The Queen of Queens

The Lemon Ice King of Corona was a converted garage storefront with a royal blue awning, built in Queens during the World’s Fair of 1964. Whenever I went there with my mom as a child, it was an unexpected delight—never planned, always at a moment’s notice, a “how about we stop here” that thrilled me.  

Once when I was five, my mom pulled up to the shop in our navy blue Volkswagen Bug.  

“Stay here,” she said.  

She had a strong Lebanese accent, but I didn’t know that then.  

She left me in the car while I watched her from the passenger seat, the windows open, even the little triangular window in the front. My thighs clung to the seat as I pulled them up one at a time to cool them off.  

My mom got two lemon ices in their folded paper cups and returned to the car, her black shoulder-length hair pulled back with a barrette, gold hoop earrings framing her face, her pink halter dress with swirls of blue and yellow fluttering in the wind.  

She handed me one.  

It looked like a cloud of snow, the same translucent color as the paper that held it. If there were other flavors, other colors, I didn’t know about them.  

I took a lick, tangy and sweet and so cold that the bridge of my nose hurt, a stabbing pain that made me squint my eyes and hold my head, but I pushed through for the next lick, the sticky treat dripping down my fingers. I had a hard little napkin that didn’t seem nearly enough.  

We sat side by side in the bucket seats of that tiny car, the gear shift between us, the full ashtray, too. 

I squeezed the soft cup and more ice came to the surface. I slurped and probably made lots of noise.  

My mother said nothing, just ate beside me, her eyes closed as she bit into the creamy and crunchy concoction.  

I was her third child, the baby. She was on the verge of her liberation as a woman, getting her undergraduate degree at Queens College and finding space for her own interests. She was busy, and I didn’t get to spend much time with her.  

I loved that she wasn’t watching me. We were each eating our ices like equals. 

Every now and then I’d glance at her though.  

She had on oversized sunglasses, red nail polish on her fingers and toes, and her bracelets made soft chime-y sounds when she moved.

“Ma, why do we like lemon so much?” I asked her.  

“Maybe because we are Mediterranean,” she said.  

“Imagine if they had a lebne flavor!” I said and slurped some more.

“What should we do now, Lellybelle?” my mother said, as she wiped her hands and she checked her teeth in the rearview mirror. 

I shrugged. It was so exciting just to be with her.  

Were there other people there on the street, walking around the car, eating ices of their own? I have no recollection.  

My mother took up my whole view, with her red lips glistening and her sunglasses sliding down her nose.