Ice Cream Day by Gary Moshimer

This is my favorite day at St. Anne’s preschool: ice cream day. I worked night shift last night and didn’t sleep this morning in anticipation. I like going in and helping, mainly because I’m in love with my son’s teacher, Sherri Wall. She is tall with short black hair, older than me, stooped a little, but very pretty. Rumor is her husband left her for a younger woman, moved far away. I’m available because Marcie died in the chemical plant explosion. My current job is donning a hazmat suit for the cleanup.

Bobby is my son, autistic, which I blame on the plant. On the drive to school he rapidly counts trees and cars up to fifty, then counts backwards. He is the bright apple of Sherri’s eye. When we arrive, he insists on lugging both gallons of ice cream. He can hardly keep himself up, but he’s determined, chugging his cheeks in and out. Still he manages to count the bricks he walks over. He ignores the kids rushing past.

Sherri claps for him when he reaches the classroom door. She calls him Superman, but he doesn’t smile, he has trouble with that. I have seen him come the closest with Sherri.

He puts the tubs onto the long white table with the other stuff. The mothers chat; I’m the only father there, and they sneak looks, or so I like to believe. After scooping the ice cream into the little Styrofoam bowls, I try to get the kids lined up to put on their toppings. They are wheeling around like airplanes. Sherri claps her hands, and they stop immediately. Bobby is sitting at his desk. He doesn’t come until the other kids are done, and then he very carefully measures his toppings. Sherri touches his shoulder at one point; she’s the only one besides me he lets touch him.

He eats like a robot and when he’s done goes to the window. Past the playground is the wrought iron fence and past that the cemetery. That’s where his mother is. I want to tell him not today. One of these days it must be not today. But we haven’t reached that point. If I say it, he will curl into a ball for the rest of the day.

He goes back to the table and makes a sundae for Marcie. Then he gets the big pink chalk from his desk and slips it into his shirt pocket. He looks up at Sherri, and she looks at me. I look her right in the eyes (very green) and ask her if she’ll come this time. And this time she doesn’t say it’s too private. I tell her I want her to see. I don’t know why.

She looks a little frightened but leaves the aides in charge, and we follow Bobby outside. He holds the bowl at arm’s length, an offering. Red and yellow leaves swirl up and lead the way. Past the black gate he starts counting the rows. He turns abruptly and counts stones. Sherri’s presence next to me eases the stone in my chest. She says it sure is a beautiful day. I thank her for coming to see what he does. Someone besides me and my therapist needs to know, and I choose her because I am lonely. I don’t tell her this yet. I think it will come.

Bobby stops at the grave and carefully places the bowl before the flowers. We stand there watching it melt, and I wonder if he can imagine her eating it. What can he imagine, besides numbers?

After a few minutes he takes the chalk and writes on the stone: 121. He kneels there trying to make the numbers straight, and makes a disturbed moan deep in his chest. But he doesn’t cry—he never has. It is waiting to come out, as is the scream.

I look at his stoic face and start to well up. I bite my lip. I wonder if a hundred twenty-one is enough. I reach for her hand.

---

GARY MOSHIMER — Gary has stories in Smokelong Quarterly, Frigg, Wigleaf, and many other places.

Art by AMBER ROSE CROWTREE — Amber is the author and cover-artist of two poetry chapbooks; Harboring the Imperfect (Dancing Girl Press, 2021) and The Inviolable Hours (Finishing Line Press, 2021).  Her acrylic paintings have also appeared recently in Smoky Quartz Online Journal of Literature & Art (Fall issue, 2023) and in the February 2024 issue of Flash Frog.