The Ice Scream Man

by Salmon, J. F.

  “Hey, that’s mine, cheeky monkey.”

  “You won’t eat three full slices.”

  “I might.”

  “You won’t.”

  “Okay, I won’t. But I might,” she said and gave him the look that said she wanted the last word on the matter, then smiled as she poured the coffee into the two milky cups.

  Alex watched her raise a spoon of grapefruit to her mouth, her other hand following underneath the spoon to catch the drips.

  “Damn, you look so sexy. I think it’s the backcombed look.”

  “Yeah, right,” she said, tossing her fingers in her hair. “It needs a wash, and I know I look a mess, but thanks all the same, will never tire of compliments.”

  His eyes drifted from her hair down to the grey t-shirt she wore (his t-shirt which looked a lot better on her than it did on him), and rested on her nipples stabbing through the material.

  Suzanne had the bowl of grapefruit in her hand. “Hey, what are you looking at?”

  “Those pretty little tits of yours. Those nipples are driving me crazy.”

  “That’s because they’re feeling frisky. Look how pointy they are,” she said teasingly with her chin tucked into her chest, then squeezed her breasts together with the heel of her hand and her elbow, careful not to spill the juice from the bowl. They both admired the cleavage that formed just above the V-neck. “These little puppies . . . they’re all yours for being such a good boy.”

  Alex ran his index finger down the crease of her cleavage and tugged on the V of her shirt, and tugged again as if trying to free a fishhook caught on an overhanging branch to expose more of her breasts.

  “Easy, tiger, at least let me finish my breakfast,” she said, playfully hiding her modesty.

  “Great,” he said with childish excitement. “If I’d have known this was in the cards I’d have left the toast off the menu. And the grapefruit. Hurry up and finish that coffee.”

  “That’s why you made me breakfast. I know your game, Mr. Dirkan.”

  “Okay, you got me, it’s true, and I can’t wait. Get the rest of that down you, you sexy woman. I’m just going to take a quick piss.” He rubbed his hands together as he pranced out of the bedroom like a ballerina in drag.

  “Charming,” Suzanne said, taking another bite of toast.

  Alex whistled in the kitchen while he washed the dishes from breakfast, which didn’t take long. Thoughts of having had Morning Sex washed away the memory of washing up and before he knew it, he was turning off the tap. There was nothing like good old Morning Sex to set the mood for the rest of the day—the rest of the week.

  He could hardly remember the last time they had done it with such passion, and thanked his lucky stars (and their counsellor), that they still hadn’t lost it. It was the type of intense passion, where even the pain of pelvic bones colliding with the force of jackhammers felt sorely good. Sex with Suzanne had been the best Alex ever experienced and just got better over the years. To look at her, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth but when Suzanne felt horny or frisky, Alex knew he was in for a sexual treat.

  She could be so hot when the mood took her. Unexpectedly, she would proclaim herself a nurse, a teacher, a secretary, even a nun, and then act out the part with flashes of her modesty. But whatever you do, never call her a slut, even though she might act like one. She didn’t like that word, not even a tiny bit, call her anything else and that was fine, but not that. He didn’t know why, something in her past, perhaps. And he didn’t care to delve any further for fear of getting jealous of someone he didn’t know, or worse, someone he did, who had done something to her that she tried and didn’t like, something that he hadn’t.

  He supposed Suzanne took it to mean the type of hussy that put herself about to just about anyone with a pulse, which is how it came across on their third sexual encounter when he felt comfortable enough to inadvertently spill the word, “Oh, you dirty little slut,” just as he was about to climax. It immediately brought a halt to the proceedings. She stopped pushing into him and came up off her elbows, onto her hands, turned her head to face him and demanded to know what he meant by “that.” It was a definite mood spoiler and took some minutes of verbal backtracking to convince her, “No, I didn’t mean it like that!” while he was still inside her with his hands on her hips, afraid to let go for fear of her pulling away. It ended with an apology, saying, “So where were we?” as she slipped back into position and he found his rhythm. Once the vehemence grabbed hold of her once again the slutty side resurfaced in a series of seductive moans and groans. Not the side that sleeps around, you understand, just the side of her without inhibition. Suzanne was comfortable in her skin and enjoyed flaunting her body, much to Alex’s delight. In the bedroom, Suzanne was more the whore type, not a slut.

  She liked to talk dirty too when in the throes of passion. In fact, she was more partial to it than he was. The whole slut thing put him off, afraid the word would slide off his tongue amidst the passion with the same regularity as ifs, ands, and buts, if he dared open his mouth. She could string the most surprising array of words together and when threaded they sounded a lot like “That’s it big boy fuck that tight hole come on that’s it give it to me.” Alternatively, when it was his turn to climax, or more to the point when she decided it was his time, the words sounded more like, “I want you to come in my mouth . . . I want you to spurt that load all over me . . . I can’t wait to taste it. . . . Give it to me, big boy,” which usually did the trick—always did the trick. Whosever turn it was, his response was much the same, the full extent of his naughty vocabulary rarely extended beyond the “Ooos, ahhs, and yeahs,” or repeating what Suzanne had just said. That was always a safe bet, but don’t ever call her a slut, it was a deal-breaker.

  Eighteen months ago, the story was very different, difficult, to say the least, almost broke their marriage apart. Four consecutive miscarriages in the past three years had left Suzanne disturbed and afraid. It was bound to take a toll on any couple, but this last time, unlike the previous times, there were complications. It was doubtful she would conceive again.

  What do you say to news like that, knowing how much the woman you love wants children, would settle for just one? They both would, for Christ’s sake. What do you say to ease the pain and anguish?

  “Don’t worry, darling, everything will sort itself out, God has a plan . . . la de da de da. Bullshit.”

  Nothing Alex could say or do was going to make the situation any easier. God knows, he found it tough enough to accept and could only imagine what she was going through, what her body must be going through, what her mind must be going through. He just wished time would be gentle and see them both through.

  Even the thought of sexual intercourse back then brought with it dark reminders of one loss after another. What was supposed to be a pleasurable experience only soured the seeds of a fearful rendition of what would never be. The anguish, anxiety, and the depression that followed was nigh on impossible to comprehend. It yelled at her with unmistakable clarity, mocking her that she had wasted her last chance to conceive: “No more chances for you, my dear Waster.”

  For her, the expected pleasure of intimacy did nothing to outweigh the pain and suffering that so readily ensued soon afterward.

  She had come home from work on many a night, looking drained and dejected, playing with her food, then deciding she wasn’t hungry, still full from a lunch she probably never ate. He tried hard to understand what her working day must have been like, to come home the way she did, putting on a brave face when the rumour mill started to grind. It must have been tough. Word spread fast in St Augusta’s. He imagined it only took one big mouth to set the sail.

  “Suzy, I just wanted to say . . . .”

  “Suzanne, are you all right?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “How are you holding up, Suz
y?”

  “Are you all right, Suzanne? You don’t look very well.”

  “Sorry, Suzanne.”

  “Suzy, are you all right?”

  “Suzy, I’m so sorry.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “Chin up, girl.”

  “It’ll be okay.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  “There’s always next time.”

  In those trance-like states when she conversed with her demons, the ones that allowed her to dwell on what-might-have-been and what could never be, he witnessed her faith in God disintegrate. Little bits of it at a time peeled away from her soul like a third-degree burn. He felt powerless to help. He said everything he possibly could on the first two occasions, only to repeat them again after the third time, and with conviction, but that was when there was still hope of a family.

  He could tell she found it difficult to be in his company. Rarely talking past “Hi” and eye contact—well, of that there was virtually none. It was almost as if she were blaming him: “It’s your fault, your sperm that’s inflicted all the damage; there’s something radically wrong with it, it’s poison, it’s cursed; now leave me the fuck alone.”

  They no longer discussed what they were going to have for the evening meals or what they should do on the days they had off together. On those days, she spent longer in bed, not willing to get up until mid-afternoon and then go missing for another couple of hours with Bentley. When back home, she went about her business with sacrificial emptiness, almost robotic in her movements. Long, hot baths occupied the evenings, and early nights left him sitting in front of the television feeling helpless, alone, and irritated, angry that she didn’t have the courtesy to tell him she was going to bed. On those nights, he often stayed in the spare room with no protest from her when she woke up the next morning, or afternoon as the case may be.

  Had Suzanne fallen out of love with him?

  It sure felt that way. On the occasions when she did sit in the living room with her demon-infested moods beside her, the chair of choice was the one that gave him a partial view of her morose face. Her eyes hardly moved in front of the television, not following what was on the screen, not looking, but open. All he could think of asking was, Are you all right? And immediately bite his tongue afterward because, of course, he knew she wasn’t.

  He desperately wanted to help. He wanted her to talk to him, tell him how she was feeling and take on her burden, their burden. They did the first time when it happened, and the second. Then they talked, cuddled, cried, and reassured each other that one day they would have a family together. If anything, it brought them closer together. The third time was a little different, harder to accept, but they still talked, cuddled, and reassured with unspoken words of scepticism, then cried some more. But now for the fourth time there was nothing—no talking, cuddling, reassuring, and no tears. If they didn’t get help, he feared their marriage would be over.

  Suzanne’s behaviour became unbearable. It was physically draining living in the heavy aftermath of his wife. When he stopped cooking evening meals she didn’t seem to notice or care. She was losing weight she couldn’t afford to lose, which only made matters worse. They needed to talk to someone impartial, a counsellor of some description. They needed to save their marriage. That’s what they needed to do.

  It was not until he approached her in the bedroom one evening as she prepared for another early night that he took her by the hand and sat her on the bed. He’d thought about it for hours beforehand, what he was going to say, how he was going to say it. He wanted to tell her that they desperately needed help, that they were crumbling as a couple, that their marriage was disintegrating, that he loved her and wanted her back. He held her hand in his, it felt limp, lifeless, but when she looked him in the eye, the first time in a very long time, emotion took them both by surprise and before he could get the first words past his lips, they both burst into tears. No words, no long conversations, they just cried and held each other tightly.

  They made progress that evening and after months of weekly counselling sessions, they made more progress. She said she had detested her behaviour but didn’t know how to stop it. She had described her thoughts as “A furious addiction of hate without respite.” But now it was like they had met all over again for the very first time.

  32:

  “Tank’s a lot.”

  The sound of Suzanne singing to an Alanis Morissette song replaced the hum of the hairdryer and put a smile on his face as he finished up at the kitchen sink.

  “It’s not fair . . . to remind me . . . of the mess you left when you went away. . . . It’s not fair . . . to remind me . . . of the cross I bear. . . .”

  The hairdryer whizzed into action once more and the singing died to a murmur. Alex cringed with a bout of anxiety in his stomach and moved out to the hall to have a listen. Had Suzanne thought about the lyrics rather than the rhythm of the song, she might have chosen something less ironic to sing along to, but it wasn’t about the song and when he heard her still humming to the music, he relaxed. Things were getting back on track, getting back to normal. Of course they were, he told himself. They had just shared their best Morning Sex since the beginnings of their relationship, and it felt that way for both of them. He was sure of it.

  He peeked around the rim of the door and saw Suzanne sitting on the poof in front of the dresser, her legs crossed, with a brush in one hand and the hairdryer in the other. The white dressing gown looked two sizes too big, but that only added to her sensuality. Tied loosely around her waist, the soft cottony robe buckled in the middle of her chest to expose a sensual cross section of her breast, the moisturiser mixed with the sweat of the hot shower shimmered about the curve of her bosom with every beat of her heart. The way the gown split on her lap and fell away from her thigh showed off the extent of her lush legs and splendidly manicured feet; her polished toenails danced to the rhythm of the song. He glimpsed those pink panties with the little black cotton cross at the front he was so fond of.

  The portrait of her sitting there stunned him. He entered the bedroom and moved behind her. She smiled at him through the mirror as he combed the hair away from her neck and gently kissed it while his other hand slipped in to cup her pert, moist breast. The skin was soft and warm from her shower, her nipple erect between his fingers.

  Suzanne flicked off the hairdryer with her thumb. “That’s enough of that,” she said teasingly, letting her head fall back to the side and take advantage of his caresses. “Okay, okay that is enough of that. You’ll get me all wet again. The day will be gone, come on, we have things to do today, maybe later, if you’re a very good boy.”

  “Oh, you are driving me crazy. You look beautiful. And I’ll hold you to that.” He squeezed her tight and planted a kiss on the top of her head, then left her to finish her hair. He was ready to go again. She wasn’t. If she were a slut she would have been.

  They both had reason to be happy this morning and not just because of Morning Sex (yes, please, thank you very much, all day long), but because it was the first day of their week off together. Forget about work issues, miscarriage issues, and every other type of issue in-between. This week was all about spending some much-needed time together and do the things that made them both happy—including Morning Sex. They planned to take drives and search out new areas to explore walks with Bentley, preferably without sheep in the vicinity. He also planned to surprise his wife with a couple of days in a pet friendly hotel but had not yet picked one. The thought remained.

  Suzanne affectionately ruffled Alex’s hair when she passed to the kitchen. She had a step in her stride. All good, and as she picked the kettle off its base and moved toward the sink, she placed the kettle back down on the counter without turning on th
e tap.

  “Surly, that’s not Bentley still barking out there?”

  “I tuned out about an hour ago. A good walk will sort him out, don’t worry,” he said from the sofa as he put on his socks.

  Suzanne was concerned. It wasn’t sheep Bentley was barking at; there weren’t any sheep in the surrounding fields to bark at. She was dressed in green, combat-style trousers that nicely defined her butt, a cream-colored cotton jumper with a brown stripe around the middle and a beige pair of walking boots. She leant over the kitchen sink on her tiptoes, her head close to the glass, looking out the window. She couldn’t see him but the barking told her he was somewhere down by the stream.

  “Listen to him out there. He’s going ballistic; something’s really bothering him.”

  Alex smiled at the form of her bum until she bounced back down off her toes and he grabbed a boot. “Hang on a sec, ’til I get these on and I’ll see what’s —” He heard the scraping sound of the dog lead as it uncoiled off the counter top and the door to the veranda shut. He rushed on his boots, only taking the time to tuck in the laces. “Shit,” he said and went after Suzanne.

  Once on the veranda, Bentley’s incessant barking was as clear as the bright afternoon and Alex now knew exactly where he was hiding. Suzanne was twenty paces out in front, heading in the right direction. She tossed the lead about her hand, generating the familiar metallic jingling sound when the links clashed together.

  “Bentley! Bentley! Come on, boy. Wawkeees. What are you playing at?”

  Alex expected Bentley to dart from the hedgerow and circle Suzanne with his tongue flapping around his mouth, spraying spittle everywhere. As did Suzanne, because Bentley was normally at their feet by the end of the first syllable when one uttered the magic word, “Wawkeees.”