Rocky Road (14 page)

“Naah, I eyeballed it,” she said as she walked over to the sink and started filling the coffeepot with water.

“You know the saying, Ma: ‘Measure twice, cut once.’ Are you adding a valance?”

She shrugged. “I can hardly say
valance
, never mind make one. Plain curtains will have to do.”

I stared at Ma. Her face looked worn like a crumpled lunch bag. Sleep would do her good.

I picked up the sewing machine from the kitchen counter and carried it out to the living room.

“Where are you going with that?” she asked.

I moved the lamp off the desk facing the big window and put the sewing machine down.

“I sew better with natural lighting. Valances aren’t hard for me and they’re worth the extra time. They give tab tops a finished look, and that’s how you’ll get the cozy café atmosphere.”

Ma smiled bright like the North Star. No, even brighter. The North Star’s North Star. “Does this mean you’ll make the curtains?”

“I’ll make them once I have good measurements. But only if you go to sleep, Ma. You look really tired.”

“Hands down, I’ve got the best daughter in Schenectady—with the finest decorator know-how too!” Ma shouted, hugging me. Her skinny bones poked out from beneath her sweater.

“I’m still not sold on the ice cream shop,” I said. “But there’s no sense wasting a nice chintz fabric.”

“The
Inside Scoop
says a healthy skepticism is an advantage to an entrepreneur, so you’ve got a leg up in this business.” Ma turned off the light. “Let’s hit the hay. I’ll bring you the window dimensions tomorrow.”

I shook my head. “I do my own measurements. You take Jordan with you to the shop tomorrow. After school I’ll catch the bus downtown and bring my tape measure.”

“W
ell, howdy-do, interior designer!” Ma shouted down from a ladder as I walked into A Cherry on Top the next day. A drippy piece of wallpaper was hanging over her arm. Half the shop was covered in wallpaper that looked like a sea of smiling yellow ice cream cones.

I smelled Murphy oil soap as I dropped my tape measure on the counter, next to a big box of sugar cones, a case of toppings, and an opened can of Dr Pepper. I stared over at the
giant bow window with crown molding, which poured light in from the street. There was plenty wrong about this ice cream shop, but Ma was right about something. That window
was
an eye-grabber, just begging to be dressed up.

Jordan dashed out from behind the counter, wearing his favorite yellow shirt, a server’s paper hat, and a devilish grin. “Ice cream?” he signed.

“Two scoops, please,” I signed, and he pretended to serve me. I handed him make-believe coins, then licked my imaginary cone and peeked down at the freezer.

“How come the freezer’s empty?” I called over to Ma.

“It’s called a dipping cabinet, and filling it comes later,” she said, smoothing the wallpaper with her hands.

“I don’t get it. Equipment and supplies are everywhere, but no ice cream. What’s an ice cream shop without ice cream?”

“I’m working off a business plan, Tess. And I’m up to the part that says, ‘Get your shop in tip-top shape before investing in product.’”

Who was I to argue with the Ice Cream Gospel According to Delilah? Still, I thought we should have at least a half gallon in stock. Truth was, this curtain installer was hoping to take measurements and be rewarded with some Rocky Road.

I looked around. The shop
did
feel quaint and old-fashioned, what with its long marble serving counter and checkered-vinyl swivel stools. I personally wouldn’t have opted for that goofy cone wallpaper, but the bright color scheme worked. And the mirror behind the cash register was outlined in lightbulbs that gave a
retro, funky look, like it belonged on the vanity of an old movie star.

I walked into the storage room in the back. It was sky blue and smelled freshly painted, and I remembered when Ma returned to the apartment with her deli smock splattered with blue paint. One of the pillows that belonged on the apartment futon was on the floor, and the shelves over the sink were stacked high with supplies: nuts, bags of candy, plasticware, napkins, sauces, and a whole case of maraschino cherries.

Jordan followed me in, plopped down on the pillow, and turned on the TV. A McDonald’s commercial came on, and he pulled his hand down from his chest to his stomach, signing “Hungry.”

“Jordan the hungry hippo,” I signed back. The sign for
hippo
uses the Y hands to show a wide mouth opening and closing. I like how it resembles the real animal.

“No hippo. Turtle,” he signed, sliding his thumb from under his other hand for
turtle
.

I tickled his belly. “Jordan Dobson, do you ever stop thinking about turtles?”

He shook his head. “Hungry,” he signed again. “And happy! Happy, happy!”

“How come?”

He pointed back at me and then signed, “Tess here.”

“Yes, here.” I smiled and looked away, out the back window. I didn’t want him to see my teary eyes. He wouldn’t understand why I’d been avoiding this place.

Out back in the alley, a man wearing a stained white apron was throwing garbage into the snow-covered Dumpster. I figured he worked next door at Bianco’s Pizzeria.

I felt a draft from the door and discovered it was open a crack, so I pushed it shut, but it wouldn’t lock. Then I turned back toward Jordan, whose eyes were glued to the TV. I tapped him on his shoulder and signed, “I have to help Ma. Then we’ll eat pizza, okay?”

Jordan’s head moved up and down like a puppet on a string. “Pizza
and
ice cream!” he signed.

It took five late nights to make the window treatments, but they were well worth the fuss. I chose a lemon-yellow valance to complement the wallpaper and added a fringe with red dangling beads that resembled cherries. The fringe alone took two days because my stitching was crooked the first time and I had to rip it out. (Guess even crafty queens can get out of practice when they’re away from their equipment.) I was most proud of the lining. It was a matching yellow satin that I got on sale for $3.99 a yard, but it looked elegant, like Chinese silk.

Ma was tickled pink with the curtains—so much so that she asked me to make matching tablecloths for the dining area and skirts to hang beneath the sinks in the restrooms to cover the rusty pipes. I told Ma too much cherry fabric in those tiny bathrooms would make customers feel like they were trapped in the Hi Ho! Cherry-O board game. But Ma said looking at fruit sure beat looking at rusty pipes any old day.

One Saturday morning I loaded up my power drill and
tools, and Jordan, Ma, and I piled into the Toyota and drove to the ice cream shop. Snow was starting to melt, and marbled, muddy slush was piled against the curbs. A fog covered State Street like a wet washcloth. My face felt damp just from the walk in from the car, and Jordan kept sniffling.

Right away I began installing the curtains, but the plastic hardware cracked as I started drilling. Ma told me there was a hardware store a few streets west on State Street and then across Broadway.

“I come too!” Jordan signed when he saw me leaving. He was sitting on the serving counter, arranging his tiny plastic animals around a lion that ruled from the top of a stack of ice cream cones.

But Jordan’s nose was running, and he’d been sneezing all morning like he was coming down with something. “It’s raining. Stay here and play,” I signed, handing him a tissue.

He stuck his lower lip out and tossed an elephant at my feet. “Tess meanie!”

The walk to the hardware store took about ten minutes, but I practically had to hopscotch-jump the whole way, with all the smashed pop cans and fast-food wrappers on the sidewalk. It was still drizzling, and I kept my sweatshirt hood on so my hair wouldn’t get wet and frizz.

One building after the next had empty stores and windows sprayed with graffiti. It smelled, too, like gasoline on one corner, trash on the next, and then like soup as I passed a diner (I didn’t mind that one).

I kept thinking about what Ma had read in the
Inside Scoop
,
how a retail shop was all about location, location, location. Well,
this
location was the pits. Who’d want to eat ice cream on a dirty street? Why were we fussing to create a cutesy café when it was sitting right smack in the slums?

Seeing the hardware store, I crossed the street and went in. When I came back out, the rain had stopped. I noticed a woman with torn clothes sitting on the curb, with steam coming from a thermos bottle in her hand. Beside her was a shopping cart overflowing with recycled cans and a paper cup with “Donatiens” scribbled on it. I tossed the change from my purchase into the cup and she thanked me.

“That you, Tess?”

I turned around. Pete Chutkin was in the distance, riding on a bicycle built for two—only he was riding solo.

“What are you doing here?” he asked when he caught up and stopped his bike beside me. An old-fashioned camera with a chip on the base was strapped around his neck.

“Running an errand. My ma’s opening up a business nearby. What’re
you
doing here?”

“I live here,” he said, pointing behind him to a small cluster of trailers poking out between the buildings. “I’m taking pictures. I got a nice one of a little girl eating a donut at the bus stop on Erie Boulevard, and a dog sleeping on a sewer grate. You never know what you’ll find in Schenectady.”

I stared at his bicycle. It was white with rust patches everywhere like a spotted cow. The seats had rips, and the handlebars were wrapped in duct tape.

“Want a ride?” he asked, oozing pride as if he was driving a BMW.

“No thanks,” I said, beginning to walk away, but he pedaled alongside me.

“I bet you’ve never been on something like this. It’s called a tandem bike, and it rides like you’re steering a telephone pole! Hop on. I’ll give you a tour of the city.”

I kicked a rotten apple core. “From what I see, I don’t want the tour.”

“Oh, we’ve got plenty of stuff worth checking out in Schenectady. And I know a place you’ll love, you being from Texas and all. It’s not far. C’mon!”

Don’t ask why, but he had me with that bit about Texas. I hopped onto the backseat and away we went, bump-bumping along, over potholes and cracks in the street. A car beeped when we turned around suddenly because a wind gust made my shopping bag blow off the handlebars. It
did
feel like we were steering a telephone pole. Riding the tandem bike reminded me of the train game I used to play with Jordan. He’d grab my waist from behind me and we’d choo-choo, chug-a-chug around the kitchen.

Pete played tour guide as we pedaled, telling me how Schenectady was originally the land of the Mohawk tribe, and how in 1690 its Dutch settlement was attacked by the French and their Indian allies in a brutal massacre.

“Later they used to call Schenectady ‘the city that lights and hauls the world,’ on account of Thomas Edison starting his
company here, which became General Electric. And American Locomotive Company was here too, and they once made all the steam and diesel trains in the country. Back in those days the streets of Schenectady were paved with gold. Not so anymore, but we’re working on that,” he said.

We rode down Liberty Street all the way to Eastern Parkway, and then kept going until Pete stopped the bike on a side street near the entrance to a park.

“This is Central Park. New York City is such a copycat naming their park after
ours
,” he said, grinning. He pointed to a huge plot of scraggy bushes muffin-topped with snow. “That’s the famous Rose Garden. Every color and type of rose in the rose alphabet blooms here. In the summertime, this place is filled with wedding parties getting photographed and lots of ‘garden angels’ pruning the bushes.”

Pete asked me to stand beside the white trellis arch leading toward the bushes, and he took my picture. Then we followed the stone maze through the garden, and he photographed a sparrow perched atop a bench.