Page 76 of This I Know
Whenever we come here we’re always the only patrons; once I’d seen one other family, a mother and daughter who collected their purchase and didn’t hang around to eat there. And I didn’t blame them; I’d always been kind of scared of the wood-enclosed, dark Frozen Spoon.
But sometimes, like tonight, I’m dragged along with my father. I’ve come to accept it and I didn’t put up a fight.
My father selects a picnic table.
“Come here, Ethan,” he says. “And stay put. Actually, here – you want an ice cream?” He leafs through his wallet. He pulls out a twenty and hands it to me.
Twenty, huh? That’s more than he usually gives me.
“Get yourself something nice.” He urges me along with a nudge on the shoulder.
I approach the counter and a high-school aged boy, tall and thin with long, girly hair, takes my money.
“Vanilla cone, please.”
“You got it, little man.” He leaves me, and I stand on the sticky, ice cream- and gum-laden cement floor, looking around at the woods encroaching on the property. It’s pitch black inside them, and I can’t see past the first layer of tree line. I cross my arms, trying to warm myself up. Behind me, I hear my father calling out to someone just pulling up.
The boy returns to the window. “Here you go,” he says, and he hands me the cone and my change.
I give it a lick and turn; and as soon as I do, my heart sinks. That man’s here again. The man who my dad always hopes to meet, but who sometimes stands us up. Today, apparently I’m not so lucky.
He’s the largest man I’ve ever seen. When he crawls out of his small, parked sedan, the car moves. He stands and stretches. Each time he’s joined us he’s been dressed entirely in black, and tonight is no exception. And no matter how warm the weather has been, he’s always worn long sleeves and long pant legs; in fact, the only skin I’ve ever seen of him has been his hands, his neck (the folds of which protrude over the collar of his shirt), and his head. I’ve always thought he must be awfully hot.
I grab a napkin and take a seat at our table.
“Mark. It’s good to see you,” says my dad. He claps the man’s shoulder.
Despite my father choosing this table for us, he and Mark take a seat two tables over from where I am. I watch them from over the rim of my ice cream cone. I keep my legs crossed and tucked under me to keep them from the bugs that are flying around in the dark.
I only catch a few of my father and Mark’s words. And that’s good. I don’t really care what they’re saying. I hear, “Come through for me, okay?” and “We’re not going to do this again,” and “It’s good this time, I promise.”
Some ice cream drips down my finger. I stick out my tongue to lick it.
“Ethan,” booms my father, suddenly in front of me. “It’s time to go, son.” He’s stuffing something into his wallet. The wallet is now so fat that it’s difficult for him to close, but he squeezes it and somehow slides the bulging leather back into his pocket.
My cone isn’t finished, but I throw it in the trash anyway.
He holds his hand out to me. I take it, and together we walk back to the car. The man dressed in black is nowhere to be seen, and his car is gone, too. For such a big man, he sure is quick.
Maybe because of the strange events of the night before at The Frozen Spoon, my father had forgotten that the following day was to be an event at my school, an important one that he’d signed up for.
He’d promised me he’d show. But I guess his promises mean little by this point.
It’s the second grade’s conclusion of the school year, and the teachers have organized a fun event for the students to complete with their parents. Since my dad had said he’d come, and he’d even written a reminder on his wall calendar (I saw him), my mom didn’t bother to offer.
I’m waiting outside the school. Cars pull up and adults get out, walking up to the school and meeting their children running into their arms, the kids’ backpacks flailing from side to side with the excitement. When each student finds their parents, they stand together near the entrance of the playground, where we have stations of activities set up and ready to go.
Everybody’s laughing. Before it’s even begun, everybody’s having a good time. Everyone except me.
It’s almost time to start. My dad hadn’t shown and here I am facing the wrath of his decision – or rather, his indecision. Because that’s what my dad is: indecisive at best. As the kids around me get their hair affectionately ruffled and questioned by their parents, I keep my face down to hide my blushing cheeks.
My teacher approaches the crowd with a paper in her hand. “Thanks for coming, everyone. Everyone? Quiet, please.”
The crowd stops talking – even my classmates, who, normally restless, are so eager to get started that even they know they need to hear this.
“Thank you for taking the time out of your schedules to come to this celebration of ours. It means a lot to us and your children, so I’m glad you could make it. It’s been a great year, and we’re going to have a lot of fun with this.”
Kids start laughing again; swinging against their parents, holding their hands. At the instruction of the staff, they set their backpacks down in a row against the wall of the school, ready to collect again when the event is over and school is let out.
