We were at Cold Stone Creamery.
The place was empty. No real surprise there since it was the end of January, still cold even for southern California. Of course, the cold weather didn't stop the sun from searing my skin as I dashed across the parking lot. Now, as Anthony hungrily ate his bowl of ice cream, I sat huddled as far away from the windows as possible.
"I'm sorry, Mommy," said Anthony, in between mouthfuls of ice cream, a masterful concoction of chocolate ice cream, brownies, and Snicker bars, all prepared on a cold stone which, apparently, made the ice cream magical. I wouldn't know, but I think the brownie and Snicker bar had something to do with it.
"Sorry for what?" I asked.
"For fighting."
"Are you sorry for helping the girl?"
"No. She was crying."
"Are you sorry for hurting the boy?"
He thought about that. There was ice cream on his nose. "Well, yes. I didn't mean to hurted him so bad."
"Maybe you can apologize to him someday for hurting him so bad then."
"Okay, Mommy."
He went back to his ice cream, which was nearly gone. How he could eat ice cream so fast, I hadn't a clue. I distinctly recalled a little something called brain freeze. Anthony, apparently, powered through it.
"Tammy tells me that you can wrestle seven boys at once."
"Sometimes ten."
I think my eyes bulged a little, but Anthony was too busy dragging his plastic spoon along the inside edge of the bowl to see my reaction. His little face was the picture of concentration. Ice cream was serious business.
"That's a lot of boys against just one boy, don't you think?"
He shrugged. "I guess. I dunno. Maybe I'm just stronger. Can I have another ice cream?"
"One's enough. I'm making dinner soon."
He stuck out his lower lip the way he does when he wants something. He hardly looked like a kid who just sent the school bully to the hospital.
I said, "Do you like being so strong?"
He gave me a half-assed shrug, since he was still officially in pouting mode. "It's kinda cool, I guess." Then he began poking his fingers through the Styrofoam bowl and wiggling them at himself, then at me. "Ice cream worms!"
I took the bowl from him. His fingers, I saw, were now covered in chocolate ice cream. He pouted some more.
I said, "Do you wonder why you're so strong?"
He shrugged, though some of his pouting steam was dissipating. "Not really."
I looked at my son. He was still quite little for his age. Too little to be beating up three school punks. Too little to be wrestling a whole group of kids. His dark hair was thick and still a little mussed, no doubt from the fight. He showed no signs of having fought three older boys, although he had put one in the hospital. I suspected a legend was being born about him as we sat here at Cold Stone, whispered throughout school. His life, I suspected, was about to forever change.
No, it changed seven months ago, I thought. When you changed him.
When I saved him, goddammit!
I took a deep, shuddering breath. Presently, Anthony was using his fingertip and a few chocolate drips to make shapes on the table. Circles. Happy faces. Sad faces. Such an innocent boy.
What have I done?
"Anthony," I said. "I need to talk to you about something very important."
He looked up, terrified. "But you said you weren't mad, Mommy."
"I'm not mad, baby. This is about something else."
"About Tammy?"
"What about Tammy?"
"Because she smells so bad?"
And he started giggling, so much so that he passed gas, too. This led to more giggling and a scowl from the Cold Stone manager. And when a wave of gassy foulness hit me, I leaped up from the table, grabbed his hand and we made a mad dash to the minivan, where Anthony continued giggling. Myself included.
Laughing and burning alive.