White Space Season 2

in my fridge for months. I won’t touch it. A batch of Carmen’s vanilla bean, well, that’s gone along with that day’s sun.”
    Emma looked up at her grandfather like he invented each word from his mouth. Her eyes were wide like her smile. She turned from Blake to her scoop, darted her tongue like a lizard at its hardened frost, smiled wider, then nibbled a bite and marred her perfect sphere.
    “Oh, wow,” she squealed, diving for another, “that’s the best ice cream I’ve ever had!”
    “Wait until summer,” Warren said from behind. “It tastes even better then.”
    Despite the chill of his own ice cream, Jon was suddenly warm. He had expected to feel many things, bringing Emma over for dinner, but comfortable wasn’t one of them. He was starting to second guess his showdown. Things were going too well, and there hadn’t yet been a natural break in conversation which allowed him to get Blake alone. Perhaps the night would end on a happy note, after all. The fight can wait.
    Jon, like everyone else, finished his ice cream in satisfied quiet, until Emma shattered their silence by saying something impossible.
    “Mr. Billy!” she shouted as her eyes landed on his picture, an old one, painted on canvas pulled from a photograph, hanging above the sitting room fireplace.
    “Huh?” Jon said, turning to his daughter.
    “That’s Mr. Billy, isn’t it?”
    The room passed glances and confusion. Blake said, “That’s my father, William Conway Jr.”
    “Yes, I know, Mr. Billy. I remember him.”
    Melinda laughed, “But, Honey, he’s been dead for more than 50 years.”
    “No, he’s not,” Emma said. “I met him.”
    “Where did you meet him?” Jon asked, slowly lowering his body until he was kneeling beside her.
    “I don’t know,” Emma furrowed her brows. “But I remember meeting him.”
    Warren laughed, as if Emma were telling a joke. Jon looked to see if Blake was laughing, too. He wasn’t. He was staring at his granddaughter, seemingly as confused as Jon.
    “She has an active imagination,” Jon said, setting his hand on her shoulders.
    “I’m not imagining!” Emma shot back defensively. “He talked to me. Told me to call him Mr. Billy.”
    “Really?” Warren said, smiling like the asshole he was. “And what else did he tell you?”
    “I can’t remember everything, but I remember being scared. He told me not to be. I told him I couldn’t help it, and he said that sure I could, people could help everything they did, and that it was an easy way out to say I couldn’t. That made me more upset, I think, since I sort of remember crying harder. Then he said that fear’s the strongest emotion of all, and that I had to learn to control it. Then I could control everything else, too. Mr. Billy said fear leads to superstition, and that superstition can make a man cruel. He says nothing will make me smarter than managing my emotions, and that I had to be smart since my blood was the best.”
    Blood was the best?
    Emma looked up, saw every eye on her, and continued.
    “Mr. Billy told me about a time he was ice skating on a frozen lake when the ice was thin. He said he would have drowned if he hadn’t crossed the lake as fast as he had, and that I should always remember — if I’m ever skating over thin ice, real or otherwise, that I’ll find safety in my speed.”
    Jon felt chills through his body. Warren leapt from his chair. “Is this some sort of joke?” he asked, spittle flying from his bottom lip. “Did you tell her that story?”
    “No,” Jon said. “Hell, I barely remembered Father telling us that story, it’s been so long.”
    Warren’s tone grew sharp, his voice raised. “Why are you saying this, why are you lying?”
    “I’m not lying!” she shouted back.
    Blake stepped between them. “There are plenty of Billy Conway quotes floating around, Son.” He turned to Warren. “This isn’t surprising. It’s amazing how much children pick up, these days from everywhere, and how easily information’s absorbed in their psyches.”
    Emma chewed her bottom lip. Jon could tell she wanted to protest but didn’t. He was confused, no clue how he should respond to her Mr. Billy story, so suddenly disarmed he didn’t think he could possibly confront his father, even if he wanted to, which at the moment, he didn’t at all.
    It was late. The house, warm just moments before, had fallen under sudden frost; a rare pleasant Conway dinner had curdled. Jon couldn’t stand