Ice Cream by Paul Ilechko
Some decades ago, when I was still young, or at least no more than middle-aged, I had a friend (who is in fact still a friend, though this story is interested in those previous times) and she had a husband who has since died. This couple then, both of them slightly older than me but clearly of the same generation, lived in the inner but less upscale suburbs of Princeton, in a house of moderate size with a large rear garden that was at any given time more or less unkempt. To visit my friends was to be invited to eat, and if it was not a specific mealtime then some excuse could surely be made, and if nothing else would do, there was always the secondary freezer in the basement that was filled with every flavor imaginable of ice cream.
I always thought of them as people who ought to have a dog. Definitely a rescue, and probably a terrier of some kind; a sociable dog, eager to lick the hand that provided treats. It would have been mostly black but with patches of white of various lengths in the forelegs and muzzle, or perhaps the opposite of that, and we would have walked together, the three of us with the dog, around the perimeter of the Princeton Battlefield. One of us would toss a well-chewed tennis ball or a random stick from a maple tree for the dog to happily chase and return to whichever of us seemed most keen to keep up the game.
The husband was a man of significant intellect and a head full of bushy, tangled hair. He had degrees from at least two Ivy League schools, had practiced (unwillingly) as a lawyer, and knew almost everything that there is to know about movies. His office was up a small flight of slippery stairs from the living room, and that was the room in which he sat for much of the day, watching video cassettes that were mailed to him on a regular basis, and writing short capsules for a syndicated column that had become his primary source of income. His column would occasionally expand to interviews with a variety of famous figures, including former President Carter, who, he claimed, was the funniest man he ever spoke to. Occasionally he would take a break for a bowl of ice cream, and at whatever time he decided his workday was done he would leave the house for a short walk along the edge of the Stony Brook.
A few years ago, he became very ill, and the walking was no longer possible. It was cancer, and he had allowed it to spread unchecked for too long before agreeing to treatment. The ice cream made him sick, and after he died, my friend hired men to dispose of the freezer. She told me that she could no longer bear to see it, to imagine him sitting in the middle of a pile of tapes with his bowl of pistachio or New York SuperFudge Chunk. She kept his ashes in a silver plastic spaceship beneath the window that looked out towards the street. The first time I saw it, a northern cardinal appeared, tapping at the window with its beak. That’s him, said my friend. He visits me quite often. I was going to get a dog, but the bird is enough. I laughed and said at least he’s looking good these days.
Paul Ilechko is the author of “Post Moby” (Sheila-Na-Gig, 2026) and “Fragmentation and Volta” (Gnashing Teeth, 2025). His work has appeared in many journals, including The Bennington Review, Bear Review, Atlanta Review, Permafrost, and Laurel Review. He reads for Marrow Magazine.
