Charlene led Maleek from the counter while he stared back, googly-eyed, at Mr. Haskowicz. The jovial proprietor, seeing the precariousness of the boy’s double-scoop, attempted to alert him. Maleek let go of his mom’s hand and rescued it, pressing the top scoop hard into the bottom, his 6-year-old brain believing ice cream was magnetic.
Charlene patiently held the cone so they could sit but her son clamored to continue eating.
She drew comfort seeing him engulfed in enjoyment. Each messy lick was a discovery of strawberry, mint and chocolate that flickered different colors in his eyes, tiny sparks she was certain only a mother could see.
“Mommy, why didn’t you get one?”
“Mama’s not hungry, baby.”
But she was. Her belly rumbled. As he licked away, she replayed eating her only meal of the day on the morning bus ride to work: two pieces of buttered toast stretched across a twenty-minute ride.
Sitting next to her had been a college girl with Tupperware filled with granola and strawberry in thick cream and sprinkled with blueberries she’d pushed aside with a disgusted snort. Across the aisle, a suited man on his second muffin shook a bottle of orange juice, not the concentrate Charlene knew, the kind with no label where you see the pulp swimming inside.
Mr. Haskowicz came to Charlene’s table and gave it a wipe, setting down a glass of water and offering her a smile before returning to the counter. She felt a swell of resentment towards him and looked at her son and said, “Ya can’t trust them, Maleek.”
“Who Mommy?”
“Them Jews.”
He looked up at her, confused, mint chip running down his chin.
She tilted his head towards him.
“They’ll be nice, smile at ya, but won’t help ya. They only help demselves. That’s how come theys got so much and we got so little.”
“Who Mommy?”
She didn’t repeat the answer. Distracted by her anger, she mumbled to herself while cleaning his tiny, sticky hands, “So few of ’em, too. How come they got so much?” With exhausted pain she pleaded to convince him.
“I coulda built me an ice cream shop. Make you mint chocolate chip like you done never had!”
“You’d make the best, Mommy!”
His belief in her brought lighter thoughts—soon excised by older demons.
“But they won’t let me.” She cussed. “They want me scrapin’ and scratchin’ and clawin’. Always on they floor. Always on my knees to serve ’em. That’s all they want.”
“Who Mommy?”
Tears welled in her tired eyes and her son looked at her, concerned. She wiped her face and put on a happy smile to distract him. Maleek laughed and indulged another lick.
“Have some!”
“No, baby. That’s just for you.” The tears fought to return but her seasoned stoicism held them at bay when the bell above the door jingled. Twin girls, just older than Maleek, and in matching school uniforms, bounded into the shop.
Mr. Haskcowicz scooped them up as they squealed, “Daddy, we want double fudge!” “No, strawberry shortcake!” “Double fudge!”
Charlene cringed. She kept her back to them and closed her eyes, hoping to erase their very existence. Focusing on Maleek, she wiped his mouth, lamenting how little of the cone was left.
“I think we can do both!” He announced just as they demanded more.
She muttered to Maleek, “They’ll never let you have both.” A whimper escaped. “Just the taste.”
The tears came full force.
“Just a taste so you know how much you’ll miss it. So you can stand on the outside and always know how good it is. That’s what the Jews will do to you. That’s what they do to us.”
“Who Mommy?”
Through her tears she looked at the boy’s little hands, empty now, then peered into his big brown eyes that showered her with love.
Charlene felt Mr. Hascowicz’s hand on her shoulder, “Maleek was a good boy. I’m so sorry.” He looked down at her tenderly but she couldn’t see him. She was holding onto the face of her son, fading away in the chair across from her.
A sniffle was all she’d let him see as she rose, put on her coat, took a deep breath and with a hollow heart, walked into the darkening night until the sound of the jingle above the door faded away behind her.