Ice Cream Parlor
Mrs. Grome fries up ham and eggs, and Chance arrives with fresh buns in a white bakery box, the way I have seen him every morning since I came to Gettysburg. But this time, I get to eat the white-flour treat. My teeth break through the hard crust to a soft, flaky center that tastes of butter.
The delicious beginning holds promise for a better day than yesterday. When I woke this morning, I reckoned today would be a day of feeling sloughed off by Grandpa. But Florence invites me for a walk with her family.
“I ought to stay and help Mrs. Grome,” I say. “I can make flypaper for the kitchen. I watch Daddy do it.” I’m sure I can mix resin and castor oil, and stir the gumption out of it the way Daddy does. He brushes his concoction on old catalogue covers. Flies land on pictures of rifles or plows to get stuck and die.
Mrs. Grome’s face turns pink. “Go with them. I can take care of the flies.” She waves a spoon at me as though I am a fly.
I didn’t intend to insult her. Will I never learn to think before I speak?
Florence insists I go, and Mrs. Grome goads me with her spoon. But I am reluctant. To be honest, I’m not eager to make flypaper or stay at the boarding house, but I’d rather tussle every fly in Pennsylvania than risk an encounter with Gerald.
“Wouldn’t you like to see more of Gettysburg?” Chance says.
I finally agree.
* * *
On the western edge of town, two impressive buildings stand tall. Brick and stone with dormers, steep roofs, and towering chimneys, they look down like castles.
“It’s the seminary that gave Seminary Ridge its name,” Mr. Redmond says. He points to a cupola on one of the roofs. “That was a lookout spot for more than one officer during the battle. Virginia, I believe your General Lee was one of them.”
My eyes take in that rooftop, and my back stands a mite straighter. The general I was named for stood up there and gave orders for men like Grandpa and Uncle Fred. Why didn’t Grandpa show me that cupola?
As we head toward the center of town, I hang back behind Florence. Her broad body teeters from side to side as she walks. I peek around her to see if Gerald’s flivver is at the curb. It isn’t. We pass the restaurant where Gerald brought me bluebells, and I shiver in the summer sun.
We stop under a striped awning, and Chance opens the door. Ice Cream Parlor is painted on the window glass, and I hope the breakfast in my stomach will make room.
Crowded with tables like the candlelit restaurant, this place gleams with sunlight from large windows. Electric lights add more brightness, leaving no shadows for a varmint like Gerald to hide. I breathe easier, as Mr. Redmond leads us to a table.
The air smells sweet like Mr. Pender’s candy counter. I have eaten ice cream only twice, a melty mixture of sugar and cream. This frozen scoop in a glass dish is different.
I wait for the others to take a bite, but they wait for me.
Florence laughs, sounding like a red-headed woodpecker, before she dissolves into high-pitched wheezing. Tears run down her face, yet no sound comes out. Mr. Redmond’s laugh is strewn with coughs until I can’t separate laugh from cough. Chance laughs, too. And I can’t help myself.
It seems I haven’t truly laughed in quite a spell. Was it less than a week ago when I laughed with Grandpa over Nellie-Finch hats in Morgantown? What a long week it’s been. What a different Grandpa that was. I was different as well.
I try to grab hold of the laughter to tuck inside me, but recalling what Gerald did and how Grandpa shucked me off like cornhusks wrings the laughter right out of me.
Everyone goes quiet. The only sound is the clink of spoons on glass dishes.
Mr. Redmond breaks the silence. “The Reunion begins two weeks from tomorrow. More veterans will arrive soon, but I don’t expect General Chamberlain until the first day.”
Florence commences her usual chatter. “Maybe Minerva will get more boarders.”
“How is Minerva’s garden?” Mr. Redmond asks.
“She’s fit to be tied,” Florence answers. “Her flower thief struck again before dawn yesterday.”
“Likely a youngster’s prank,” Mr. Redmond says.
“If it is, this youngster brought his own garden shears. He snipped off one of her prize roses clean as a whistle.”
A prize rose? I look up to find Chance’s eyes on me as if he knows the very thoughts sprouting in my head.
