Rocky Road (26 page)

I turned and smiled at Jordan as he slurped his shake. He was carrying Lucky in his “travel case,” a hatbox that Catherine had given him, smiling ear to ear. “Russell is bringing his hamster to the park. New friend for Lucky!” he signed excitedly.

After Winnie and Jordan left, Chief walked around the shop, taking in all Ma’s decorations.

“This place passes muster, Delilah. It looks, what’s that word—Cinc-aay de Mayo-ish,” he said, as if he was describing mayonnaise.

“That’s a true compliment coming from you, Chief,” she said, curtsying, and then she whispered in his ear.

Minutes later, Mr. Bianco walked in wearing a toolbelt instead of his pizza apron. Chief got up and they left.

“Thanks, fellas. Y’all do good work while we’re gone, ya hear?” Ma called before grabbing her pocketbook and car keys.

I turned to Ma, confused. “What’s going on?”

She wouldn’t answer me.

“Did Chief fire me as his assistant?” I asked, getting suspicious.

“He replaced you,” she answered, motioning toward the door. “And now we’ve got to bolt like bullets with feet.”

Uh-oh
. Trouble was back. What happened? Money problems again? Ma had just come from the bank. What did they say? Were we evicted from the shop or the apartment—or worse, both?

“Tell me what’s wrong,” I said as Ma grabbed my sleeve and pulled me along.

Whatever it is, don’t let it cancel Cinco de Mayo. Please…
.

“Later, Tess. Let’s go.”

I dug my heels into the floor. “I’m not moving until you tell me
where
we’re going.”

Ma sighed. “There’s no pulling the wool over your eyes.
You were right. The
Inside Scoop
does say employees should doll up some. I’ve already called Gabby and Pete to make sure they dress their best tomorrow. As for us, we both have appointments at that fufu hair salon on Union Street for one o’clock. You’ve been wanting a cut and highlights, and my messy mop needs trimming. And if we got enough time, we’ll find a cute outfit for you. Lord knows you deserve it.”

It felt like Christmas and my birthday had come all in one day. “Wow, Ma. Is this for
real
?”

“Sure is, unless our Toyota turns back into a pumpkin,” Ma said, all grins.

“Can we afford it?”

“As long as we outrun the creditors,” Ma said, winking.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I shouted, hugging Ma and holding on long after I should’ve let go.

M
ay 5. Cinco de Mayo. I woke early and checked in the bathroom mirror. The neck and shoulder forecast showed scattered red blotches. Right away I spritzed my hair with gel spray. Yes. I liked my new haircut, especially the blond highlights.

By the smell of tamales floating through the apartment, I could tell Ma had put in a late night cooking for the concession stand. She calls making tamales a labor of love because it takes eight hours to cook and shred the pork roast, soak the
corn husks, and prepare the masa dough, and that’s before you start rolling and steaming them.

Jordan was sound asleep as I left the bedroom and walked into the kitchen, where two gigantic foil-covered boxes sat on the counter. I peeked in. Just as I thought. Warm, wonderful tamales. Yum. Even early in the morning that smell made my stomach growl.

“Ma?” I called, but no answer.

I looked back in the living room and bathroom, but no Ma. Where was she? Her pocketbook and keys were still on the counter, so she hadn’t driven anywhere. She wouldn’t have left for State Street without Jordan and me. I went downstairs to look around.

The lobby was empty. So were the mailroom and laundry room, so I walked outside. The sun was just starting to cut through the morning mist, and the world was hushed. No one in the parking lot except for a deliveryman unloading supplies over at Building Three. I turned to walk back inside, and that’s when I spotted Ma.

She was leaning against the apartment building holding a cigarette, sitting between two yellow forsythia bushes.

Holding a
lit
cigarette.

I scrambled between the bushes to reach her. “
What
are you doing, Ma?” I shouted, pointing to the cigarette and shivering in the damp morning air.

She took a drag without looking at me, almost as if I hadn’t spoken. And with that I knew, sure as the sun creeping up in
the sky beyond the apartment building. Shooting Stars was back.

I could tell by her glazed eyes and empty expression. By the way the cigarette trembled in her hand. By the mascara streaked down her cheeks.

“You didn’t go to bed last night, did you?” I asked, noticing she was wearing the same outfit from yesterday. Only now her shirt was wrinkled and covered with food stains.

White smoke rings coiled from her mouth like an old-fashioned telephone cord, but still she said nothing. She turned her back slightly and looked away, toward the daffodils planted beside the parking lot.

Twelve years Ma had fought off the urge to light up again. Twelve years—my whole life—and here she was smoking again. I wanted to grab that dumb cigarette from her mouth, break it in half, and grind both pieces in the dirt.

But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t because Ma was sick.

“What is it, Ma? Tell me what’s wrong!”

She kept looking over at the parking lot, and then she mumbled softly, “The corn husks. I didn’t soak ’em long enough. I should’ve known better. The tamales won’t be perfect.”

“Nobody from Schenectady is a tamale expert,” I said. “Pour some hot sauce on ’em and they’ll be great!”

But Ma kept shaking her head, repeating the same thing. “I should’ve known better.”

I thought about how Ma had been working double shifts,
at the bar and at A Cherry on Top. Day
and
night. How she’d planned hundreds of details for Cinco de Mayo—not only for us, but to revive all the businesses that were hurting on State Street. Mr. Harley wasn’t the only one who considered her the Can-Do Cancan Lady; everybody did.

Now, on the biggest day of her retail life, she was slumped in the dirt, gloomy and doomy like the sky was falling down, all because of how long she soaked the corn husks.

I squeezed closer and touched her shoulder, trying to mix words together in a healing potion to get her up on her feet. “No wonder you’re wiped out from all you did, Ma, especially staying up late making tamales. But they’ll sell big today—I know it. Go take a shower and you’ll feel better. I’ll make you coffee with the socks on and get Jordan up before we leave.”

Ma shook her head and exhaled. “I’m not going, Tess. My rocket’s run outta fuel. I’ve hit bottom again. What a loser I am….”

My hands shook. “You’re
not
a loser! It’s Shooting Stars! No, it’s got a real name. Bipolar disorder. We’ve got to get you back to that doctor to get medicine.”

“Medicine won’t change a thing,” she said, wiping her wet cheeks. “We’re all stuck with whatever life dishes out. My paw saw all sorts of doctors, and he killed himself anyway.”

A chill went up my back. My grandfather died long before I was born, but Ma never mentioned suicide. Why hadn’t she told me?

Tears streamed from Ma’s eyes like she was chopping onion. “You were right when you said I was crazy to start a
business again. I tried my darnedest, but I can’t handle all this pressure. I just want to hole up and sleep. For a long, long time. With no noise, no troubles, no nothing.”

“I was
wrong
!” I yelled. “State Street is going to be bursting with customers today, and it’s all because of you.” I told her that the
Inside Scoop
said you had to be willing to be flexible and revise your plan, and we would. Gabby, Pete, and I would scoop ice cream so she’d be off her feet. The RSSA shopkeepers could take over the parade and Cinco de Mayo activities, once they knew she was sick. And her tamales—well, they’d practically sell themselves. “But you’ve got to be there. You’re the
owner
. You hear me?”

Ma didn’t answer. She crushed the cigarette butt with her shoe and walked back inside.

Maybe this was a good sign. Maybe she was snapping out of it. I followed.

“You’re going to get dressed now, right, Ma?” I asked as we stepped out of the elevator to the fourth floor.

But Ma didn’t utter another sound. And when we got into the apartment, she wrapped herself in a blanket, sank into the futon, and started weeping again.

I sat dazed at the kitchen counter, staring at the “Saratoga, Top of the Stretch” poster and smelling the tamales. Jordan was still sleeping in the bedroom, and I could hear her weeping in the living room, her voice muffled by the blanket. I wanted to cry too. If Ma couldn’t work, there would be no Grand Opening, and the shop would close. We’d go belly-up and get kicked out of Mohawk Valley Village. They’d given
us a one-time-only rent extension. No matter how well I mediated, the manager wouldn’t let us stay here for nothing. That meant another move and another new school for Jordan—just when he was finally settling in.

Same old, same old. Nothing had changed.

Or had it?

What Winnie had said was true: both Ma and I had become stronger since we moved here. Shooting Stars was awful, but maybe it didn’t have to destroy everything we’d worked so hard to start in Schenectady. Maybe I’d changed, ’cause like Pete with that camera, I saw things differently now. There was our family to fight for and others that Ma had helped too. State Street would still look dumpy and neglected if it hadn’t been for the Resuscitate State Street Association—and that was all Delilah Dobson’s doing.

Resuscitate
. The word pumped oxygen down my dry throat. No way would I watch our lives get ruined like the melted ice cream.

As Gabby might say, the hardworking, dependable ox would take charge.

But how? I hadn’t read the
Inside Scoop
cover to cover like Ma. And I sure didn’t have her howdy-doody welcoming way. Plus I didn’t know how to work the cash register.

Could I pull it off?