IFFY FICTION

“And how old are you now, George?”

One of George’s aunts, Sylvie or Sadie, he could never tell which, twisted around from the front seat of the car and looked at him expectantly. George thought for a minute, held up three chubby fingers then quickly added another. He’d have to get used to being four.

Sadie smiled triumphantly at her twin sister, who steered the car down the long dirt road that led from the family shotgun house, through the pastures, the outskirts, and finally into town.

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” Sylvie said, steering around a pothole.

“Well…” Sadie said, leaving the rest of her sentence an implication.

“I still think a little boy should be running around outside,” Sylvie said. “There’s plenty of time for school later.” She glanced back in the rearview mirror. “Are you excited, Georgie-boy?”

Aunt Sylvie, who George called “Silly” because her name was too hard to pronounce, had promised him a double scoop. But he had to promise not to tell his mama.

“Our little secret,” she said. George agreed, crossing his heart and hoping to die, just like Charley taught him. He salivated at the thought of having both a vanilla and a chocolate scoop. He marveled at the idea. Such a miracle had never happened before, at least not to George.

Sylvie slid the car into a spot just outside of Freezy’s ice cream parlor on Fitzhenry Street. She checked her side mirrors and decided that her work was good.

“Like a glove.”

Sadie rolled her eyes. “Must you say that every time.” It wasn’t really a question.

Sylvie checked her hair in the rearview mirror, swiping a flyaway behind her ear. “And they say women can’t parallel park.”

The back windows of the car were stuck in the ‘up’ position, and George’s shirt was soaked in sweat. As he peeled his tender thigh skin from the scalding, vinyl seat of the car, he fervently wished he hadn’t been made to wear short pants. He imagined the frosty ice cream he was about to eat, stuck his tongue out, and started panting.

“Stop that, right now,” Aunt Sadie scolded. He knew it was Sadie. He could always tell it was her when she had that sour, scary look on her face.

“Oh, leave him alone, Sade. He’s just being a kid.”

“He’s a little boy, not a dog.”

Sylvie reached her manicured hand back to ruffle George’s hair, golden bracelets jangling. “You’re just a little hot dog, aren’t you, Georgie-boy?”

“You spoil him,” Sadie said, opening her door.

“That’s the fun of being an aunt.”

George panted his way to the street-side of the car and reached for the handle. Aunt Sadie’s face appeared in the window, mouthing “no,” and pointing to the other side. Aunt Sylvie pulled the other door open and held it until George got out.

---

Freezy’s was George’s favorite place in the world. Well, tied with the creek behind the house, but only when it had water in it. Mama told him he’d been to Freezy’s twice, but he could only remember one other time.

They had each been allowed one scoop, Charley and him. George had ordered the vanilla. Charley had the chocolate, and he let George have one little lick. Ever since, George hadn’t been able to stop wanting a scoop for himself. But to have one of each? It was too much. He’d been wrestling with which flavor to put on top on the whole drive there.

He finally decided on chocolate on top. That way he could eat it first in case he got full. Though he doubted that would happen.

Freezy’s was as hot as outside but without the breeze. Sadie insisted they sit at a bistro table by the front door. Chocolate and vanilla ice cream alike soaked through the napkin and dripped down George’s hand. It was melting faster than his outstretched tongue could lick the sides.

Sylvie laughed. Aunt Sadie groaned and went inside for more napkins.
George ate the whole scoop of chocolate and half the vanilla. He couldn’t wait to tell Charley when they got back to the house.

Once they’d all finished and George’s hands and face were cleaned to Sadie’s satisfaction, she said they needed to make a quick stop at Quincy’s a few blocks down to look for some “incidentals.” George couldn’t pronounce, let alone understand, that word, but he went along with it, hand-in-hand with Sadie down the sidewalk. If it was the price he paid for ice cream, he wouldn’t complain.

At the corner of Fitzhenry and Pike, Sylvie stopped, letting go of George’s hand to wave at someone.

“Look who it is, George,” she said, waving at someone.

He looked at the old stranger sitting on the bench in front of Al’s barber shop then at the face of the woman walking toward them, her little dog leading her on a leash. He was confused.

“Who is it?”

“Over there,” she said, pointing across the street. “It’s Harry.”

“Hawwy!” George squealed and started running to his oldest brother. He was with a friend, another teen, loitering outside Star Diner. At seeing his aunts, his smile faded to the look of dismay all teens wore when confronted with family in public.

“Wait for auntie,” Sadie called as George dashed between two parked cars. Her words were cut short by the sound of screeching tires, and a dull, sickening thud.

Harry and his friend, the Chambers boy, looked over, eyes wide. Sylvie screamed. Sadie froze, unable to think of anything besides the sticky napkin still in her hand. Why am I still holding this? she thought dazedly.

A crowd quickly amassed around the boy and Sylvie, who was pumping his chest frantically, shouting for someone to call the police.

Sadie began to walk in a slow stupor. She was half a block away when something on the pavement caught her eye. She moved toward it, stooping down to pick it up. The white of the two-toned oxford was splattered with drying chocolate ice cream and blood. Sadie spat on the wadded-up napkin, and began scrubbing at the stains, amazed the laces were still tied.

By the time she reached him, the crowd had grown, and her sister was howling, collapsed over George’s unmoving body. The police had just arrived. One officer walked the perimeter of the crowd, shooing the spectators away. The other was attempting to peel Sylvie away from her nephew. Harry was sitting on the burning asphalt in the middle of the street, staring.

“Here,” Sadie said, handing one of the officers the now-clean shoe.

He gave her a puzzled look.

“Put it on him.”

The officer took the shoe from her hand, and rubbed the edge of the sole thoughtfully with his thumb. “Ma’am, I don’t think he’s going to…”

“Put it on!”

Flecks of Sadie’s spittle spattered the officer’s face. He nodded.

She turned away, not daring to look back, until the half-filled gurney passed by en route to the ambulance, two little leather shoes poking out from under the blinding white sheet.

---

Charley pushed the typewriter aside, gathered the paper clumsily into his arthritic hands, and strode to the living room.

“There you go,” he said, thrusting the pages into the Afghan covered lap in the old rocking armchair.

Sadie touched them gently with hands twisted like bird talons and lifted them near to her face. “What’s this?”

“It’s the story I was telling you about. I think I got it right.”

She looked at him blankly, her rheumy eyes enlarged by the spectacles pinching the bridge of her nose.

Charley sighed. He was used to repeating things, but he grew impatient.

“The story of that day. When George died.”

For a moment, Sadie didn’t say anything. Then she flung the papers from her. They floated down to the floor near her feet.

“Garbage,” she said and scratched away a patch of dried saliva from the corner of her mouth. “I can’t understand you at all.”

“I’m just trying to remember him, that’s all.” With great effort, he bent down to retrieve his story from the floor.

Sadie scoffed. “Then why don’t you write about those little scribbles he used to make and said were his ‘cursive’? Or about the tadpoles he got from the creek behind the old house? Remember how he put ‘em a jar, and when they died, we told him they had to be planted like seeds to turn into frogs? Or about how he used to pant like a dog when he was hot? Oh, that really got my goat…”

“I don’t remember any of that. I was only seven.” Charley suddenly felt very tired. He lowered himself to the old sofa. It groaned beneath his weight. “All I remember is that day. And apparently I wasn’t even there.” He rubbed his hand back and forth across his bald pate and sighed. “I don’t know, maybe I’ve heard the story too many times. From Harry. From Sylvie before she passed. I just don’t want to forget him completely.”

Sadie looked down at the floorboard across the room, not seeing it, thinking. Her hand began to open and close. If she tried to, she could still feel that old sticky napkin wadded up in her hand. But try as she might, she couldn’t remember his face, either covered in ice cream, or as it must have looked after, pale and cold. It was gone.

She reached up under the shade and twisted on the table lamp beside her. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be, Charley. So, go on now. Read it to me.”

Charley looked over at her and smiled. He pulled up the readers that dangled from a chain on his chest and placed them low on his nose.

“Thanks, Aunt Sadie.”

“Don’t thank me,” she said, grinning weakly. “I’m just making sure you get it right.”

Photo by Kyle Hinkson on Unsplash