Kitabı oku: «An Ice Cream For Henry», sayfa 2
Chapter 4
H enry had spent the first of the two hours he had to complete the math test regularly repeating a four-step movement of his neck: first to the left, looking out the window; second a tiny bit to the right, peeking down at what his classmate Nicholas was writing on his graph paper; third straight ahead, checking that Miss Anderson wasnât looking; and fourth ahead and to the right, trying to catch the eye of Joanna, but she was engrossed in her work, her head bent over her paper as she furiously scribbled down calculations that were way beyond Henry.
âI canât do it...â Henry whispered to Nicholas.
âSo copy,â replied Nicholas under his breath, not even lifting his head.
He would have copied Henry himself, but Nicholas was already on page three and his neighbor was still stuck on page one.
â Ah, who cares?â thought Henry as he turned the page and began to copy what little he could make out from Nicholasâs sheet.
Chapter 5
I n New York, Barbara Harrison was running north to south through Central Park. She would do her daily workout come rain or shine, although sometimes she had to put work first, in which case she would make do with the treadmill in her apartment or, when she was out of town, the ones in hotel gyms.
She had a lunch date with Robert at one oâclock. They had made up over the phone the previous evening, and this afternoon they would be heading off together to spend the weekend in Robertâs woodland cottage up in Maine, which Barbara considered to be their love nest.
Robert, who was already forty-seven and had an established career, was keen for things with Barbara to move to the next stage. It wasnât that she wasnât keen on Robert or hadnât thought about taking the next step - after all, theyâd been seeing each other for years - it was just that he didnât seem to tolerate her working hours anymore. She could be around for the whole week then suddenly take off for days, or sometimes weeks, on end. Robert hated that, but for Barbara work had to come first, even if she had begun to rethink her priorities a little over the last few weeks after Robert started to keep his distance.
Barbara was forty-two now, and if she wanted to become a mom she would have to get a move on. She didnât want people to think she was her own childâs grandma on his or her first day at school!
She loved being in the field and getting around, being active rather than stuck behind a desk, but she figured she had already got everything she wanted from her career, and getting it had hindered her private life more than she could ever have imagined. She felt ready for a new chapter because she loved Robert and knew that sheâd never find another guy like him and would eventually end up alone. â A horrible, frumpy old maid. Thatâ s what would become of me!â Barbara thought to herself as she ran along West Drive before turning at the south end of Central Park and lengthening her stride as she headed toward East Drive. From there, she would exit the Park on 72nd Street and make her way to her apartment, where she would have time for a quick shower before packing her case for the weekend.
Chapter 6
R obert Brown had booked a table at Erminia, an Italian restaurant on the Upper East Side that had been in Eyewitness Travelâ s top ten for a while now.
Barbara had Italian roots and Robert knew that she would appreciate his choice of eatery, even though it was only her maternal grandmother who was Italian and Barbara herself had never been to Italy.
Robert was going to ask her to marry him in Maine, and he wanted everything to be perfect. He loved her and wanted her as his wife. He had told his dad as much in a phone call that morning before leaving the office, and his dad had responded by telling him it was the biggest load of crap heâd ever heard come out of his sonâs mouth: â Son, youâ ve done great so far and now you want to tie yourself down?â Robert chuckled to himself as he recalled his fatherâs words, spending several minutes flossing in front of the bathroom mirror. Robert was obsessed with his teeth. He brushed them at least ten times a day and flossed even after eating a couple olives with an apéritif. He never went anywhere without his faithful white box of floss. As a teenager, he had lost three teeth when he face-planted after coming off his bike having misjudged a bend at the bottom of a crazy descent. He had also broken an arm and his nose and had deep abrasions on both knees. He survived, fortunately, but having to look at himself without those teeth for three months was unbearable. Heâd lost one canine and two premolars, and for someone who was one of the three best-looking guys in college, with a smile that was irresistible to the ladies, that represented something of an existential crisis. He could have had them put back in earlier, but his dad wanted to teach him a lesson and make him see that weâre all just flesh and bones, nobody is indestructible. It was a lesson that had served him well. The boy who fell off his bike had gotten into several scrapes over the years, but that experience had straightened his head out and now he was Robert Brown, owner of one of New Yorkâs premier renovation firms and able to rely on the best carpenter around: his brother, James. The brothers and their team could turn a run-down apartment into a luxury home in a matter of weeks.
Chapter 7
W ith her voice like nails down a blackboard and eyes like a hawk, Miss Anderson always made Henry break out in a cold sweat; every time she looked at him, she seemed to be saying the same thing: â Youâ ll never pass your exams. No chance.â
Summer was in the air at Northfield Elementary School. The mating ritual of two flies buzzing their way irritatingly round the classroom confirmed as much. Henry flicked the flies away from his face with his right hand, sending them toward the middle of the room. The class was waiting for Miss Anderson to collect the test that had proved beyond Henry. He was more about words than figures.
The buzzer sounding on Miss Andersonâs desk was the cue for her to begin her sixty-second countdown, at the end of which the pupils would have to put down their pens.
âSixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven, fifty-sixâ¦â
That bitch loved counting down to zero. She had that smug look on her face, and it gave her a thrill when she caught the eye of a struggling student who seemed to be begging her for more time.
Henry had already put his pen down by the time sheâd reached thirty. He looked down casually at his paper, where aside from a square and a few multiplications, he hadnât managed to finish much - certainly not the divisions, which he found impossible once the numbers got too high.
Joanna complained that she just needed one more minute.
âYou canât cheat the clock! Eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.....zerooooo!â
Miss Anderson got up from her desk and headed straight for Joanna to collect hers first. Joanna threw her arms over her sheet in a desperate but vain attempt to keep it from her teacherâs grasp.
âI want to see ALL pens on the tables. Is that clear?â the teacher said sternly, waving Joannaâs test in the air.
Joanna Longowa was of Polish origin. The prettiest girl in class, she had long blond hair, blue eyes, and fair skin that highlighted her rosy pink lips. Henry had liked her right from the third grade, when she and her family had moved to New Jersey. She was good at all the subjects, and her only flaw was her perfectionism. Henry was certain sheâd finished the test and got all the sums right, but figured sheâd just wanted to embellish her standard-issue paper with some doodles.
âHenry Lewis, what do you call this?â
âItâs my test,â Henry replied timidly. A few of the children couldnât stop themselves from smirking. Everyone knew that Henry was dumb at math, but no-one was brave enough to mock him in front of Miss Anderson, because sheâd mark you down or, worse, detain the entire class during recess for a whole week.
âSilence!â she yelled, reaching up slowly and clenching her fist around the two flies. She walked calmly to the open window and tossed the traumatized insects outside as if she were feeding the ducks.
There was complete silence as Miss Anderson finished collecting in the assignments, and only the bell at the end of the class restored the usual noise and commotion.
Chapter 8
cca
T ed Burton drove his old Wrangler out of Jimâs repair shop at midday, and within an hour he had arrived in Jersey City to spend a few hours with his friends from the Firearms Academy. Sat outside the entrance as usual, basking in the sun, was Leland Wright. Leland was well into his seventies, but he had the complexion and look of a man fifteen years younger. He wore a Marines beret over his close-cropped white hair, a blue t-shirt bearing the inscription â My girl is my gunâ, gray camouflage pants, and black tactical boots.
âI thought you werenât coming round here no more!â said Leland as Ted appeared before him.
âWhat do you say we have ourselves a little M4 battle?â replied Ted, grinning from ear to ear.
Leland looked at his friend and began to laugh as he stood up from his plastic chair.
âYou old son of a bitch....wait here while I ask Charlie to come and replace me on the door,â replied Leland, pulling a two-way from his left pant pocket to call his friend.
Inside the Firearms Academy, it was far less crowded than on weekends, so the line for the range was fairly short. Next to the automatic-weapons counter was a prominent framed poster of Wayne LaPierre, Executive Vice President of the National Rifle Association.
âYou want some mozzarella sticks?â Leland asked Ted.
âNo thanks, chief. Maybe later. I only had breakfast an hour ago,â Ted replied, desperate to get his hands on the M4 assault rifle.
âSuit yourself, Iâm gettinâ me some,â said Leland, making his way toward the huge bar.
Everyone greeted Leland with respect and, as Ted had done seconds earlier, called him âchiefâ. Little wonder his favorite t-shirt had the word emblazoned on it in big yellow letters. That was the tee Leland wore on weekends, when hundreds of gun-loving Americans and their families would descend on the Academy. Not everybody came to shoot or take a course on how to use firearms; the Academy was simply one of the favored hangouts of second-amendment fanatics. On Sundays, the Academy would play host to people of all ages, colors, and races, united in their disdain for Obamaâs proposal to have Congress debate a law banning the use and purchase of automatic weapons.
âCome on, pal, come over here and join me for a beer!â yelled Leland in the direction of Ted, who was salivating at the prospect of feeling the M4A1 in his hands.
âI never say no to a beer!â Ted replied, making his way toward the bar.
Leland was chewing on the still piping hot mozzarella sticks, seemingly without burning his tongue or the roof of his mouth.
âGo on, have one...â he urged Ted, who didnât need a second invitation and bit into one of the sticks, taking care not to burn his own mouth.
âSome Italian journalist came by on Sunday. You know, one of those ball-breaking conscientious objectors who think theyâre smarter than everyone else. I spotted him straight away. He was like a fish out of water!â
âWhat did he want?â asked Ted.
âYou know what Europeans are like: damn democrats hoping to speak to us and find out why we would possibly want to bear arms.â
âAnd did he interview you?â
âSure. But if youâd been here, heâd have interviewed you as well,â replied Leland.
âWhat did he ask?â
âThe usual bullshit about how gun ownership is linked to shootings in schools and stuff like that. I told him: âGuns donât shoot themselves.â If heâd just thought for a second about how many Americans own a gun, heâd have realized that by his reckoning the entire United States should be populated by the ghosts of people whoâve been shot just for fun. It pisses me off how people draw parallels between folk like us, who are simply defending the second amendment, and a few fucking screwballs. Weâve got more than three hundred million guns in circulation and they try to lecture us on morals! They can go fuck themselves!â Leland shouted, his face red with anger.
âI hope you ripped him a new one, chief. I can just picture that pussy journalist asking his questions, trying to get the moral high ground. Who the fuck are these Europeans anyway? Do you think any of them actually swear allegiance to that blue flag with the stars? I donât know what the Brits are waiting for. They should just leave! They barely tolerate one another, they donât even speak the same language for Christâs sake! The only thing uniting them is that stupid currency, and thatâs likely to fall below the dollar. Well, I say let them stay unarmed and ready to be fucked by some demented regime! Seems like theyâve already forgotten all their fucking dictators. They just donât get how important the second amendment is. They see us as cowboys, but when theyâre totally screwed by another crazed despot, theyâll be begging for our help...â
âTell me about it. They squeal and we come running!â
âAnd Iâll tell you something else: I bet theyâre sat there jerking off listening to Obama on TV, and they canât wait to pin the blame on the United States when some crazy shit happens in the world!â
âYou tell âem, Ted!â cried Leland, banging his fist on the bar.
âLook, chief, I wonât deny that at my age even Iâm starting to think it might be sensible to restrict the sale of guns to civilians. Automatics, I mean. Only people with their heads screwed on and both their oars in the water should be allowed to own an automatic. Even better, why not limit them to people who have served in the military and sworn allegiance to the United States? Loyal people, patriots, people like us, Leland....â Ted said, and took a long sip of his beer.
âSure, but people should always be ready to do whatever they have to do to protect themselves...â
âA decent pistol is more than good enough for protection. Some weapons should be reserved for war,â replied Ted, still caught up in the emotion of the discussion after Lelandâs impassioned rant.
âDepends on who the enemy is, Ted. Whatâs the name of that spaghetti western where Clint Eastwood says: â When a man with a .45 meets a man with a rifle, the man with a pistol will be a dead manâ?â
âI didnât know the Italians could make movies!â joked Ted, as Leland and the barman who had been listening to their conversation joined him in roaring with laughter.
âYouâre a lowlife, Ted Burton, and Iâve always loved you for it, but Iâm tellinâ you, that was a great movie!â
Ted and Leland quickly finished their beers and retrieved their assault rifles in readiness for their contest on the range.
âHey look, Major, seems as though itâs on the house for you today,â Leland said, pointing at a sign that read: âKids shoot freeâ.
âThanks, granddad, but I donât need a sign. I may be retired, but just looking at you makes me feel young,â replied Ted.
âWhat do you say we make this a little more interesting? Ten beers says youâll be bawling like a baby when we compare our M4 scores,â Leland challenged Ted.
âYouâre on, granddad. Iâll be beating you just because I donât want to have to carry you home over my shoulder...â replied Ted, laughing as he followed his friend into the shooting area, his rifle slung over his shoulder and boxes of ammunition firmly in his grasp.
Chapter 9
H enry was relaxing between classes, and had quickly forgotten all about the math test, when suddenly he heard the unmistakable sound of the ice cream truck drifting in through the window. Actually, it wasnât the same tune as normal, but it was close enough. Henry looked out and saw that, indeed, it wasnât the usual truck.
â Mr. Smith must have had to get rid of his old truckâ¦â the boy thought to himself, speculating that his favorite vendor must have fallen on hard times: in place of his usual huge white and pink truck with a giant plastic ice cream cone on the roof was an smaller old gray campervan with just some small modifications on one side. The vehicle looked like something out of those World War II books that Bet had bought from a flea market when she was pregnant and Henryâs dad kept on display in the bookcase in the living room.
â Yeah, it must be because of the rain⦠last summer, it rained for like a whole month, and Mr. Smith mustnâ t have sold enough ice creams so heâ s had to sell his truck and replace it with that heap of junk!â
âWhat are you thinking about, Henry?â asked Nicholas, poking Henry in the ribs.
âOh, nothing. I was just looking out the window and thinking how Iâd like an ice cream.â
âWhy?â asked Nicholas, looking right at Henry.
âBecause Mr. Smith drove by in a new truck!â
Nicholas shifted his gaze to the window, stepped forward and stuck his head out, looking left and right, before turning back to Henry and jamming both index fingers hard into his rib cage. Henry coughed and spluttered in pain and was left bent double. âYou thought you could trick me, Henry Lewis, but whoâs laughing now, eh?â chuckled the red-haired boy.
âSit down, please,â came the voice of old Mr. Johnson as he shuffled into the classroom wearing his Yankees baseball cap and with a copy of The New York Times folded under his arm.
âToday, weâre going to be talking about President Kennedy, and I think youâre going to enjoy it!â
As Mr. Johnson put his newspaper and cap down and sat behind his desk, Henry - before sitting down himself and having recovered from Nicholasâs brutal attack - turned to look out of the window and check whether Mr. Smithâs ice cream truck was still there, but he couldnât see it.
â He must have been in a hurry,â thought Henry as he sat at his desk and watched Mr. Johnson unfold the newspaper to show it to the class.
Henry knew that the story of President Kennedy would not only banish all memories of Miss Anderson and her math test, but also suppress the strong desire for an ice cream that had come over him when he saw the truck outside.
KENNEDY IS KILLED BY SNIPER
screamed the headline in The New York Times. The pupils stared intently at the old newspaper, keen to find out more. Nicholas was so engrossed that he forgot to remove the pinkie he had put up his nostril to do some intense digging around his freckled nose.
âStop picking your nose, Nicholas,â chided Mr. Johnson. You must always be respectful when people are talking about a President of the United States, dead or alive! Your boogers are not important! If you canât blow your nose, youâll just have to put up with it.â
For the other children, it was no laughing matter. Their teacher had a penetrating gaze and a deep measured tone to his voice that demanded respect.
Chapter 10
B arbara Harrison didnât try to be beautiful, she just was. When she dressed femininely, she was one of those women who men could fall for in an instant. She was well used to being pursued by the opposite sex. At college, she had eventually got bored with the continual advances from her fellow students, and had been sickened by older men shamelessly trying to pick her up despite her still being a minor. One such man was Donald Coleman, a childhood friend of her father who had thought it was a good idea to sneak into Barbaraâs room on vacation in Florida when she was just fourteen. It happened in the middle of the third night of the vacation, when a liquored-up Donald had taken advantage of his wife and Barbaraâs parents staying late at a Hawaiian-themed beach party held near the house the two couples had rented together.
Only his longstanding friendship with her father had saved Donald from a charge of attempting to sexually assault a minor, but it had not spared him the wrath of Barbara, who was already something of an expert in taekwondo having practiced it for four years. That was a really bad night for Donald: initially, he had assumed the young girl was up for it when she teased him by getting out of bed in just her underwear after sheâd felt his covetous fingers brush against her nostrils, then a few seconds later he found himself flat out on the ground nursing a black eye and a cracked rib. Heâd been hoping for a kiss, but instead had been dealt a punch and a kick that he hadnât even seen coming such was the darkness of the room and the sheer speed of Barbara Harrisonâs moves.
Barbara told him she wouldnât say anything to her parents, but that heâd have to think of an excuse for his injuries and if he ever tried it on again, sheâd press charges, but only after killing him first.
Donald told his wife and Barbaraâs parents that some strangers had tried to steal his wallet and heâd sustained the injuries trying to defend himself. He and his wife cut short their Florida vacation the next day, setting off just a few hours after he had left hospital. Over the years that followed, the Colemans and the Harrisons saw less and less of each other, and when they did get together, Barbara was never present. Donald was ashamed of what heâd done and he would always come up with different excuses to spurn the invitations of his friend Antony Harrison, until eventually Barbaraâs dad gave up and decided he wouldnât bother calling Donald anymore.
â You do right to stop calling him, Dad. I always thought he was a dumb sleaze⦠And his wifeâs sooo jealous of Momâ s looks,â Barbara would say whenever the question of âwhatever happened to the Colemans?â surfaced. Eventually, the Harrisons forgot all about their former friends.
Upon returning home after her hour-long run through Central Park, Barbara was stopped by the concierge, who handed her a parcel.
âWhoâs it from?â asked Barbara curiously.
âItâs from an Italian fashion house, Miss Harrison, thatâs all I know,â the concierge replied with a cheery smile.
Barbara went up to the fourth floor of the Upper East Side building, entered her apartment, used one of her feet to close the door behind her, and put the parcel down on the table in the well-lit living room.
She was unsure whether to open it immediately or take a shower first. She had that same sense of excitement and curiosity she had felt as a child, when she would wake before everybody else on Christmas morning, tiptoe downstairs, peer through the frosted-glass sliding doors of the living room to catch a glimpse of the gifts Santa Claus had brought, creep back up to her room, and pretend to sleep before her brother and parents woke. Just like then, Barbaraâs patience and strength of character won the day as she rationally decided it wouldnât be wise to let the sweat cool on her skin.
Stood under the steaming hot shower, she wondered who might have sent her a gift from Italy and decided it had to be Robert. Her mother had promised to get her something special for her birthday in a couple weeksâ time, but her intuition proved correct: the parcel was indeed from Robert.
After putting the last of her things in the case she would later take with her for her weekend in Maine with Robert, Barbara set about opening the parcel.
Having opened the outer packaging, she saw a label bearing the words âFor youâ, signed âRBâ for Robert Brown.
Robert wasnât one for the written word; saying things out loud came more naturally to him.
Barbara untied a pink silk ribbon that was wrapped around an elegant white box bearing the inscription â Atelier Livia Risiâ. Inside was a simply stunning dress called âPizzo Jersey BuyByâ, designed and custom-made by Livia Risi herself. It was a bias-cut dress, which made it harder to stitch and required a lot of fabric, but only a bias-cut dress flowed in perfect harmony with a woman as she walked. It was fuchsia with a black v-neck down to the base of the breastbone, and it was possible to wear it without a bra thanks to the embroidered black elastic that followed the shape of the breasts. It was one of the Italian designerâs must-have dresses, a timeless classic that featured (updated, of course) in every spring/summer collection. The dress was embroidered with different layers of lace: double on the front, where a bit more coverage was required, and single in areas where the elegance and sensuality of the female form could more readily be admired. Barbara Harrison was going to look a million dollars in this.
â Wow!â she exclaimed as she lay the dress out on the bed.
Barbara was a bit of a tomboy at heart, so she tried as much as possible to avoid wearing particularly feminine or revealing outfits. Although it was true that she could make anything look good, she was determined that men and women should recognize her other qualities first, the ones that went beyond appearances. At work, in particular, she had no time for men trying to undress her with their eyes.
â If you want to stay on the right side of me, you need to stay focused and quit daydreaming about something thatâ s never gonna happen. Do I make myself clear?â She would say that to anyone who met her for the first time and stared at her too much.
Barbara was forty-two but appeared to have pulled off the trick of stopping nature a decade ago, and even she was taken aback by her refined beauty and innate elegance as she looked at herself in the mirror, wearing her new dress.
Robert accepted that Barbara had this more masculine, and sometimes in private scruffy, side, but he also wanted to see her as beguiling and feminine, an unobtainable goddess whose every slight movement could hypnotize him and make her fall in love with her all over again. He certainly wouldnât be disappointed today. After applying her cat-eye makeup and finding some sandals to go with the dress, she left the apartment and headed for the restaurant where he would be waiting for her.
Barbara was pleased they had cleared the air on the phone the previous day, and she loved how Robert was always able to surprise her. Spending a few weeks apart from him had served only to deepen the void she had felt ever since she was a child, when her older brother Richard had died suddenly and inexplicably from a heart attack in his sleep. Ever since, that sweet and sensitive little girl had changed and taken on the characteristics she most remembered in her brother: strength and courage. It was her way of trying to ease the unbearable pain her parents had carried around since Richard died and fulfill the expectations they had initially had for both children.
Barbara had been in several relationships over the years, but only Robert had brought that sense of familial warmth and security. It would be a mistake to let a man like him go. He loved her like crazy, she knew that, and beneath her protective shell, she loved him too, in her own way. All he wanted from her was to be there, to live for today, and to accompany him on lifeâs journey, and all he wanted to do was declare his undying love for her.
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