The Ice Cream Queen of Orchard Street: A Novel by Susan Jane Gilman

on legal pads with tortoiseshell pens. Such a new breed—nobody tells jokes anymore. I can’t distinguish one from another, except for Miss Slocum, the girl. A tiny thing, no taller than me. A pinched, serious face. Hair yellow and stiff as straw. She’s attractive, I suppose, in a plain, frontier-woman sort of way—in another era you could picture her in a gingham bonnet, driving a buggy with a whip. She wears blouses with oversize bows at the throat. When I asked her what these were for, she informed me they’re called “power bows.” I told her they reminded me of our mascot, Spreckles the Clown.
    The other lawyers insist, however, that it’s better to have me represented in court by a woman. This will “soften” me in the eyes of the jury, they claim. I don’t know who they think they’re kidding. One look at this Miss Slocum, and you know she’s a little viper.
    I’d wanted to use the same lawyer we’ve always had, but Isaac wouldn’t hear of it. “Edgar helped get you into this mess in the first place, Ma,” he said.
    Okay, so we fell a little behind in some paperwork. We improvised a few invoices when my records got muddled. I suppose the fact that Edgar is under indictment himself right now, it does not help matters. And so sue me: I once boasted, “Taxes are for pishers . Taxes are for the little people to pay.” For God’s sake, I was kidding. I was being a wisenheimer! How the hell was I supposed to know that the woman seated beside me at Trader Vic’s was a reporter for Page Six?
    So now we’ve got the tax-evasion charges along with the civil suit. One little slipup and people start digging through everything. It becomes a free-for-all, an open house for every disgruntled and slanderous nobody you’ve ever met in your life.
    The first time my new lawyers came here, I had Sunny serve them ice cream. Mocha chip, vanilla bourbon. Our old-fashioned style. Still our best. The gonifs , they sat there telling me how delicious it was—then billed me for the fifteen minutes they spent in my parlor eating it. So I sent them a bill in return—for exactly the same amount—charging them for the ice cream they consumed. Now whenever they come here, it’s strictly business. Which is too bad. Back when Edgar was our lawyer, Bert and I kept a tub of his favorite flavor on hand—black cherry—and we’d all sit around the pool afterward, washing it down with martinis.
    The only person I can stand to see nowadays? Jason. He’s home from college for the summer, so every Thursday he comes. I have my driver pick him up at the train station.
    Sunny helps me into my red silk kimono. She styles my hair for me. Fixes my face. Settles me into the lilac wing chair in the conservatory.
    “Turn up the air-conditioning,” I say. “And spray some Shalimar around here.”
    “I open the drapes for you, too, yes, Mrs. Dunkle?” she says, bowing in that little way she has. Filipinos. Nicest people on the planet. All these years and Sunny’s the only one who never talked to the press.
    She pulls a cord and unleashes the view: Beyond the lawn and the pool, I can see clear to the lake, to the jade hills rising gently from the opposite shore, scalloping the horizon. It is marvelous. But otherwise I don’t care for this house much. It was Bert’s taste, Bert’s dream. Bert used the tennis courts. Sure, the pool was nice when Jason was little. But now the upkeep is nothing but a pain in my ass. “Lil, you should use it,” Rita nags. “The exercise will help your leg.”
    I don’t want to help my leg. I’ve helped it enough. I’m tired. I’m done. I’m counting the days until I can return to Park Avenue. Give me New York any day. All these fancy bedroom communities, all these estates, they’re like aspic. Trust me, darlings: A big city is where you want to grow old. Concert halls and picture houses everywhere. Bakeries and liquor stores just around the corner. You can cling to your shopping cart so you