H enry was relaxing between classes, and had quickly forgotten all about the math test, when suddenly he heard the unmistakable sound of the ice cream truck drifting in through the window. Actually, it wasnât the same tune as normal, but it was close enough. Henry looked out and saw that, indeed, it wasnât the usual truck.
â Mr. Smith must have had to get rid of his old truckâ¦â the boy thought to himself, speculating that his favorite vendor must have fallen on hard times: in place of his usual huge white and pink truck with a giant plastic ice cream cone on the roof was an smaller old gray campervan with just some small modifications on one side. The vehicle looked like something out of those World War II books that Bet had bought from a flea market when she was pregnant and Henryâs dad kept on display in the bookcase in the living room.
â Yeah, it must be because of the rain⦠last summer, it rained for like a whole month, and Mr. Smith mustnâ t have sold enough ice creams so heâ s had to sell his truck and replace it with that heap of junk!â
âWhat are you thinking about, Henry?â asked Nicholas, poking Henry in the ribs.
âOh, nothing. I was just looking out the window and thinking how Iâd like an ice cream.â
âWhy?â asked Nicholas, looking right at Henry.
âBecause Mr. Smith drove by in a new truck!â
Nicholas shifted his gaze to the window, stepped forward and stuck his head out, looking left and right, before turning back to Henry and jamming both index fingers hard into his rib cage. Henry coughed and spluttered in pain and was left bent double. âYou thought you could trick me, Henry Lewis, but whoâs laughing now, eh?â chuckled the red-haired boy.
âSit down, please,â came the voice of old Mr. Johnson as he shuffled into the classroom wearing his Yankees baseball cap and with a copy of The New York Times folded under his arm.
âToday, weâre going to be talking about President Kennedy, and I think youâre going to enjoy it!â
As Mr. Johnson put his newspaper and cap down and sat behind his desk, Henry - before sitting down himself and having recovered from Nicholasâs brutal attack - turned to look out of the window and check whether Mr. Smithâs ice cream truck was still there, but he couldnât see it.
â He must have been in a hurry,â thought Henry as he sat at his desk and watched Mr. Johnson unfold the newspaper to show it to the class.
Henry knew that the story of President Kennedy would not only banish all memories of Miss Anderson and her math test, but also suppress the strong desire for an ice cream that had come over him when he saw the truck outside.
KENNEDY IS KILLED BY SNIPER
screamed the headline in The New York Times. The pupils stared intently at the old newspaper, keen to find out more. Nicholas was so engrossed that he forgot to remove the pinkie he had put up his nostril to do some intense digging around his freckled nose.
âStop picking your nose, Nicholas,â chided Mr. Johnson. You must always be respectful when people are talking about a President of the United States, dead or alive! Your boogers are not important! If you canât blow your nose, youâll just have to put up with it.â
For the other children, it was no laughing matter. Their teacher had a penetrating gaze and a deep measured tone to his voice that demanded respect.
Chapter 10
B arbara Harrison didnât 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 Barbaraâs 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 Barbaraâs 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 sheâd 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. Heâd been hoping for a kiss, but instead had been dealt a punch and a kick that he hadnât even seen coming such was the darkness of the room and the sheer speed of Barbara Harrisonâs moves.
Barbara told him she wouldnât say anything to her parents, but that heâd have to think of an excuse for his injuries and if he ever tried it on again, sheâd press charges, but only after killing him first.
Donald told his wife and Barbaraâs parents that some strangers had tried to steal his wallet and heâd 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 heâd done and he would always come up with different excuses to spurn the invitations of his friend Antony Harrison, until eventually Barbaraâs dad gave up and decided he wouldnât bother calling Donald anymore.
â You do right to stop calling him, Dad. I always thought he was a dumb sleaze⦠And his wifeâs sooo jealous of Momâ s looks,â Barbara would say whenever the question of âwhatever happened to the Colemans?â 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.
âWhoâs it from?â asked Barbara curiously.
âItâs from an Italian fashion house, Miss Harrison, thatâs all I know,â 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, Barbaraâs patience and strength of character won the day as she rationally decided it wouldnât 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 weeksâ 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.