An Ice Cream For Henry

Chapter 10

B arbara Harrison didn’t try to be beautiful, she just was. When she dressed femininely, she was one of those women who men could fall for in an instant. She was well used to being pursued by the opposite sex. At college, she had eventually got bored with the continual advances from her fellow students, and had been sickened by older men shamelessly trying to pick her up despite her still being a minor. One such man was Donald Coleman, a childhood friend of her father who had thought it was a good idea to sneak into Barbara’s room on vacation in Florida when she was just fourteen. It happened in the middle of the third night of the vacation, when a liquored-up Donald had taken advantage of his wife and Barbara’s parents staying late at a Hawaiian-themed beach party held near the house the two couples had rented together.

Only his longstanding friendship with her father had saved Donald from a charge of attempting to sexually assault a minor, but it had not spared him the wrath of Barbara, who was already something of an expert in taekwondo having practiced it for four years. That was a really bad night for Donald: initially, he had assumed the young girl was up for it when she teased him by getting out of bed in just her underwear after she’d felt his covetous fingers brush against her nostrils, then a few seconds later he found himself flat out on the ground nursing a black eye and a cracked rib. He’d been hoping for a kiss, but instead had been dealt a punch and a kick that he hadn’t even seen coming such was the darkness of the room and the sheer speed of Barbara Harrison’s moves.

Barbara told him she wouldn’t say anything to her parents, but that he’d have to think of an excuse for his injuries and if he ever tried it on again, she’d press charges, but only after killing him first.

Donald told his wife and Barbara’s parents that some strangers had tried to steal his wallet and he’d sustained the injuries trying to defend himself. He and his wife cut short their Florida vacation the next day, setting off just a few hours after he had left hospital. Over the years that followed, the Colemans and the Harrisons saw less and less of each other, and when they did get together, Barbara was never present. Donald was ashamed of what he’d done and he would always come up with different excuses to spurn the invitations of his friend Antony Harrison, until eventually Barbara’s dad gave up and decided he wouldn’t bother calling Donald anymore.

‘ You do right to stop calling him, Dad. I always thought he was a dumb sleaze… And his wife’s sooo jealous of Mom’ s looks,’ Barbara would say whenever the question of ‘whatever happened to the Colemans?’ surfaced. Eventually, the Harrisons forgot all about their former friends.

Upon returning home after her hour-long run through Central Park, Barbara was stopped by the concierge, who handed her a parcel.

“Who’s it from?” asked Barbara curiously.

“It’s from an Italian fashion house, Miss Harrison, that’s all I know,” the concierge replied with a cheery smile.

Barbara went up to the fourth floor of the Upper East Side building, entered her apartment, used one of her feet to close the door behind her, and put the parcel down on the table in the well-lit living room.

She was unsure whether to open it immediately or take a shower first. She had that same sense of excitement and curiosity she had felt as a child, when she would wake before everybody else on Christmas morning, tiptoe downstairs, peer through the frosted-glass sliding doors of the living room to catch a glimpse of the gifts Santa Claus had brought, creep back up to her room, and pretend to sleep before her brother and parents woke. Just like then, Barbara’s patience and strength of character won the day as she rationally decided it wouldn’t be wise to let the sweat cool on her skin.

Stood under the steaming hot shower, she wondered who might have sent her a gift from Italy and decided it had to be Robert. Her mother had promised to get her something special for her birthday in a couple weeks’ time, but her intuition proved correct: the parcel was indeed from Robert.

After putting the last of her things in the case she would later take with her for her weekend in Maine with Robert, Barbara set about opening the parcel.

Having opened the outer packaging, she saw a label bearing the words ‘For you’, signed ‘RB’ for Robert Brown.

Robert wasn’t one for the written word; saying things out loud came more naturally to him.

Barbara untied a pink silk ribbon that was wrapped around an elegant white box bearing the inscription ‘ Atelier Livia Risi’. Inside was a simply stunning dress called ‘Pizzo Jersey BuyBy’, designed and custom-made by Livia Risi herself. It was a bias-cut dress, which made it harder to stitch and required a lot of fabric, but only a bias-cut dress flowed in perfect harmony with a woman as she walked. It was fuchsia with a black v-neck down to the base of the breastbone, and it was possible to wear it without a bra thanks to the embroidered black elastic that followed the shape of the breasts. It was one of the Italian designer’s must-have dresses, a timeless classic that featured (updated, of course) in every spring/summer collection. The dress was embroidered with different layers of lace: double on the front, where a bit more coverage was required, and single in areas where the elegance and sensuality of the female form could more readily be admired. Barbara Harrison was going to look a million dollars in this.

“ Wow!” she exclaimed as she lay the dress out on the bed.

Barbara was a bit of a tomboy at heart, so she tried as much as possible to avoid wearing particularly feminine or revealing outfits. Although it was true that she could make anything look good, she was determined that men and women should recognize her other qualities first, the ones that went beyond appearances. At work, in particular, she had no time for men trying to undress her with their eyes.

‘ If you want to stay on the right side of me, you need to stay focused and quit daydreaming about something that’ s never gonna happen. Do I make myself clear?’ She would say that to anyone who met her for the first time and stared at her too much.

Barbara was forty-two but appeared to have pulled off the trick of stopping nature a decade ago, and even she was taken aback by her refined beauty and innate elegance as she looked at herself in the mirror, wearing her new dress.

Robert accepted that Barbara had this more masculine, and sometimes in private scruffy, side, but he also wanted to see her as beguiling and feminine, an unobtainable goddess whose every slight movement could hypnotize him and make her fall in love with her all over again. He certainly wouldn’t be disappointed today. After applying her cat-eye makeup and finding some sandals to go with the dress, she left the apartment and headed for the restaurant where he would be waiting for her.

Barbara was pleased they had cleared the air on the phone the previous day, and she loved how Robert was always able to surprise her. Spending a few weeks apart from him had served only to deepen the void she had felt ever since she was a child, when her older brother Richard had died suddenly and inexplicably from a heart attack in his sleep. Ever since, that sweet and sensitive little girl had changed and taken on the characteristics she most remembered in her brother: strength and courage. It was her way of trying to ease the unbearable pain her parents had carried around since Richard died and fulfill the expectations they had initially had for both children.

Barbara had been in several relationships over the years, but only Robert had brought that sense of familial warmth and security. It would be a mistake to let a man like him go. He loved her like crazy, she knew that, and beneath her protective shell, she loved him too, in her own way. All he wanted from her was to be there, to live for today, and to accompany him on life’s journey, and all he wanted to do was declare his undying love for her.

Chapter 11

R onald Howard was in a good mood as he drove out of Jim Lewis’s repair shop, escorted by the same two armored cars he had entrusted with protecting the vintage Mercedes over the last few days. Jim was also pretty happy because Ronald had been in a hurry, so he wasn’t stuck with him for too long. They might have been long-standing friends, but as grown-ups the billionaire and the mechanic didn’t really have much to talk about, save revisiting some hazy and often made-up memories from their college days. Some of Ronald’s recollections were so far removed from what actually happened that Jim struggled to humor him. Ronald at least had the good sense to steer clear of politics and the economy, although he would sometimes have a bit of a moan in what could only be described as a clumsy attempt to show solidarity with his friend and the lower social classes. Ronald was a bullshitter but he was no fool, and Jim appreciated that, just like he appreciated the ten thousand dollar check he was now holding firmly in his hand.

‘ Ten thousand bucks for fitting a muffler and oiling a door - that is daylight robbery… God bless you, Ronald, and your bullshit stories!’ thought Jim, chuckling to himself. It was now unbearably hot in the repair shop. After folding the check and tucking it safely into his wallet, Jim headed into the bathroom to throw some cold water over his face. His day ahead would now consist of pulling down the shutters, going to collect Henry from school, taking him to his Aunt Jasmine’s for some lunch together, and then heading to the bank to pay in that big fat check, maybe after a change of clothes.

At least that’s how his day would have gone had he not emerged from the bathroom to find himself face to face with Shelley Logan, sat on her scooter in the middle of his repair shop, wearing a pair of flip-flops, some white Daisy Dukes and a pink camisole, which with no bra underneath provided a perfect outline of her shapely breasts and hard nipples.

“My engine’s flooded, Jim. Can you help me?” Shelley asked, pouting seductively in a way that only some girls could pull off.

“Maybe you need someone to take a closer look, Shelley...”

“Oh I think I do, Jim. And I think you’re the only one who can help me. Do you know, I’m not sure I can stay upright when it’s so hot...” replied Shelley mischievously, stretching her legs out and pushing herself back on the saddle to activate the kickstand.

‘ I can’ t believe you’ ve only just turned 20, Shelley. YouPorn has turned your generation into a bunch of whores, and I just take a ticket. Looks like my number’ s come up again…’ thought Jim as he approached the girl’s scooter.

“Would you mind if I pulled down the shutters? The heat in here is just unbearable, you know?”

“Sure. You got anything to drink?” replied Shelley, taking a band from her wrist to tie her hair into a ponytail.

“There’s a fridge in the office. Take whatever you want and grab something for me too,” said Jim, before pulling down the shutters.

Shelley re-emerged with two mini bottles of vodka, like the ones in hotel mini-bars.

“Hey, shorty, you feel like downing these in one or would that be too much for you?”

“Jim, I am so thirsty...” replied Shelley, raising the bottle in a toast and proceeding to pour the entire contents straight down her throat.

‘ Oh, you are such a bad little girl, Shelley…’ thought Jim, walking over to her and grabbing her ponytail, forcing her to turn around, sink to her knees and then get on all fours like the horny little bitch she was.

“Is this what you do with your boyfriend, Shelley?” asked Jim, still grabbing her ponytail and controlling her like a dog on a leash.

“Not at all; he loves me...”

“And is that why you came to see me?”

“Yeah...”

“Shelley, you are such a bad girl, you know that?” Jim didn’t wait for her to answer. He took down her shorts and panties together and buried his face in her ass, prompting a strangled cry of pleasure as his tongue licked her up and down like a predator about to devour its prey.

Chapter 12

T he speed limit along Bay Avenue in Toms River, New Jersey was thirty-five, but that didn’t matter to Joanna’s older brother, Zibi. He was the fastest kid on the block, both behind the wheel and at the helm of a boat, at least according to his sister.

As Henry walked back from school along Bay Avenue, he saw Zibi speed by with his sister in the passenger seat of the jet-black 1973 three-liter Ford Capri. Joanna’s window was open and her long, golden locks were flowing in the wind.

The car came to an abrupt halt just a few yards ahead of Henry, who was walking along a sidewalk next to an uneven grass verge.

“Hey Henry! Want a ride?” shouted Joanna, leaning out of the window.

‘ Of course I do, and actually I’ d like to drive. I’ d do a better job than your brother,’ thought Henry, before replying timidly:

“No, thanks. I’m nearly at my Aunt Jasmine’s.”

In reality, Henry would have loved to jump in the car, but he was worried Zibi might laugh at him for whatever reason and Henry didn’t want to look a fool in front of Joanna; Miss Anderson had already embarrassed him enough for one day, and anyway, Henry was still thinking about the Kennedy assassination.

Yeah, the assassination.

At the end of class, Mr. Johnson had left the story in a shroud of mystery, saying that he could only relay the facts as they had been decreed by history. He told the children that the school curriculum prevented him from going any further, but that when they were adults they would be able to explore some of the interesting alternative theories that were out there.

“The truth is not always as it seems,” had been Mr. Johnson’s last words as he left the classroom.

“OK, Henry. See you in class on Monday!” yelled Joanna over the roar of the Capri’s engine.

Henry had no time to reply or even wave to Joanna. The car was already speeding away. Zibi had revved so hard in neutral that when he engaged first gear, the tires screeched and left a long, stinking trail on the asphalt. In a matter of seconds, the car had disappeared over the horizon.

There was no traffic on Bay Avenue that day, at least not at that time.

Henry’s backpack was weighing him down, and he paused for a second to take it off. It wasn’t the books that were the problem; it was the new oxygen cylinder for Aunt Jasmine. His aunt had suffered pretty serious respiratory problems ever since she lost a lung to cancer, and the remaining one wasn’t exactly that of a champion free-diver.

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