by Juliette Fay
Cormac’s face went motionless for a second too long. “For who?”
He knows, thought Janie. No details, not why, but he gets the gist. She made one last-ditch effort. “None o’ your beeswax, nosey,” and she shoved him. There was something intensely satisfying about shoving such a big man. And Cormac knew it. He staggered back a step, letting her feel powerful for a moment. Then he shoved her back, not hard, but enough to throw her off balance, enough to make her feel that she was a worthy opponent. Which she was, but not physically.
“How bad was it?” he asked as he shoved.
“Bad enough.” Shove.
“Who?” Shove.
Janie groaned and shook her head.
“Come on,” he threw a huge, floury arm around her. “Tell ol’ cousin Cormac what you did to warrant Pology Cake.” After she told him, all he said was, “Wow.” Then she knew he was worried about her, even more than before.
“He provoked me,” she insisted.
“Still…” he said, and squinted at her. “I think you gotta go homemade on this one, chickie.”
“Come on, Cormac,” she whined. “It’s not like I ran over his cat. Besides, I don’t have time.”
“Boo-hoo. Make time.”
“I’ll owe you big.”
“You already owe me big. Besides, you’re the founding mother of Pology Cake. You know how it works. It has to be a sacrifice.”
“He doesn’t know that,” she said.
“Father Jake’s a smart guy, he’ll figure it out.”
Janie sighed, bested. “Any thoughts?”
“Hmmm,” said Cormac, unwittingly scratching flour into the stubble on his chin. “Something sweet, but not gooey…” He went on for a while in recipe rapture, finally deciding on some ginger concoction the name of which Janie couldn’t even pronounce.
She slunk home and reviewed the ingredients he had written out for her on the back of an order sheet. She was missing a few and finally decided she didn’t even agree with his prescription. It wasn’t the type of cake that mattered, anyway. What mattered was the sacrifice—that the transgressor offered a symbol of his or her remorse in a form that best suited the injured party. And since she was the patron sinner of Pology Cake, Janie followed her own counsel and went with lemon cream cake. She thought Father Jake might be a lemon kind of guy.
As she measured the flour, her thoughts drifted to the inception of Pology Cake. She remembered the incident, of course, but it went back farther than that. It really began because she and Mike were so completely different. Janie was the chatty, smart-alecky one, Mike was the silent, speedy one. She back-talked Mum to death; he just took off.
But more than that, Mike had always been a little odd—too easily overwhelmed, shy to the point of reclusive. He was often unable to attend to the simplest tasks, yet mysteriously able to create complex works of art in the sanctuary of his room. An enigma even to his twin.
Perhaps it was because of this lack of true understanding that Janie and Mike nurtured little commonalities to get along. Foremost was the currency of food. They had an elaborate scale of which Halloween candies equaled other things. Like two Tootsie Rolls was fair trade for an extra turn on their only pair of roller skates. Choosing the TV show cost a full-sized Snickers bar—not the mini kind. Food restored the balance of power, which had always been tipped decidedly in Janie’s favor.
For Cormac’s tenth birthday, his mother, Aunt Brigid, told him that he could have any kind of cake he wanted. So Cormac, the original envelope pusher, thought about it for a solid week. When he placed his order, Aunt Brigid stared at him with her mouth open for a few seconds, and muttered, “You gotta be kidding me…” Then she narrowed her eyes at him and said, “Fine.”
It was ten layers. She built and decorated it to look like the Prudential Center tower in downtown Boston, as requested. It was colossal, an edible engineering masterpiece. Uncle Charlie had helped her to steady it with a series of upright chopsticks hidden inside. And there Janie and Mike were, two eight-year-olds sitting with all those big-boy friends of Cormac’s, being served slices of cake bigger than their heads.
The moment was perfect, until Mike got a little frosting on his fingers. Janie saw it coming and wanted to scream, “Don’t!” But, of course, he did. He stopped Aunt Brigid from sawing up the cake and asked her for an extra napkin. Then, with maddening fastidiousness, he scrubbed each finger. Even in his adulthood, sticky hands were still cause for panic.
Janie was mortified by his prissiness, especially in front of Cormac’s friends. She was ashamed of him, and not for the first time. So she huffed, “God, Mike, don’t be such a girl.”
Mike stopped mid-wipe. The big boys snickered and sneered at him, happy to have a new target for their insatiable taste for teasing. And Cormac, a forkful of cake inches from his open mouth, gave her a look of withering disgust. Mike was to be protected, not shot down from within family ranks. This was understood. The shame that washed over her was oceanic. Her first thought was to run home, but that would have called even more attention to the gaffe. So, she did the only thing she could think of that might set things right. She slid her as-yet-untouched cake over to Mike.
“Hey, she doesn’t want her cake? I’ll have it!” yelled clueless Dougie Shaw.
“Shut up,” growled Cormac. “It’s apology cake.”
“Pology Cake?” said Dougie. “I thought it was a Pru cake.”
They all laughed and punched each other and shouted “You idiot!” and “Duh, Dougie!”
And Pology Cake was born.
SATURDAY, MAY 5
Had to drop off a cake at the rectory for Father Jake. He wasn’t there so I left it in the front hall with a note that it was from me. It was lemon with butter-cream glaze. Sweet but not gooey. Self-effacing without being overly self-denigrating. It says I was right, but I had no right to say so.
I hope Father Jake speaks Baked-good-ese.
On Monday morning, after taking Dylan to preschool, Janie drove by the church. Expecting to see what? she thought. The flag at half-mast? Father Jake stood on the shady side of the rectory, garden hose in hand, watering flowers. Janie hung a hard right into the church parking lot, wheels letting out an aggravated squeal. She parked in the shade, prayed for the courage to be meek, and got out.
“I didn’t know you were a gardener,” she said, trying to sound offhanded.
“I’m not,” he said. A question floated behind his standard issue smile. “These are Father Lambrosini’s. When he retired and I got assigned here, he asked me to take care of them.” He watered one of the rose bushes a little too long and a muddy puddle formed. “Unfortunately, he never left any instructions. So I just water them and hope they don’t die.”
Janie stared at the roses as if her next line were written on the leaves. Finally, she said simply, “I’m sorry.” His smile relaxed and he nodded. The relief she felt was extraordinary.
“Thanks for the cake,” he said, and aimed the spray at another plant. “It’s delicious.”
“You don’t have to say that,” Janie sank onto a wrought iron bench by the little plot of roses. “I bake like you garden, just trying not to kill anyone.”
He released the handle on the hose and the relentless spray ceased. The bobbing blooms slowly regained their regal composure. He sat down on the bench next to her. “Where’s the baby?”
“Asleep.” She pointed to the car, parked in the deep shade of a leafy maple tree. The humidity had broken and a cool breeze passed over them.
“What you said the other day,” he said, studying his hands, “it wasn’t totally unjustified.”
Don’t, she thought. Please. It’s the first peace I’ve had since you left on Friday. Let’s just enjoy it.
“Nobody’s caught me like that in a long time,” he continued.
Oh, God, she realized, he’s going to tell me. And I made him do it. I baited him and now he feels he’s got to answer. Please, please don’t tell me.
“My
family was kind of…what do they call it now? Dys-functional? Such a tidy term for something so messy.” His lips flattened into a thin smile. “My mother was an alcoholic and my father was…” He squinted at the rectory walls, as if to assess their height. “He was sick.”
“I’m sorry,” said Janie. “What did he have?”
A mirthless snort burst out of him, and he said, “Cancer of the soul.”
Janie’s thoughts spun out like tops, as she considered the possibilities of this revelation. Her own defenseless children came to mind, and the knot in her stomach tightened.
He glanced quickly over at her. “Boy,” he said, shaking his head. “That was way too much information. Now it’s my turn to apologize…”
“No, I asked for it.”
“You didn’t. You only realized that I have a dark corner in my heart, too.”
“And used it against you.”
“You lashed out, and I happened to be in reach. I know how rage feels, trust me.” He stood and stretched, as if waking from a long sleep. “Hey,” he said with a gentle smile. “Want some cake?”
3
THURSDAY, MAY 31
Dylan’s been doing this weird thing. On the way to the library last week, I looked in the rearview mirror and he had his swim goggles on. They must have been left in the car the last time we went to the pool. Which was when, exactly? Can’t even remember. He took them off when we went into the library, but put them on again when we got back in the car. I asked him to bring them in the house so they don’t get lost, and he didn’t say anything, so I assumed he would.
Actually I forgot the whole thing as soon as we got home because Shelly came over to tell me she’d sold one of the Pelham Heights houses and was ordering Thai food to celebrate. It was Friday, so it was okay for her to eat something other than a red pepper or a pomegranate or other single form of vegetation for dinner. I said great, but Dylan won’t eat Thai, so I’ll just make him some pasta. She got a bee in her Neiman Marcus bloomers because “the whole idea of ordering out is that you DON’T HAVE TO COOK.” Not like she ever cooks. I don’t think she even owns a pan.
So I said, okay, how about pizza? But she doesn’t eat white flour, and she thinks she might be allergic to tomato-based products, and cheese is simply unthinkable. It was like I was asking her to eat asphalt. I think Shelly is frightened of food. But we ordered, and I gave Dylan Pad Thai, which he would not eat until I dabbed it with honey! Thank you so very much, Aunt Jude. When he goes into insulin shock someday I hope she’s there with her ipecac so she can give herself a nice, big dose.
Yesterday, when we were driving to that gas station with the free car wash, there he was with the goggles again. I said, “Hey, Diver Dan, how come you’re wearing those?” He looked out the window and said, “I just like to.”
Fair enough, I thought. What’s the harm? So, now I’m starting to get used to seeing him sitting back there, perched on his booster seat with those big green goggles, looking like some sort of frog prince with curly black hair.
FRIDAY, JUNE 1
It’s June first and that porch builder isn’t here. Probably in Acapulco with my money.
Father Jake came by today on his teabag tour. I wonder how many other lost souls and life wrecks he visits. That could be a lot of tea.
He said he thinks I’m depressed, qualifying it with, “though, I’m not a therapist.” I made a dumb joke about him playing one on TV, and he laughed. I have to admit I appreciate his patience with my sarcasm at his expense. Maybe he’s tougher than he looks. Two months of Friday visits and he still isn’t sick of me. At least he doesn’t let it show.
Today, he told me he doesn’t hear me talking about anything good in my life. He thinks the pain is starting to overwhelm me. I said I can handle it. Plus, good things do happen. I just don’t always mention them. When I told him a kind of amazing thing happened today, his whole face changed. He looked so hopeful. I was glad it was something good enough.
I told him the baby let me stroke her hand. He said, “Really” with that kind of neutral tone that means I have no clue what you’re getting at but keep talking anyway.
When I used to nurse Carly, she would open up her hand and let me stroke it. I would start at the base of her palm and just stroke upward so that my fingertips ended up sort of tickling her little thumb and fingers. The inside of a baby’s hand is the most amazing thing. Warm and soft and silky. Not one thing in this world compares. When she opened her palm and stretched out her fingers, she was letting me into her little world.
But, when Robby died I just shut down. My milk stopped and she had to go on bottles, and she wouldn’t even let me feed her at first. Then, she would let me give her a bottle, but she kept her fists clenched, as if she didn’t want to expose them to pain. Lately, though, little by little, she’s been straightening out her hand, and today she held it out, just out in the air, not to me, or anything. And when I touched it, her fingers closed at first, but then she opened them again. She never looked at me. She just drank her bottle and stared off past my shoulder like she always does. But, she let me stroke her palm. I was so happy for that moment, when life seemed normal again and we were together, not strangers wandering around alone on some airless planet, but me the mommy, her the baby. I was so grateful.
I didn’t think Father Jake got it at first, how big that was to me, because he didn’t react right away. Then he said, “You know, I bet something like that happens every day.” I gave him my best too-bored-to-be-annoyed look, and he said not something that big, obviously. But maybe something smaller might happen. And if I looked for it, I would see it, and maybe that would help. He suggested I write down one little miracle every day.
Actually, I thought the idea was sort of simplistic and Oprah-ish, but tonight after the kids went to bed, I realized that I wanted to write it down, anyway. I probably won’t have another baby, now that Robby’s gone, and when she’s big I’ll want to remember that sensation of touching her hand, of connecting with her in such a mommy-baby kind of way. So, I suppose for today, anyway, I’ll take his advice and write down my little miracle. If something happens tomorrow, I’ll think about that then.
THE SECOND WEEK OF June turned scorching hot, as if to taunt the palefaced and those without central air. The drastic change made Janie feel weak and sweaty. It was only minimally satisfying to see the other preschool mothers looking damp and blotchy, too. “You will pick me up?” asked Dylan, the goggle-shaped rings around his eyes still noticeable. Miss Marla had given Janie a look of concern when she’d first seen them, but Janie had just shrugged and busied herself with putting his Clifford the Big Red Dog lunch box in Miss Marla’s designated lunch box basket.
When she returned home, the white truck with MALINOWSKI CUSTOM DESIGN, INC. on the door was parked in front of the house. The contractor was standing in the yard staring up at the roof. Janie struggled out of the car, Carly in one arm and a grocery bag on the other. Malinowski came toward her, took the bag, and set it on the front step. “What’s her name,” he asked, nodding at the baby.
“Carly,” said Janie. “And you’re…Augustus?”
“I go by Tug,” he said. “I only use my given name for contracts. And elderly clients. For some reason, a guy in his forties named Augustus makes them feel like the world might not be going to hell in a handbasket, after all.”
Standing in the blazing-hot yard with a drip of sweat running down her cleavage, Janie didn’t feel like smiling, but her mouth curled up of its own accord. “Why not Gus?” she asked.
“My father was Gus. Also Gus was one of the mice in Cinderella. The stupid one.” Malinowski squinted back up at her roof and ran a hand through his sparse auburn hair. “When I was a kid, some of my friends used to call me Mal, but I wasn’t too big on that.”
“Why not?”
He glanced over at her, his dark eyes seeming almost black as the pupils dilated. “It means ‘bad.’” He looked away, then down at his scar-faced watch and said, “O
kay, I gotta go. I’ll be here tomorrow with a backhoe. You have a little boy, right? About four or five years old? Keep him home from school. He’ll love it.”
“HEY, GUESS WHAT,” JANIE said to Dylan at bedtime.
“What?” said Dylan, tucking the mangy ears of his stuffed bunny under his chin.
“You’re not going to school tomorrow. A guy is coming with a big backhoe to dig in our yard.”
Dylan looked dismayed. “Dig holes? Is that okay? Will he do trouble?”
“No, it’s not trouble,” said Janie. “I want him to. He’s digging holes so he can build us a porch. With a ceiling fan. It’s good.”
“But…I don’t know.” Dylan rubbed a formerly white bunny ear across his cheek. “A backhoe?”
“A big one. And you don’t have to get ready for school, so you can sleep as late as you want. We can all sleep until we’re ready to get up.”
At 5:42 the next morning, Dylan was ready to get up. “Mom?” he whispered, hovering over Janie. When she didn’t respond he delicately pulled up one of her eyelids. “Mom? Where’s the backhoe?”
Janie took him into bed with her and mumbled, “It’s too early. Go back to sleep.”
And it seemed as if he would, until he asked quietly in her ear, “Mom? What’s the guy’s name?”
“Tug.”
“Tug? Like a tugboat?”