a week that lasts for years

Ice Cream
by Mary Rose McCarthy

There it was again. That unmistakable edge in Susan’s voice. They could never tell what triggered it or what it signified. But as soon as they heard the children grew quieter. The air stilled, birds fell silent. Anticipation hung heavy in the air. All waited not sure whether to laugh or cry. Run now, while the going was good, or sit it out and accept the consequences.

This was the trouble, or difficulty, with Susan’s ‘moments’ as everyone poetically referred to them. They just never knew where they were likely to lead. Each moment had different reasons for beginning and no two moments ever ended the same.

Once, and this was still vivid in the children’s recent memory, the moment had ended with a walk on the pier crowned with double choc ice creams for all three of them and a single choc ice for their mother. That time the trigger had been the call from Richard, Susan’s husband and the children’s father. The house had shuddered to spooky quiet after the initial ‘you what’ whispered through clenched teeth. This was followed by ‘well if you must then’ and the phone replaced with exaggerated silent care. The three of them looked one to the other. The eyes wordlessly each asking other ‘what do you think?’ ‘Should we run and play outside’ ‘or should we?’ Helpless shrugging of shoulders answered the unspoken questions. The children never knew the best course of action in times like these.

Tom, the eldest, serious and intense for a boy of eight, often wished that triggers such as the phone, or the postman, or the news headlines never happened. Never got a chance to intrude on the relative calm they inhabited prior to these disruptions. On the other hand he pondered; more often than not they resulted in treats for them, the children. He was beginning to wonder if the treats were worth the intense agony and uncertain disruption they brought.

Because, also fresh in his mind, perhaps since forgotten by Peter and John as they were younger, was the time the postman had brought the letter. It was an ordinary enough looking letter in a shabby looking pale grey envelope. Those were the recycled kind. Tom figured if you put all the used up paper together to make new paper then it only stood to reason it was bound to end up soggy grey in colour. The contents of that envelope were never revealed to him. Nor could he recall any discussion about it in subsequent days. Vividly he remembered the stony long empty silence. Unbroken for three whole days. Even when he asked her questions, Susan just stared vacantly into the middle distance somewhere above Tom’s head and then continued whatever task was at hand.

During those three long days there was no sign of Richard, the husband of Susan and the father of the children. Tom cannot accurately count how long ago it was, possibly weeks ago. Maybe even as long as before Christmas. And that must be a long time as now the trees were dressed in their full summer glory. Whether or not they remembered specifics, all of them remembered the edge to the voice and the sense of unpredictability that then pervaded their world.

Having heard again, the inevitable butterflies went off on a fluttering frenzy in Tom’s stomach. He looked around couldn’t see that any person had called, hadn’t heard the phone, couldn’t sense the source of the edge.

He had forgotten about the mobile and the sneaky stealth of text message. He found Susan standing at the kitchen table staring at the mobile as if an alien had just used it as a space ship to land safely in the midst of her kitchen.

In the shadow and protection of the door he carefully observed his mother shakily gripping the table edges with whitened knuckles. The one word which had escaped her and alerted the boys, ‘bastard’ hung in the ensuing silence. None of the three of them understood the word, yet knew it was not an ‘allowed’ or proper word. Their mother having uttered that word remained trance like, statue like, a perched figure decorating a tranquil suburban kitchen.

For a second Tom thought they were playing a game, which for once included their mother. One of those games where the first to move was out. Usually a game which infused Tom with the desire to giggle uncontrollably. The very same urge threatened to overwhelm him now.

Strange, he thought, how as child I know, yet have no idea. I know to giggle now will be ruination, I have no idea why. Rooted to the spot, lips clamped together, he dug his hands deep into the pockets of his shorts and concentrated all his attention on the tile at his feet. This intense focus drained his desire to laugh, the danger passed.

Looking again at his mother nothing had changed, apart from the fact that she appeared more rigid than a few minutes ago. As if in fact she was glued to the spot. An expression Tom had heard but never seen happen. He darted a furtive glance to his mother’s shoes looking for globs of glue. In the glancing noted that she had her slippers on. Thought, how unusual slippers in the middle of the day. Thought, why do I notice such useless details when I feel frightened?

He became aware of a hand reaching for his hand on either side. Peter and John and he at attention waiting to know where the edge would take them this time.

Their mother turned to them bringing them into her focus for some few minutes. ‘That’s it’ she said. ‘This time he really is gone, finished with a text’.

Unable to say anything, hands gripped hands and each boy knew this was no time for double choc ice creams.

© Mary Rose McCarthy April 2007