Rocky Road (24 page)

Ma smiled at Jordan. “Yessirree, he’s coming along nicely. I owe a world of thanks to Winnie.”

Thump!
Jordan’s elbow hit the ketchup bottle and knocked it into the napkin holder. The noise startled both Ma and me, but not Jordan. Even after all these years, it still saddened me that he couldn’t hear sounds around him. I wondered if he imagined what a rocket ship sounded like. Or a dog barking, or a whistle blowing. I wondered if he even thought about sound. Once, I shared this with Winnie, but she told me to stop thinking that way. “That child is perfect just the way he is. Who says hearing is better than not hearing?”

Ma wiped hot sauce from Jordan’s mouth. Watching her made me realize that she too had been helping Jordan adjust. The school here in New York
was
good for him.

Maybe Ma buying the shop wasn’t messing everything up. Maybe she was proving me wrong. Maybe she could hold her own
and
her business if she got a little help. Something to keep
her
on track.

I had an idea. Now I needed to present it in a way that respected her feelings.

“Ma, you know how I helped you move the dipping cabinet, even though I had something else planned?”

She nodded.

“Sorry for having a bad attitude about it. Making that delivery was important. I’m glad I helped.”

“That makes two of us,” she said, winking.

“Well, I need you to do something that’s important too.” I kept up the eye contact with a sincere but nonthreatening facial expression.

“What?”

“Go to the doctor. Opening this ice cream shop is really demanding. I don’t want you to get sick.”

Or crash
, I thought.
I don’t want you to crash
.

Ma started singing her old tune about doctors being good-for-nothin’ time wasters. “What does some pill wrangler with a stethoscope swinging from his neck know about my inner workings? I’ve been holding my own for thirty-five years without those quacks. I’m not about to let them tinker with my brain now.”

Time to redirect this nonproductive talk, but how? I thought about how Winnie repeats her favorite sayings. She calls them mantras, and they do have a way of driving home a message.

“A retailer must be healthy, Ma. A retailer must be healthy.”

“Who says I’m not healthy?” she asked accusingly. “I was just over at Knickerbocker Shoe Repair helping Flora repair a giant shoe rack that got loose from the wall and came undone. The day before, I kept Mr. Harley from losing it when his
alarm system tripped and wailed for three hours straight. If that didn’t require bucketloads of sanity, what would?”

“I know you’re sane, Ma. I’m just saying the pace you keep could make you sick, and then what would happen to A Cherry on Top? A retailer must be healthy.”

Finally, she agreed—just so I’d stop with the mantra, I think. “Enough. Quit badgering me. I’ll look around for a doc when I have time.”

Once again, peer-mediation training played in my head.
An agreement needs a specific action plan
. “Tomorrow,” I insisted, swallowing the last of my pulled pork. “Winnie knows a clinic where you can walk in without an appointment.”

“Okay then, tomorrow,” Ma said, reaching for the dessert menu that the waitress dropped off. “Can we change the subject now? I’m more interested in discussing what kind of pie they got.”

That should’ve had me yahooing like I’d made a breakthrough. Ma just agreed to go to a doctor. Progress! I should’ve been doing a belly-bursting, high-fiving cheer inside. But instead I sat there quietly, poking my pickle.

Why? Because I watch the Weather Channel. The eye of the hurricane is where everything feels calm and secure—right before the worst winds blow. Even here in Schenectady, with our new friends and the promise that Ma might get help, the same fears swirled in my head like a soft-serve twist. What if Shooting Stars came back and ruined everything?

I
t took two hours to make the Peer Mediation Club shirts on Wednesday, but everyone loved how they came out. Gabby called them “bold and daring, even if we are a peace-seeking group.” Malika liked the chain of handprints on the back. And Ritchie said the turned-up collar gave him the slick look he was hoping for to impress the ladies.

Afterward, I caught the bus to downtown Schenectady.

“Hey, Ma!” I shouted as I walked into A Cherry on Top.

“Be right out!” she called from the back storage room. Giant
bags of M&Ms, Oreos, chocolate chips, nuts, cookies, sprinkles, and gummi bears were lying near the open glass jars on the counter. I washed my hands and started filling them.

“Get a load of me!” Ma shouted as she strutted out wearing shiny red lipstick, a puffy blouse, hoop earrings, and high heels.

“Wow. Why are you dressed like that?” A sparkly orange bow dangled from her hair, and a blue ruffled skirt flowed past her ankles.

“I got these clothes at a thrift shop. I couldn’t resist their fun fiesta flair. As president of the newly formed RSSA, I figure I should make a splash at our first meeting.”

“What’s RSSA?” I asked.

“The Resuscitate State Street Association. It’s my idea for getting local merchants to join forces,” she said, reaching behind the counter for her jacket.

“Join forces for what?”

“To wipe the cobwebs off their marketing plans and blow life back into their profit margins. We need change around here. I just passed Polaski’s Dry Cleaners. The sign in the window said
CLOSED FOR THE DAY DUE TO INDIGESTION
. For crying out loud!”

Ma listed all the improvements she was going to pitch to the RSSA, like starting a neighborhood crime watch, sprucing up storefronts, and group advertising on TV and radio to draw more customers to the area. “The way I see it, we’ve got to stick together and give folks a reason to return to State Street. That’s what I plan on telling them.”

It sounded good to me, but Ma sighed as she reached for her
pocketbook. Even with those festive clothes and her go-get-’em attitude, she looked blue like her skirt. Blue with black circles under her eyes.

I walked over and adjusted the bow in her hair. “I bet all of State Street’s businesses will want in on the RSSA. So why aren’t you excited?”

“’Cause I’m feeling overwhelmed. Who knows? Maybe the shopkeepers might think all this Grand Opening hullabaloo is only going to help my business, not theirs.”

“They won’t think that way. Don’t
you
think like that.” I looked her square in the eye. “Did you go to the doctor today like you promised?”

She batted the air with her hand. “As a matter of fact, yes. I wasted two hours in a stuffy doctor’s office, sitting next to a slob of a fella who never learned to cover his mouth when he sneezes.”

“What did the doctor say?”

Ma wouldn’t look up at me. “A whole lot of gobbledygook medical jargon. Ten-dollar words like
bipolar, manic
, and
rapid cycling
. As if I’m a looney-tune with two poles sticking out of my brain. How would she know? It’s not like there’s a blood test that proves anything.”

“I’m glad you went,” I said sincerely. “I’ve heard of bipolar disorder, but what does that mean, exactly?”

She shook her head and started to look angry. “Nothing, that’s what. Look, I promised I’d go to the doc, and I did. Now let it go. There’s too much going on right now that needs my attention.”

“But there’s got to be things we can try. Medicine you can take—”

“I said it before and I’ll say it again. I’m
not
letting a total stranger tinker with the chemicals in my brain!” Ma yelled, swinging her pocketbook over her shoulder. “Put a fork in it, Tess. This conversation is done!”

And it was. Even peer-mediation training didn’t give me a rebuttal to that.

As soon as Ma left for the RSSA meeting, I started crushing Oreos in a bowl and pouring them into a candy jar. I thought about how badly Ma needed a big crowd for the Grand Opening. It made me think of Cinco de Mayo back in San Antonio. Ma always took the day off from Albertsons, and we went to Market Square. The air was filled with sweet, spicy smells from the vendors selling Mexican food, with visitors from all over Texas and beyond. We’d stroll around for hours, listening to mariachis strumming, and looking at the craft booths. Ma always bought Jordan a balloon.

The crowd … the food … the music … Ma’s fiesta clothes … That’s it!

I charged out the door and ran two blocks. “Wait up, Ma!” I shouted when I saw her flashy outfit up ahead.

She turned around, surprised.

“I’ve got an idea for the RSSA. Tell them that we’ll host a
streetwide
Cinco de Mayo celebration—outside, up and down our part of State Street. The Grand Opening
is
on May fifth, after all. And you said yourself that themed promotions bring
in customers, right? Everybody will get in on the moneymaking!”

Ma’s eyes brightened like her hair bow. “Catch your breath, honey, and then keep talking. I like the way those wheels are turning inside your head.”

“We’ll decorate the shops with southwestern flair, and we’ll have sidewalk sales just like the booths back home in Market Square. A parade too!”

“Yee-haw! That sure would fill customers with a slaphappy spending spirit. I could talk to Winnie about having the Salty Old Dogs perform. And I’ll open a concession stand on the sidewalk selling delicious homemade tamales.”

We always eat tamales on Christmas Eve. Everyone in San Antonio does. Ma cooks them the authentic way, which takes a
long
time, but they sure taste delicious. Mexicans say tamales bring good luck.

“And I’ll paint a sign for the concession stand!” I added.

“That’s my girl!”

We walked another block down Jay Street. Ma stopped in front of the Open Door Bookstore, right in front of a cheery display window full of gardening books. “The RSSA is meeting here,” she said. “Wish me luck. Thanks to you, I’m armed with a strong case for Cinco de Mayo.”

Ma skipped into the shop an hour later holding two Dr Peppers. The RSSA had voted unanimously to support the streetwide Cinco de Mayo celebration.

“Being from New York, they hardly knew how to
say
Cinco
de Mayo, never mind what it’s all about,” Ma said, pausing to drink her pop. “But I told the shopkeepers we were chock-full of fun fiesta ideas. They’re interested in using your free-of-charge decorating services to add some south-of-the-border flair to their shops.”

Ma’s energy level had zoomed past the rooftop. She was zipping around the shop, her skirt ballooning, rattling on about the RSSA’s “decisions” and “resolutions” like it was the Supreme Court. She kept tossing out ideas to make Cinco de Mayo bigger and bolder. Chili-pepper party lights strung up and down the telephone poles. An inflatable cactus beside every shop entrance. Face painting, cowboy hats, guess-your-weight booths, even pony rides if we could find a pony. “I’ll make sangria to sell with the tamales too if they let me. And we’ll dress up State Street with balloons, festive flags, and streamers. State Street is going to rock, Tex-Mex-style!”

I looked over at the dipping cabinet and suddenly felt nervous. Opening an ice cream shop seemed hard enough, never mind running a streetwide celebration.

“What about
our
business, Ma? You said yourself we have to make a killing. Would the
Inside Scoop
say all this outside attention might draw customers away from our shop?”

“Cinco de Mayo will bring families to State Street, and families love ice cream. Plus another idea hit me when I stopped at Barley’s Convenience Store earlier. We’ll get clowns in our shop to entertain the kiddies!”

“I’m
not
wearing a clown costume,” I said firmly, anticipating her next request.

She laughed. “Not you. A man was waiting in line next to me, impersonating a chipmunk singing opera. He had me howling. Turns out he and his son own a clown business, no joke. He gave me a dirt-cheap price for Silly Billy & Son to appear at our Grand Opening.”