Crime Scene by Rick R. Reed Page B

a dark room, fan blowing on her, no sheet. She remembered how he used to run an ice cube down her body on other hot summer nights, the traffic below them as they lay on a mattress he had dragged on to the fire escape.
    But he was gone.
    “C’mon, Mama. It’s so hot.” Lucy swung her legs over the side of her bed. The little girl stretched and rubbed her eyes. She wore only her panties, and her baby skin was already moist.
    She wanted to hug her, because she was the only thing in this world that was really hers. But it was so hot. And the pain behind her eyes so great…she just didn’t have the energy.
    Lucy crossed the room to look out the window. She leaned out as the music from the ice cream truck swelled as it neared their building.
    “It’s the ice cream man!” Lucy turned to her mother. “Mama, it’s the ice cream man! I want some ice cream!” Already, she was rummaging in her drawers, looking for shorts and a shirt to throw on so she could run downstairs.
    She put a hand to her forehead, trying to hide the wince from her daughter. “Honey, you can’t have ice cream for breakfast. C’mon, I’ll fix you a nice bowl of Cheerios.”
    “I don’t want Cheerios! I want ice cream!” Lucy bounced up and down, features creasing with desire. Her lower lip was out and beginning to tremble.
    Her mother shook her head. She had no money for luxuries like ice cream. Lucy would have to get used to that. She had money for hardly anything since he had left.
    Lucy began to wail, staring out the window, arms outstretched beseechingly at the children and truck below her.
    “Honey, c’mon.” She placed a comforting hand on her daughter’s shoulder. Her reward was Lucy shrugging the hand away. She turned to her mother, with tears glistening. “I hate you.” Lucy rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door.
    She collapsed on her daughter’s bed, pulled the pillow over her head and lay there until the sweat trickled down her face to dampen the sheets. Wearily, she got up, crossed the hall to the bathroom door and tapped.
    “Lucy? Better hurry up in there ’cause we’re goin’ to Coney Island!”
    * * *
    She put a hand to her own forehead, where her own headache was beginning. It was so easy to imagine them. Why did she want to, though? Why couldn’t she get the little girl and her mother out of her mind? She found herself thinking of them on her way to work in the morning, el train rumbling beneath her. She would think of them at her desk at the agency, thoughts drifting off for minutes at a time, imagining them, almost feeling as if she were coming to know them.
    She didn’t want to think about them. Didn’t want to imagine a scenario in which she could make sense of what had happened. Who were they anyway? Why should the death of a child affect her so much? Was it because she had been about the same age as the little girl back in 1965? Her own mother never had the strength to spank her, let alone…
    Oh God, the image rose up again. Her little lips parted, perhaps to draw in her final breath.
    * * *
    At Coney Island, heat shimmered off the sand. The beach was crowded, but not as bad as it would be on the weekend. She moved through the oiled bodies, the umbrellas and the transistor radios blaring songs like, “Alley Oop” and “Downtown,” hanging on to Lucy’s hand. The little girl had so much energy. Already, she was bouncing up and down at the sight of the Atlantic, pointing at the waves rolling in. “Look, Mama! Big waves today.”
    She had only enough energy to nod at her daughter, giving her a wan smile.
    They managed to find a space big enough for them to spread out the blanket they had brought from home.
    “How about right here?” she asked.
    But Lucy had eyes only for the sea.
    She threw down the blanket, towels and beach bag. The heat was adding a twisting nausea to her gut, to keep company with the headache no amount of aspirin would alleviate.
    Lucy let go of her hand and started running