There isn’t any ice cream

Saturdays should be slower than school days and have something special in them. At least that’s what I think. I remember some of the best days were ones that started early and unfolded themselves slowly, kind of like a cat stretching its length until even the toes on its feet flared out in one great stretch. My favorite Saturdays began with no real direction or purpose and then fell together into a pattern of events that led smoothly one after another as the sun climbed up and across the sky. I was never tired then, just young and expectant.
I remember a Saturday when I was seven…
Sometimes other people come around and then I listen and watch and wonder at the grown-up faces that often smile in a mannequin kind of way. I don’t know if I can say it right, but I watch and think You are not matching your words. You just said how pleased you are that she came to visit, but your face is forcing the smile and your eyes look afraid. So many people pretend to like each other, but I can tell when they really do.
My aunt is tall and blonde and her hair is short and poufy. It doesn’t move, even when the wind is up making the trees shiver. I want to like her because she is beautiful and strong. She wears sleeveless cotton blouses and madras Bermuda shorts. The colors of her clothes are cool and the material looks new and stiff and where her underarms show white I can see how tan she is .I don’t like her because I don’t trust her. She seems very sure of everything and especially when it comes to telling my mama what to do. I look at Mama and see her different all of a sudden. She is still my mama, but next to my aunt she suddenly seems sad. Mama is pretty sometimes, when she smiles, or laughs, or when she strokes my hair back from my forehead and tucks my dark hair behind my ears. But Mama doesn’t look pretty today. Maybe it is because she works so hard taking care of the four of us, five when you count Papa. She has to wash all our clothes using the old wringer to squeeze out the water and then everything has to be carried out to the side yard to hang on the old clotheslines that droop alongside the overgrown lilac bushes. When we go outside to help Mama we like to try to shimmy up the metal poles and stretch ourselves up to hang from the clothesline. Mama was washing today when my aunt drove up in her shiny burgundy car. Our car is black and Papa says is “perfectly adequate for our family.” Almost everyone has a place to sit if you don’t mind having Rosalie sit on your lap when it’s your turn.
Mama says something to my aunt who stands with her hands on her hips. I notice that my aunt’s stomach is sticking out, a small rounded tummy that makes the plaid of the madras seem to wave up to her waist. She looks fresh, healthy, new somehow, and like someone who can eat ice cream whenever she wants. Mama loves ice cream and tells us that it is one of God’s little blessings and what makes it so good is that we don’t have it every day. It is a treat, something special, and you never know when it’s on its way. Suddenly I wish I had some ice cream that I could give my mama. She stands now with her arms folded over her own flat stomach. She is holding herself tight around the waist while she listens to whatever my aunt is taking so long to say. I know it is a work dress, but I feel the heat rising into my checks when I see that Mama has on her “daisy dress.” It is a house dress with a light green background covered with an ever repeating print of huge yellow daises. Mama had laughed when she pulled it out of the box. “I know it is very busy, but the material is not worn and it will last.” Now looking at Mama and her sister I wish the dress had fallen apart before today instead of being the faded, shapeless shift that hangs on Mama’s frame.

Finally, my aunt leans forward and awkwardly encircles Mama in her tanned arms. Mama seems stiff, then she pats my aunt on the back gently. They hold each other a moment more and then my aunt steps back, turns and walks away. She slips into her car and I hear the door click shut right before the engine surprises me with its deep throaty roar. She drives down our driveway raising a little dust storm behind her.

“Mama, let’s have some ice cream,” I say.
“There isn’t any ice cream,” she says and smiles with her mouth and her eyes.
“At least there isn’t any ice cream today, but someday soon I am sure there will be.”
Mama suddenly looks beautiful, and I smile back.