “What’s
your
favorite flavor, young lady?”

“I’m not wild about ice cream anymore,” I said coolly.

“Bite your tongue, devil!” Ma cackled.

I was fibbing. Of course it was Rocky Road. Every other flavor is second banana compared to that heavenly mishmash of marshmallow, chocolate, and nuts. And I wouldn’t admit it to Ma, but I was curious to know what that said about my personality.

Just when I thought she’d tell me, we reached the back door of the shop, and Ma suggested we rest the dipping cabinet on the ground.

A few minutes later we picked it up again and attempted to push it through, but it was too wide to clear the jamb.

“Dad-gummit, what bad luck!” Ma groaned, shoving it with all her strength.

Chief shook his head. “It’s not going to fit, Delilah. The doorjamb’s too thick. And State Street is blocked due to a water-line break.”

That meant we couldn’t load it back into the truck and drive it to the front. We’d have to lug it all the way around the building.

Chief’s face was red now. The veins on his forehead were bulging like tree roots.

“Time out,” said Ma, noticing his weary look. “Let’s take a breather.”

“That you, Tess?” a voice called from the alley.

It was Pete, riding that tandem bike. His camera was strapped around his neck again.

“Hey, Pete!” I called.

“Where are you-all moving that?” he asked as he got closer.

“Around front, to my ma’s shop.”

He parked his bike. “So
that’s
where your ice cream shop is, huh? Cool! Let me help. I’ve got a six-pack of muscle under this ripped T-shirt.” He smiled at Chief and greeted Ma. “How ya been, Miz D.?”

“Doing fine, Pete. And we’d appreciate the help. Fancy camera you got there.”

“Got a great shot earlier of the fading sun splashing shadows on the sidewalk. I call it ‘Good Night, Schenectady.’”

So Pete took Chief’s place carrying the dipping cabinet, and Chief led the way, holding a flashlight. Slowly, the three of us shuffled our way around the building, all the while listening to Pete ramble on about how he’d just watched
The Alamo
on TV for the fifth time.

“That Santa Anna sure was one mean dude. Good thing Jim Bowie knew how to handle a knife. Hey, Miz D., did you know that some of those rebels weren’t even
from
Texas?”

“Sure did, but we forgave ’em for that,” Ma said as we turned the corner of the building.

A chorus of relieved sighs broke out when we finally brought the dipping cabinet inside the shop.

Ma plugged it in right away. It worked. “Purring like a kitty cat,” she said, smiling.

The front door jingled, and Gabby walked in.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, surprised. I didn’t even think she knew where the shop was.

“I came to help, but I guess I’m too late. I called your apartment, and your friend Winnie explained what happened.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “You should’ve told me about what was going on, Tess.”

Ma walked over and extended her hand. “Hello, Gabby. I’m Miz Dobson. Pleased to meetcha. Welcome to A Cherry on Top.”

“Thanks. Gosh, this place is adorable!” Gabby squealed, looking around.

Pete rubbed the chrome on the shake machine, then started clicking away with his camera. “Yeah, it feels like we stepped back in time to the golden-oldie days,” he said.

Ma said she was aiming for a post–World War II look, since back then the soda fountain was the town’s social hub. “And the soda jerk was
the
showman. Young men destined for greatness competed intensely for that job.”

“Nice work if you can get it,” Pete said, taking a picture of Chief sitting on a stool at the counter.

Ma was pleased with Pete’s interest. “Bet you didn’t know that some distinguished Americans got their start as soda jerks.”

“Like who?” he asked.

“Harry Truman, Duke Ellington, Jerry Lewis, Malcolm X, and that pointy-eared guy from the old
Star Trek
show,” she said.

“Mr. Spock? Whoa. Now we’re talking famous!” Pete said.

Gabby tapped my shoulder. “We didn’t make the team shirts,” she whispered.

“Why not?”

“It wouldn’t be fun without your crafty know-how, and we’d probably mess it up. Mr. Win said we only have one mediation scheduled for next Wednesday, so we’ll have time then.”

Wow. They’d waited for me. I thought of Kaylee and the other girls at my old school who had poked fun at my homemade vest. Here they actually liked my crafty know-how.

A lump formed in my throat. “Great” was all I could get out.

Suddenly Ma clapped her hands. “
¡Buéno!
I’m treating my hardworking field hands to supper. Make yourselves comfortable while I run over to Bianco’s and grab some pizza and buffalo wings.”

Pete charged the dining area, followed by Chief, who said he was so famished he would chow down more than all us young whippersnappers together. Gabby kept walking around the dining area, gazing down at the floor paw prints and up at the beaver cycling across the ceiling. “Who did all this?” she asked.

“Ma’s the brains. I helped with the decorating,” I said.

I showed Gabby the artwork in the bathrooms. (She especially liked the tiger holding a cone.) When we came out, I told her and Pete about Ma’s test-market session at Mohawk Valley Village and the jukebox-buying adventure. Talking
about it made me realize something. In the last few months Ma
had
done a lot.

Gabby put her hand to her chest and smiled. “I
love
the name A Cherry on Top. It makes me think of the movie
It’s a Wonderful Life
. Remember when George makes a chocolate sundae for Mary? She whispers in his bad ear, ‘George Bailey, I’ll love you till the day I die.’ Ice cream shops offer endless possibilities for romance.”

I pointed toward the counter, piled with paper supplies needing unpacking. “This one offers endless work. My ma hasn’t heard about child-labor laws.”

“My father exploited me when he opened his law firm too,” Gabby said. “I set up files, answered phones, dusted leather chairs, and watered plants for my whole summer vacation.”

“At least the law is interesting. You use your brain instead of your scooping muscles.”

Gabby’s eyes twinkled behind her red glasses. “Guess what, Tess? My Zen archery instructor just had a baby. That means that except for peer mediation on Wednesdays, I have afternoons free. I could help here too! Think of what a team we’d be, the ox and the tiger. You know how to decorate, and I can use feng shui to add harmony.”

I thought of my ugly exchange with Ma earlier. “Harmony is good,” I agreed.

Fifteen minutes later, Ma returned, her arms piled high with pizza, wings, and pop bottles. I grabbed paper plates and brought them to a dining table. Pete pulled the chair out for Gabby to sit down.

“Thanks,” she said.

“My pleasure,” he replied, his voice deeper. “I’m trying my best to behave like a soda jerk.”

Maybe it started because we were tired and punchy. Or maybe it was because the veil of darkness outside made it feel cozy inside. Whatever it was, one thing led to another, and before you knew it, Pete, Gabby, Chief, Ma, and I were going around the table telling jokes and having a good ol’ time.

Those were some corny jokes, especially Pete’s: “How do you make a dinosaur float? Duh, by adding ice cream!”

The lamer they were, the louder we laughed. I guess after we’d carried a heavy dipping cabinet for so long, anything seemed funny.