Caught in the Act

First published in the Sun Magazine

I DROPPED BY my parents’ house one afternoon at four, just to say hi. The truth is I wanted something to eat. I wasn’t a kid, hungry after a day of attending school. I was an adult, hungry after a day of teaching school.

No one was home, so I rummaged through the pantry. Nothing. The fridge. Nothing. The freezer . . . jackpot: a white bakery box with a cake inside — a chocolate cake, to be exact, ornately decorated in fudge frosting. I grabbed a fork and began chiseling away a frozen bite. Tiny triangles of frosting fell off. An entire frosting rose broke away, petals intact. It was delicious. Fueled by the refined sugar, I kept chiseling, hoping to hit a vein that would yield larger bites.

Five minutes later Mom came home. Her smile disappeared as soon as she saw me. “What are you doing?”

“Eating cake,” I said.

My mother’s voice rose. “That’s the top of your sister’s wedding cake!”

I kept digging, ignoring her glare of maternal disapproval.

“Your sister is saving that for her first anniversary!” She stamped her foot this time, as if that would cause me to stop.

Another rose broke off the cake. I held it out to her as an offering.

“Well, it’s too late now,” she said, and grabbed a fork.

Mom and I were well into our conspiratorial snack when Betsy walked in. Her face turned red. “Is that my wedding cake?”

The youngest of four, Betsy constantly felt overlooked or left out and held everyone in the family responsible for it. Seeing us devour her cake only reinforced her belief.

I held up a hefty slice; the cake was beginning to soften at this point. “It’s pretty tasty.”

For a moment none of us moved. It seemed I’d crossed a line.

Betsy walked to the silverware drawer and grabbed a fork. “I’m gonna kill you,” she told me. But one bite in, her eyes rolled upward. “Oh, my God, this is good,” she said.