Authors: Rose Kent
T
he next Tuesday, Gabby and I went straight to A Cherry on Top after school. We were the only ones there since, at Winnie’s nudging, Ma had taken Jordan and Russell to playgroup. But before she left, Ma gave us flyers to pass out to city shopkeepers.
Gabby gazed down, reading the flyer on top of the stack. “I wonder why your mother picked May fifth for the Grand Opening. Is five her lucky number?”
“Doubt it,” I said. But then it hit me. Maybe she
had
picked
this date on purpose. “Come to think of it, that’s Cinco de Mayo.”
“What’s Cinco de Mayo?”
“A Mexican holiday. It’s huge in San Antonio. Lots of parades, dancing, and whoop-de-doing. People think it’s Mexico’s Independence Day, but actually, it marks the date when the Mexicans clobbered the French in a battle.”
Talking about Cinco de Mayo made me think of Juanita. Her letters had stopped coming. I hadn’t written in a while either.
We started passing flyers out to nearby State Street businesses first. Bianco’s Pizzeria, Polaski’s Dry Cleaners, Knickerbocker Shoe Repair, and Civitello’s Italian Pastries agreed to post one in their stores. But a few doors down from us, Mr. Harley at Adirondack Jewelers refused to take one, saying he didn’t like “tacky advertisements.”
Right about then, Gabby took a page out of the peer-mediation playbook, all the while relying on her tiger charm. “Mr. Harley, did you hear that Miz Dobson is naming ice cream treats after Schenectady sites? Plenty of merchants want in on that free publicity.”
Whoever said you gotta give to get sure knew retail. Faster than you could say
Grand Opening
, our flyer was posted on the wall behind the bracelet display, and Mr. Harley was shouting out all sorts of goofy names like Adirondack Sapphire Sundae and Harley’s Gem of a Milk Shake.
Gabby and I covered three blocks west on State, handing flyers out to merchants, shoppers, cops, trash collectors, and folks
waiting for buses, until we reached Proctor’s Theater, where we left a stack in the box office with the ticket agent. As we walked through the theater lobby, I couldn’t stop staring at the majestic decorations: velvet draperies with tasseled cords, ornately patterned gold wallpaper, and marble staircases suitable for women in ball gowns.
We headed up Broadway and crossed over to Franklin Street and walked into Barley’s Convenience Store. The manager was a big man with soft eyes and a crinkly mustache. He didn’t seem enthused when we told him about my ma’s new ice cream shop. Not one little bit.
“I’ve heard about this new business, and I’ve got a question,” he said, raising an eyebrow as he loaded hot dogs into the cooker. “Will your ma be serving lunch fare?”
“No, sir,” I answered. “She’s sticking with ice cream.”
“But we’ll gladly direct customers your way if they’re craving something heartier,” Gabby added with a sweetheart smile.
Relieved, the manager not only agreed to post a flyer by the beverage station but offered us a free hot dog. Gabby politely said no thanks, being a vegan, but I took mine to go with two packets of hot sauce.
“My name’s Mac Kelsh. Come again!” he shouted as we said goodbye.
A few streets later we reached the northwesternmost part of the city, the Stockade District. Historical row houses with tidy lawns lined the streets. “My dad says this is one of the oldest neighborhoods in the country,” Gabby explained. “It’s been around since 1661, only then it had a sturdy barricade to protect the
Dutch settlers from warring Indians. George Washington actually slept in one of these old houses.”
I noticed the well-kept wrought-iron entrances. Many homes had American flags flying and flowerpots already filled with pansies. The sidewalks were clean. No empty chip bags or dog poop. And no smudged windows or
MAKE MONEY FAST
advertisements nailed to telephone poles like on State Street. I liked this look. Farther in we came to a village square with a giant statue of Lawrence the Indian. The marker explained how he helped the Dutch rebuild after the massacre.
Turning back, Gabby stopped on the corner before Erie Boulevard, by a professional building with old-fashioned charm. The ground floor had a small shop with a sign:
VICTORIA’S CLASSIC INTERIOR DESIGN
.
“Fancy Vicky decorated my father’s law office last year,” Gabby said as we passed the door, sticking her finger in her mouth.
“That bad?”
“Actually it won a citywide decorating award, and my dad and his partners love it, but I think it’s gloomy and doomy like a funeral parlor. But you know me. I’d slap smiley-face stickers all over the world if I could.”
I stared at the antique sleigh bench in the window. The cushion was upholstered in a silver taffeta with silk-cord edging. Gorgeous.
“Wanna skip this one?” Gabby asked.
Skip it? I couldn’t
wait
to get inside. “Let’s go in. They might have a lot of clients.”
Inside, an apple-potpourri scent greeted us. Bolts of upholstery fabric in dozens of textures, colors, and prints lined the shelves against the back wall.
A middle-aged woman with glasses dangling from a chain around her neck looked up at us. Her snow-white cashmere sweater matched her French-manicured fingernails perfectly. “Welcome, girls. I’m Victoria. May I help you?”
“Hello. We’re passing out flyers for a great new ice creamery on State Street. Would you be willing to post one?” I asked.
“You mean Jerry’s shop, Van Curler Creamery?” she asked, less than enthusiastically.
I nodded. “It’s called A Cherry on Top now. Delilah Dobson, my ma, is the new owner, and it’s had a total makeover.”
Victoria shook her head. “Sorry, girls. I cater to a different clientele than that part of State Street.”
“Don’t worry, rich people love ice cream too,” Gabby said, grinning.
Victoria rested her hands on the table, revealing a ring with a sparkly pear-shaped diamond. “My customers like ice cream, but they don’t like shopping surrounded by stray trash, vacant buildings, unswept cracked sidewalks, and faces that don’t seem bothered by it all. And they don’t feel safe there in the evening.”
The door jingled as a lady with short black boots strutted in. “Excuse me,” Victoria said, and she walked over to greet her.
Gabby whispered in my ear. “Fancy Vicky is such a snoot! You want me to name-drop—you know, bring up my dear ol’ dad’s law firm? We’ll guilt her into hanging a flyer!”
I did feel ticked off at Fancy Vicky. A Cherry on Top met every spic-and-span standard in the
Inside Scoop
. It wasn’t Ma’s fault that businesses had closed, or that the police didn’t patrol that area much. Yet something about being around this lady with design expertise made me want to prove myself on my own merits.
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
.”