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I look at the boy and think about what I have to do.
I wonder if these Rose boys have ever been tested in the world.
They're about to be.
Thursday afternoon appears to be traveling well.
Angie Carusso goes through her usual routine at work and picks up her kids from school. She walks with them to the park, and they discuss which ice creams they're going to buy. One of them makes a cunning decision to get a cheaper one so he can have two. He suggests it to Angie and she tells him he's still only allowed one. He then switches back to a more expensive choice.
They go into the shop and I wait in the park. I sit on one of the far benches and wait for them to come out. Once they do, I go into the shop myself and try to figure out what kind of ice cream Angie Carusso would like.
Hurry up, I think, or they'll be gone by the time you come back out. In the end, I decide on two flavors. Peppermint choc chip and passion fruit, in a waffle cone.
When I walk out, the kids are still scoffing down their own ice creams. They're all on the bench.
I go over.
I topple over my words, surprised that they come out properly.
"Excuse me, I--" Angie and the kids all turn and face me. Up close, Angie Carusso is beautiful and awkward. "I've seen you here a few times and noticed that you never get an ice cream yourself." She looks at me as if I'm a lunatic. "I thought you deserved one, too."
C
lumsily, I hold it out to her. It already streams green and yellow down the side of the cone.
She eases her hand out gingerly and takes it, her expression startled and half broken. For quite a few seconds, she looks at it. Then her tongue rescues the streams on the side of the cone.
When she's cleaned it up enough, she attempts a bite as if it's the original sin. Should I or shouldn't I? She looks at me warily again before sinking her teeth into the peppermint choc. Her lips go light green right about the time her boys go charging down to the slippery dip. Only the girl stays and points out, "Looks like you got an ice cream as well today, Mum."
Angie strokes the fringe from her daughter's eyes. "Yes, Casey, looks like it, doesn't it? Go on," she tells her. "Go play with your brothers."
Casey goes, and now it's only she and me at the bench.
It's a warm day and humid.
Angie Carusso eats her ice cream, and I wonder what to do with my hands. She works her mouth around the peppermint and onto the passion fruit now, nice and slow. She uses her tongue to push it down so the cone won't be empty. She looks like she couldn't stand it if the cone was empty.
As she eats, she watches her kids. They've barely noticed that I'm there, more intent on calling out to their mother and arguing about who's going higher on the swings.
"They're beautiful," Angie says to the cone, "most of the time." She shakes her head and talks on. "I was the easy one when I was younger. Now I've got three kids and I'm alone." She looks at the swings, and I can see she's imagining what they'd look like if the kids weren't there. The guilt of this holds her down momentarily. It appears to be there constantly. Never far away, despite her love for them.
I realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.
She cries, momentarily, as she watches. She allows herself at least that. There are tears on her face and ice cream on her lips.
It doesn't taste like it used to.
Still, when she stands up, Angie Carusso thanks me. She asks my name, but I tell her it isn't important.
"No," she protests, "it is."
I relent. "It's Ed."
"Well, thanks, Ed," she says. "Thank you."
She thanks me a few times more, but the best words I hear all day come to me right when I think it's over. It's the girl, Casey. She twists herself onto Angie's hand and says, "Next week I'll give you a bite of mine, Mum."
In a way, I feel sad and empty, but I also feel that I've done what was intended. Just once, an ice cream for Angie Carusso.
