The Cake Therapist

by Judith Fertig

  Olive hummed as she slow-danced with Frank Amici in the middle of the Friendly Café, their sodas and shared plate of French fries temporarily forgotten in one of the booths that lined three sides of the room. Frank smelled like Ivory soap and the starch his mother had used to give his old shirt some life.

  “You’re leading again, Olive,” he muttered. “The man is supposed to lead.” Olive rolled her eyes and they broke apart, then started over.

  It was not too bad letting Frank take the lead, just not something that came naturally to Olive. Give a little here, give a little there, and before you knew it, you were as soppy as milk toast. Yet she couldn’t deny that it was nice to have someone to lean on for a little while.

  Just an hour ago as she and Frank were walking to Friendly’s, Olive noticed how much darker it was outside with the hulking mattress factory blocking most of the moonlight. The streetlights seemed dimmer, too, in the frozen fog. Crossing the bridge into Lockton, Olive thought she had heard someone carousing on the frozen creek banks below, but it was too dark to see. Who would be out in this cold, anyway? She had slipped one arm through Frank’s, but she balled the other fist and hid it in her coat pocket, all the same. Nobody was going to get the better of Olive Habig, not if she could help it.

  Here, as they swayed in a warm haze of cigarette smoke, Olive caught a reflection of herself and Frank in the mirror at the back of the lunch counter. Olive had lost weight. Her new shorter hairstyle, with a flat crown and soft curls all around her face, made her expression seem less sharp. Her shirtwaist dress with a covered fabric belt and wide padded shoulders—a dress that Edie had made—looked good. Even the seams in her stockings were straight.

  When they turned, she spotted Frank’s cowlick, which no amount of Brylcreem could ever keep down.

  Some Romeo.

  Frank was a careful dancer, not like that Johnny Giraldi, who could really move. Olive sighed. Frank held her like Mama’s dressmaker’s dummy, not a real, live girl. But at least Olive had a date. Every day, some new boy was leaving for the war. Soon there wouldn’t be anybody left her own age.

  We’ll meet again.

  Would she ever see Edie again? Was Pickle gone for good?

  Don’t know where, don’t know when.

  Why did her sister, the only family she had left, disappear like that? Olive wished she could stop thinking about it.

  Edie hadn’t been well. She’d seemed scared all the time. Something had happened, but nobody else cared. It was all war, war, war. Olive was sick of it already, she thought, then was suddenly ashamed of herself.

  “Pickle probably ran off with the ragman’s son,” that old idiot policeman Tom Mooney had told her the last time she had gone to the police station. “You said he left her a shoe. Maybe it was a secret message or somethin’. Like one of them codes. Nobody’s seen him, neither.”

  Olive snorted at that idea. Why would Shemuel run off with Pickle? They hardly even knew each other. Sure, Olive had teased Pickle about Shemuel being her boyfriend, but they both knew how ridiculous that was. Usually, if you ran off, you joined the circus or went someplace that offered a better life. Shemuel was poor. Why would Pickle want to be any poorer than she already was? They’d end up as hobos, begging for food. No, that idea was ridiculous.

  “It’s not a crime to leave home, you know,” Mooney had added. “Half our department has signed up. Now the few of us old guys who are left are supposed to identify these German and Jap planes if they fly overhead.” He had showed Olive the pamphlet with illustrations of the undersides of American, British, Italian, Japanese, and German planes.

  “We have to scan the sky with these binoculars and write down if the plane is single- or multiple-engine. Whether it’s a bomber or fighter or transport. Friendly or enemy.”

  “Who’s going to fly all the way over an ocean and then over Millcreek Valley?” Olive had asked.

  “Them Japs flew all the way across the Pacific to bomb Pearl Harbor, and nobody expected it. They can fly here, too,” he said. “Or the Krauts. We have to be ready.”

  “But if you’re all looking up in the sky,” Olive had countered, “who pays attention to what’s down here on the streets?”

  Mooney had started to grumble, then shook his head. “What I’m tryin’ to tell you is that we just don’t have the manpower to go looking for trouble in every hot sheet place from here to Chicago. There’s no evidence of any crime, Olive.”

  Other than my sister is gone, and I am all alone.

  Olive straightened herself up, suddenly, and Frank looked down at her. She was getting good at twisting some kind of internal faucet, shutting off the cold emptiness, turning on the hot anger.

  “Damn it, isn’t anybody going to keep that jukebox playing?” she complained a little too loudly as the song ended. The other dancers turned to look at her, moving aimlessly in the silence.

  “What do you want to hear next?” Frank asked distractedly, searching through his trouser pockets for change.

  “You pick,” Olive said, and waved him away.

  But when the next song came on, it was Peggy Lee.

  We’ll meet again.

  Olive raised her hands, perplexed. “What are you doing?”

  He stared at her, his expression serious. “I signed up today, Olive. I’m going to war.”

  She gave him a long look, then walked into his arms, and they swayed again to the music.

  She was leading, but Frank didn’t seem to notice.

  “What will your dad do at the store?”

  “He’s going to get old Mr. Handorf to help him at the meat counter and a new kid to deliver the groceries.”

  “When do you leave?”

  “Next week.”

  “Oh, Frankie. Are you scared?”

  “A little bit. And you have to call me Frank now. I’m a soldier.”

  Olive leaned in closer, laid her head on Frank’s thin chest. She heard his heartbeat, steady and quiet.

  They finished the dance and slowly walked back to the booth, holding hands.

  “I got you something, Olive,” he said, handing her the white Rexall Drug Store bag. “Sort of a going-away present.”

  Olive took out a small bottle of L’Aimant perfume. The price tag was still on it—$2.50—more than Frank made in a day. She opened the bottle and took a whiff. It smelled soft and round and full of love, like how she wanted to be. She brushed away a tear, embarrassed, because feisty Olive Habig, the other half of Pickle and Olive, never cried.

  “I don’t have anything to give you.”

  “Yes, you do,” Frank said, taking her hand.

  12

  I gulped down more water. It seemed to help. The blistering acid taste went away as suddenly and mysteriously as it had begun.

  “Something must have gone down wrong,” I gasped, then gave a deep sigh of relief.

  “You’re sure you’re okay?” Ben looked worried.

  “I’m fine now, really. Maybe it was just nerves. My first big wedding cake . . .” I managed a whew as if I were a runner who had just finished a race.

  When I stood up straight, I gestured toward the double doors at the front of the reception room. “But we have other issues. I don’t think those two were on the guest list. I’m worried they might be crashing,” I said.

  At least they had cleaned up a bit. Mrs. Amici was in a floral dress and a white crocheted sweater. Diane had on a sparkly tunic top, a long skirt with an uneven hem, and what looked like knee-high boots in some shiny material. Ben knew them, of course. He just didn’t know that Diane had caused a scene in front of the bakery, and that it had involved the police.

  “I don’t understand how they got past my guys. I’ll take care of this,” said Ben, and moved toward them.

  I reached for his arm to make him stop. “Let’s try the diplomatic approach first,�
�� I suggested. “Maybe they’re here for some other event. They’ve become regulars at Rainbow Cake, so maybe I can talk to them. You stay by the cake.”

  “Thanks, Neely. I don’t want to lay hands on those sad old ladies—not if I don’t have to. But promise you won’t let things go too far. If they give you any trouble at all, you just give me a sign and I’ll be by your side before you can blink. Okay?”

  I stared at Ben for a second after he stopped speaking, wondering why I had been such a fool for so long. Rugged, handsome, oh-so-solid Ben offered the comfort and support I needed. With a reassuring nod to me, Ben stepped back and resumed his sentry duty, keeping one eye on the would-be wedding crashers and the other on the bridal party still outside in the garden.

  I plastered on a smile and walked to the doorway where the two were standing, looking again as if they had just landed on Earth from Mars, winking, blinking, and unsure of how to act in an alien environment. Had they never been to a wedding reception before?

  “Diane, Mrs. Amici, can I point the way to the room you’re looking for? This is a private wedding.”

  “We’re family, too,” Diane said.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, sort of,” she said, swaying backward a little bit. “Just stay out of this, Neely.”

  “Yes, let’s stay out of this,” Mrs. Amici said to her daughter, trying to pull her away.

  “Noooo-hoooo, Mom,” Diane said. “How many years have I heard about how your life is crap? I would have ripped that damn thing off her finger, asked questions later. But not you. You had your chance after she’d stuffed herself with cake, and you just walked away. You’d rather bitch about it and get someone else to do your dirty work. We won’t get another chance like this, Mom. The Voodoo led us here and we’re not leaving until we get it back.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “None of your business.” Diane squinted and peered around the room.

  “Let’s go, Diane,” Mrs. Amici pleaded.

  “Yes, maybe that’s best.” For once, I agreed with Mrs. Amici.

  Diane’s eyes widened as she looked toward the cake, Ben, and the garden beyond. What was she looking for?

  She got a crafty smile on her face. “Maybe the direct approach is not the way to go here. Hell, I’m flexible, aren’t I, Mom?” She raised the toe of one boot and spun around on the heel of the other boot to face the other direction. “That was damn flexible, wasn’t it?”

  “Diane, please,” Mrs. Amici said.

  “Okay, Mom. You want to wimp out. I get it. I can see this was a big mistake. Point us to the ladies’ room, Neely. We need to make a pit stop before we leave.” I gave them directions to the restroom in between this reception room and the one right next door. Diane grabbed her mother’s arm and tugged her back out into the lobby. I watched as Diane pushed open the restroom door. She gave me a smart-ass salute.

  Mission accomplished. I quickly walked back to Ben.

  “Another crisis averted,” I said when I reached him, “but you should probably make sure they really leave.”

  Ben discreetly used his walkie-talkie to alert his team, then hurried to station himself outside the ladies’ room door, waiting to escort Diane and her mother out to their car.

  I resumed my place by the cake, which was still in pristine condition. Not a sugar blossom out of place.

  The formal garden, visible from the French doors, looked lovely, too. Aged stone urns spilled over with colorful spring blooms, the trees blossomed in delicate pinks and whites, and daffodils and jonquils popped up amid the ivy ground cover. In the brick courtyard, the photographer was posing the bride and groom in front of a fountain. The two mothers and Sam Whyte’s grandfather stood off to the side. The uncle who had walked Ellen down the aisle, the bridesmaids, and the groomsmen stood closer to the French doors, waiting for their photo call, but also partially blocking my view.

  But I still saw something sparkly to the right of the courtyard, out of place in the English garden. Diane, dragging her mother by the hand along a narrow brick pathway. Oh no.

  I texted Ben, gestured for one of the waitstaff to babysit the cake, then went out into the courtyard.

  I had to give Mrs. Amici credit. She was keeping up pretty well as Diane tugged her along. It must have been like Barney pulling her when he found a new smell to investigate.

  I had to stop them from making a scene. They had no business here, and Diane was under the influence of something, judging from the almost-over-the-edge look in her eyes. I stood, blocking their path, my arms crossed.

  “I think I know that man,” I heard Mrs. Amici say as they approached.

  I turned quickly to look. She was pointing to the older Mr. Whyte.

  “He used to come to our house for fabric scraps. He was friends with my sister.”

  “Oh, shut up, Mother. Forget about Pickle. We’re here to . . . whoops!” Diane waved her finger at me. “I’m not going to tell you why we’re here.”

  “Maybe he knows what happened to Pickle,” said Mrs. Amici.

  “Screw that. We’re going to get what we came for and then you’re going to shut the fuck up, once and for all.”

  I took a step forward. Maybe diplomacy would work better the second time around. “Look, Diane. You can’t stay here; you—”

  “Don’t tell me what I can’t do!” Diane elbowed me aside and I had to hop backward over the boxwood border on my side of the brick path to keep from falling.

  Diane bulldozed their way back up onto the brick path, past the mothers and the old man. When the photographer turned to see what the ruckus was all about, Diane gave him a one-armed shove, sending him reeling backward. Luckily, he kept his balance and a firm hold on his camera.

  As Diane careened forward, Mrs. Amici tripped on a tangle of green ivy. She snapped loose from Diane’s grip and fell hard against a stone urn. Almost in slow motion, she straightened to an upright but tilted standstill, then crumpled to the ground.

  I ran to Mrs. Amici. She lay there, moaning softly, looking like a doll that had been left outside and forgotten.

  Diane lumbered on toward the bride and groom.

  I texted Ben again. Courtyard. Now. I was torn between leaving Mrs. Amici and running to Diane, but Mrs. Amici was hurt and needed me more. Someone else would have to deal with Diane.

  I quickly checked Mrs. Amici. She was breathing. She had a heartbeat. As I stroked her hand, I could see Diane, looking back at her mother on the ground. Her face red and eyes bulging, Diane twirled around to confront Sam and Ellen. “Give me the damn ring!” She grabbed for Ellen’s hand.

  Ellen shrank back and her new husband pushed in front to protect her.

  The next thing I knew, Ben and the club manager hurdled over the beds and tackled Diane to the ground. Ben turned Diane over on her stomach, grabbed her neck with one big hand, her arms with the other, and forced her face into the mulch; she turned her face sideways in a grimace.

  “Damn it,” she said through gritted teeth. “Shit, shit, shit.” Ben pressed more firmly on her neck and planted a knee in her back. She stopped cursing.

  “I’ve called the police and an ambulance,” Ben said calmly, looking up at everyone. “It’s all right now. You can all go back inside. We’ll get this cleared up.”

  The photographer recovered first. “Let’s come back out and take more photos a little later,” he suggested. “Just a slight change in the schedule. Every wedding has one,” he added brightly. “Won’t this be a story to tell in years to come?”

  He shepherded the bridesmaids and groomsmen, who had luckily been shielding this scene from guests, back into the reception area. The sound of sirens got louder.

  “I’ll keep the other guests inside,” the club manager said. He pulled the drapes over the French doors to block the view of Diane on the ground.

&nb
sp; “Let’s touch up your makeup in the powder room, honey,” Mrs. Schumacher said to Ellen. “Or get a glass of champagne. I definitely think we could use one.” They went back indoors.

  The younger Sam knelt down beside me. I gently brushed off the bits of cedar mulch that stuck to Mrs. Amici’s face and hair. He took off his jacket and draped it over her legs to protect her from the chill. Then he looked at me questioningly.

  “I’m Neely. I made your wedding cake. I’m sorry we had to meet like this,” I said quietly.

  “Everybody says that weddings are crazy. I just didn’t believe them,” he said. “I hope she’ll be all right.”

  The tall old man made his way over to us and stood stiffly, looking down at Mrs. Amici.

  “Pickle,” she moaned. “Pickle.”

  The old man stood with his head cocked to one side. “I haven’t heard that name in years.” Sadly, he said, “Olive Habig. Well, what do you know? Did someone get help for her?”

  I nodded.

  Sam looked questioningly at his grandfather. “Do you know her, Grandpa?”

  Mrs. Amici moaned again. I squeezed her hand.

  “It will be all right. You’ll be all right,” I said, looking up at the groom and his grandfather.

  Two emergency technicians hurried up the path, carrying a stretcher. The Whytes moved aside as a tech bent down to take Mrs. Amici’s pulse. The other man handed the groom his coat. Sam shook it out quickly and put it back on.

  The EMTs carefully placed a padded red collar around the old woman’s neck to stabilize it before they lifted her onto the stretcher and carried it back to the waiting ambulance.

  “We should go back inside,” said the elder Whyte. “There’s nothing more we can do here.”

  The groom put his arm through his grandfather’s and they slowly walked back toward the French doors.

  I saw Mrs. Amici’s handbag under the boxwood and picked it up.

  I followed behind them.