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

kiss on the cheek. He smells of baby powder and french fries. “Everything copacetic?”
    “Come closer.” I smile. “Let me get a look at you.”
    He makes a face but obliges. I put my hand to his cheek. I feel the downiness of his young skin. The boy is an Adonis—and he knows it. Deep-set green eyes, just like his grandfather. Fierce cheekbones. That mass of curls atop his head as dark as strong coffee. “Oh,” I say, “such a punim . Such a heartbreaker. Turn around.”
    “Grams,” he groans. But he does—with a tinge of bravado no less. He thinks I don’t see him flexing his biceps and straightening his shoulders, but I do. Young men are never so beautiful as when they are on the brink of nineteen.
    “Such a tuches !” I laugh, slapping him playfully on the backside. “Oy. What are those pants made out of?”
    “Leather.”
    “Leather? It’s eighty degrees outside. Who the hell wears leather in August? What’s ‘Sandinista’?” I motion to his shredded T-shirt.
    “An album by the Clash,” he says, staring down at his shirt as if he’s only just realized what he’s wearing. “I played it for you last week? Sandinistas are the socialist party in Nicaragua.”
    “Oh?” I adjust my eyeglasses. “So you’re a socialist now?”
    He sighs. “I’ve always been a socialist, Grams.”
    “Of course you are, tateleh .” I smile, patting his hand. “After all, I’m the one paying your tuition.
    “Sit,” I order.
    Jason pulls up a chair. One of the Hepplewhites, upholstered in peach silk, where Petunia likes to curl up. My grandson sprawls in it, his legs splayed. He’s like his great-grandfather; he can’t really sit still. His foot jiggles, he fidgets with that safety pin in his ear. He glances about. “I’ve only got like a couple of hours,” he says, eyeing the swimming pool. “I gotta catch the 2:54 back for rehearsal.” Jason is in a performance-art troupe called Alarm Clock. His father, however, refers to it as “the Future Unemployment Line of America.” I saw one of their shows in an abandoned warehouse off First Avenue last year. Jason made a big fuss over my coming, which I certainly appreciated—and of course, I kvelled over him. Yet I can’t say I cared for it much. It was all very loud, and the seating was terrible. Jason read a series of haikus I did not understand, then played an electric guitar while a couple of girls in greasepaint and sheets writhed around on the floor cursing Ronald Reagan. There was one poet, one girl in a tutu, one ukulele player, one unicyclist, one “interpretive dancer”—but no script. Everyone seemed angry about something. It was like vaudeville for the disgruntled.
    “We’re working on a new piece for Alarm Clock,” Jason says. “Thatcher, U.S. involvement in El Salvador, Bill Bennett—they’re all going in it. It’s going to be awesome.”
    Sunny knocks, the silver tray balanced awkwardly between her hip and the doorframe. “Mrs. Dunkle?”
    “Here.” I point to the coffee table. Supposedly it’s an original from France—Louis the Someteenth. “Just leave the bottle, the ice, everything. We don’t want to be disturbed.”
    “A new show. Really? Good for you,” I say. “Close the door!” I shout to Sunny.
    “Happy hour?” Jason says. “It’s barely noon, Grams.”
    “Oh, shush, you. You’ll have some, yes?”
    “Well”—he smiles slyly and wiggles his eyebrows—“if you insist.” Every time, it’s the same thing. Leaning in, he rubs his hands together expectantly. The drinking age in New York State was raised last year, so technically, I suppose, this is still illegal for my grandson. But we Jews didn’t spend forty years wandering the desert so that I could forfeit a gin and tonic with my progeny. As Jason reaches for the ice tongs, however, I slap his hand. “Not so fast. What did you bring me?”
    “Oh. Some truly awesome tunes,” he says, leaping up. He goes to the piano, pulls an album out of the