Don't Talk to Me About the War by David A. Adler

wallet from its hiding place, beneath my pajamas. I open it. Two dollars. I hope that’s enough.
    Just then I wonder if Beth remembered our date. All yesterday, she didn’t say anything about it.
    As I go toward the door, Mom calls to me. “It’s nice out. You don’t need a jacket.”
    “Thanks, Mom. Bye.”
    This might sound wrong, but it’s nice to get away. When I’m with my parents, all I think about are Mom and her illness. I shake my head as I walk toward the stairs when I realize that probably all I’ll talk about when I meet Beth is just that, Mom’s illness.

14
    Sarah’s Uncle
    B eth did remember. There she is, sitting at her regular table, and even though it’s not a school day, she’s wearing her regular school clothes, a pretty blue dress with lots of stripes. As I walk in I feel something is different, that somehow Beth is changed, but I don’t know why.
    I sit across from her. She smiles. “I wasn’t sure you would remember. Now tell me, what did the doctor say?”
    I don’t know where to begin.
    “He said Mom has some nervous system disease, multiple sclerosis.”
    We just sit there quiet, I guess while Beth thinks of what to say, and I realize what’s different. There are no newspapers on the table. I’ve never seen her at Goldman’s, at this table, without newspapers.
    Then it starts. Beth asks me lots of questions, and I do the best I can to answer them. At last, we’ve said all we can about it and Beth reaches her hand across the table. She takes my hand and says, “Let’s get some ice cream.”
    I look over at Mr. Goldman sitting by the counter. He’s reading a magazine.
    “What flavors does he have?”
    Beth laughs and whispers, “This is not one of those twenty-eight-flavor places. He has just vanilla and chocolate.”
    “That’s fine,” I say. “Even if he had lots of flavors, I’d still want chocolate.”
    We sit at the counter and Mr. Goldman gives us each a dish of ice cream, chocolate for me and vanilla for Beth.
    I take a dollar from my wallet. Mr. Goldman waves his hand. He doesn’t want to take my money.
    “No,” I tell him. “I want to pay for both of us.”
    He thanks me and takes my dollar. Beth thanks me, too. The ice cream costs ten cents a dish, twenty cents in all, so Mr. Goldman gives me lots of change.
    Mr. Goldman gives himself a dish of ice cream, too, vanilla, and then takes out jars of nuts, chocolate syrup, and maraschino cherries.
    Beth says, “Let’s make sundaes.”
    I look at the chalkboard behind the counter with the price list. Sundaes cost fifteen cents. I take two nickels from my pocket and put them on the counter. Mr. Goldman laughs, gives them back, and tells me, “A sundae is only an extra five cents if I make it. If you make it, it’s still just ten cents.”
    I sprinkle chopped walnuts on my ice cream, pour on chocolate syrup, and top it all with a maraschino cherry.
    Wow! It’s delicious. I eat slowly, enjoying every spoonful, and do you know what? I didn’t pay the extra money, but even if I had, it would have been worth it. If you ever have a choice of just ice cream or a sundae, take the sundae.
    We sit there, eat, and talk.
    Beth misses Buffalo. She had friends there and lived in a house with a garden where she planted tomatoes and carrots. She even had a bicycle. When Beth moved here, she gave it to Carol, one of her friends. “There’s really no place to keep a bicycle in the Bronx, and my dad said with all the traffic it’s too dangerous.”
    Beth pours more syrup on her ice cream.
    “Carol was my best friend. Our mothers knew each other from when they were kids. When I moved, Carol said she’d write to me every week and I said I’d write to her. But we haven’t. When you move, things change.”
    Mr. Goldman talks, too. He tells us about his two children, a son in Brooklyn and a daughter in New Jersey. They’re both married and visit often, especially on holidays. His son has a son, so Mr. Goldman is a