"Death and Ice Cream"

Mr. McGee offers us ice-cream like it is no big deal, and we say yes and wait for mom to tell us otherwise. But she only smiles and says “no thank you” when he tries to give her a bowl of vanilla fudge swirl. Seth is looking everywhere but at me now. Somehow, his avoiding my presence leaves me more squeamish than when his eyes were fixed on me. Either way it doesn’t matter because there’s ice-cream.



“You’re not one of those calorie counting women, are ya?” Mr. McGee asks, and puts an extra scoop of ice-cream in his mug.


“Oh no,” mom says and I know she is dying to bite her nails.


“Lactose intolerant?”


“No, I’m just not a big fan of the stuff,” she says and looks at the three of us kids. Her darting eyes do little to hide the turning wheels in that tiny head of hers. “So you guys ready for school next week?”


“Mom used to love ice cream, right mom?” Jack says.


“Oh yeah? What happened? Your taste buds die?” Mr. McGee gives another quick smack of his big lips and winks.


“No, our dad did,” Jack says. His voice, normally squeaky and effeminate, suddenly sounds older than his ten years.


The kitchen is suddenly so quiet it is as though all of our lives have stopped. This is the sound that death leaves. It typically stains a conversation with heavy layers of discomfort so that normal people are transformed into babbling idiots a mourner would give anything to shut up. It is why we try to keep death in the most hidden place of ourselves, away from people who never think twice about a dish of ice-cream. I still don’t know why mom doesn’t let herself eat the stuff or keep any in the apartment for us. She says it’s because it’s junk food but then she lets us eat Twinkies and Ding-Dongs. Whatever the reason, I know it has something to do with dad. I just wish she’d tell us. At least then we’d know if she even missed him; at least then I could remember what loving her felt like.


“Kids, I think we’ve overstayed our welcome. Thank you for everything Mr. McGee, Seth,” mom says. All of her rosy color is gone and it is with great effort that I ignore the pull in me to hug her. I think about the jagged glass on our Corolla and the ice cream suddenly tastes sour on my tongue. I will tell her the truth tonight.


“Please, call me Vinny. I’m really sorry,” Mr. McGee says. It is the first time that his face matches what he says. It is the first time an outsider didn’t say something stupid.


When we are leaving, Seth walks out with me and tugs at my arm.


“Hey, I’m sorry about your dad,” he says.


There is a softness to his eyes that makes the armor around my heart begin to crack.


“I’m sorry I implied you were—”


“No worries. It’s cool,” he says.


We share a smile that causes my blood to pump faster. Gay or straight, Seth McGee may just be my first friend in Sayview. When my mother calls me to come along I do, grateful to leave this handsome boy’s dark eyes that seem to mirror an unarticulated pain; eager to run before I say something stupid—again.