What Body?

“What do you want to do with the body?”

“What body? What are you talking about? “ The middle aged woman, asked the young boy, standing in front of her, the look of guilt written all over his face.

“The one on the back porch”, the boy answered.

The woman lights another cigarette, takes a long drag, and exhales, thinking to herself, more drama, I don’t need this, I really don’t need this. She finally gets it together, looks down at the good looking young boy standing in front of her, fidgeting as if he knows there’ trouble coming.

“For heaven’s sake, what have you kids been up to? I’m not gone more than a few hours, and what happens? I come home and there’s a body. Where is it? Let me see it.”

The garishly dressed woman follows her young son out onto the back deck to find an older gentleman, dressed in a white Frosty Ice Cream uniform, looking comfortable in her favorite chaise, a single bullet hole almost dead center in the man’s forehead.

“I cleaned up all the blood.” The boy volunteered, hoping to get something positive from his mother.

“Yes, I see. That’s good honey. Well done. Did you pour bleach on the floor?” She asked in a calm motherly tone.

“Yep, I used up all that was left.” He said, obediently, still fearing this could go either way for him.

“So what happened?” Then without waiting for an answer, she says out loud, “I better call your Uncle Sal, he’ll know what to do.”

“Jimmy did it.” The boy says to his mother as she walks back into the kitchen looking for her cell phone.

“Jimmy? Your brother Jimmy? Oh lord, was he playing with guns again? I bet he used my .38, didn’t he?” Now looking somewhat annoyed, she continued out through the kitchen and at the foot of a staircase leading up, she yells. “Jimmy, you up there? You come down here right this minute. Don’t make me come up and get you.”

A small, young voice replies, “I didn’t mean it mom, really” and the sound of steps on the bare wooden stairs can be heard. The steps make the steady uneven sound of someone, taking the stairs one step at a time.

The anger building up in her quickly dissipates as Jimmy, her youngest, enters the kitchen. He’s a year or two younger than his brother, and has the cutest, most innocent of faces. He’s wearing his favorite Mickey Mouse t-shirt, which now has a few blood stains on it.

“Here, you better give me that t-shirt.” She says, as she walks over to him, and lifts off his t-shirt. She feels something funny while pulling off his garment. She reaches behind him and pulls her .38 pistol from his waistband.

“What did I tell you? You don’t touch my guns. “ she admonishes her child, while flipping open the cylinder and seeing one round missing. “Where’s the spent cartridge?”

“It’s upstairs.”

“Get it.”

The boy turns and runs up the stairs, a short time later returning with an empty shell casing. She puts it into her pocket.

“Okay, now tell me what happened.” She asks, gesturing for the boys to take a seat at the kitchen table.

“I wanted ice cream, chocolate ice cream. But Mr. Frosty said he didn’t have chocolate only vanilla.” Jimmy said while playing with his fingers.

“So you shot him?” his mother clarified.

“No.” the boy said casually. “I then asked him for strawberry.”

“And?”

“He said he only had vanilla.” The boy, now looking bored, replied.

“Jimmy, please, what happened next?” The woman urged her son to come clean.

“I said I’ll take vanilla, but I wanted a big box.”

“Go on.”

“He came to the back door and said he was out of vanilla. He brought mint chocolate chip. I hate mint chocolate chip.” The boy said with a scowl.

“So that’s when you shot him? She asked.

“Yea, right here.” He said pointing to his forehead.

The other boy quickly cuts in. “That’s not true. You left out a part.”

“Liar, shut up.” Jimmy screamed.

“What? What’s missing?” The woman asked her eldest.

“When the man came to the door, he had this big box of ice cream. Jimmy went to open the door and the man bent over and rubbed Jimmy’s head. He said you’re a cute little fellow."

“Oh no, then what?”

“Yea, and Jimmy said, cute my ass and shot him.” The boy said, giggling.

Jimmy looked at his mother, “Next time, he better be bringing me chocolate if he’s going to call me cute.”

The woman couldn’t help but laugh at her youngest. “I sure as hell didn’t raise no punk, that’s for sure.” She admitted, finding it impossible to be mad at the cute young boy sitting at the table. “I better call your Uncle.”

* * *

“Hello Sal, it’s me.” She said to the man answering her call.

“Hi, babe, how are you? How’s the kids?” the man asked.

“Good, but we had a little altercation.” She stated.

“Yea, what’s it this time? Don’t tell me that fool across the way is bothering you again. I warned him. Gees, some people just don’t take hints. I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.”

“No it’s the kids. Jimmy popped the ice cream man. I got a guy in a white uniform, laid out on my deck with a hole in his forehead. I don’t know what to do. Can you help me?” she asked nonchalantly, like she was asking him to take the kids bowling.

“What? He popped the ice cream man? Mr. Frosty? Why’d he do that?”, then said laughingly, “Did he run out of his favorite flavor or something?”

“Yea, something like that.” She replied

“You're kidding me? That kid has a real pair on him.” he continued, “My kids are outside waiting for the ice cream truck, I better tell them he ain’t coming, otherwise they’ll be out there waiting all day."