Courtship of the Cake

by Jessica Topper

  The cartons were getting soggy, and she snatched them from my grasp. “Time to do cake and candles!” she hollered brightly. But for my ears only, she added with a defeated sigh, “Logan’s been making the same damn wish for the last nine years. It’s about time it came true.”

  Dani

  MAKE A WISH

  “I have to get out of here,” Nash hissed in my ear, “or I am going to totally lose it.”

  “No,” I said. “No way. That would be the worst thing you could do right now. Let’s go sing, have cake, and make this about Logan today, okay?”

  “I never should’ve come back here.”

  “Your son”—I stressed the word—“is very happy you came back here.”

  “He’s deaf, Dani. Deaf! And mute. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?” For the second time that day, his voice cracked with emotion, and he had to clear his throat. This was a guy whose voice was an instrument, a tool of his trade that paid his bills and had, along with the sounds that sprang from his guitar, proved him a desirable commodity out there in the world.

  And the only person he wanted to win over could never be swayed by it.

  “Do not walk away.”

  He glared at me. I stared pointedly back. The words hung between us. If anyone were to glance over at this moment in time, they might’ve thought we were having a lover’s quarrel. Except we weren’t lovers. And it was less a quarrel and more a job requirement.

  I couldn’t walk away, either. Or run.

  Damn Maxine and her “dependability, respect, and the utmost professionalism while you work with the artists.”

  Logan came running and tugged a shell-shocked Nash by the hand toward the tent where the desserts were waiting. Bear had already poked ten candles around a very homemade cake that read:

  HAPPY BIRT

  HDAY LOGAN!

  in wavy letters. Something told me Mick hadn’t baked that particular cake, but he smiled down at it as he reached around Bear and stuck in one last candle “for luck.”

  “I forgot the matches,” Quinn muttered, rummaging through her box of supplies. “Damn it. Bear, could you run to the house—”

  “I’ve got it.”

  There was a flash and a whiff of lighter fluid as Nash flipped the top on his old vintage Zippo. A hush fell over the group; even Sindy was quiet. I caught Bear and Mick exchanging a guarded look. Quinn bit her lip and looked away as Nash moved the flame over each wick. She held Logan to her with one hand across his heaving chest.

  I had seen Nash whip out that lighter on many occasions over the last few months: to spark up the occasional joint in social situations, to satisfy some random girl’s flirty request for a light, to activate the tiki torches back in the artist compound after a heavy rain doused them. Even to show respect for his fellow musicians from sidestage, as fans raised their Bics, glowsticks, and iPhone virtual flame apps during a particularly moving encore. But never had I witnessed such a solemn look as he completed the ritual for his son. It was all consuming and hypnotizing, as if answers to some ancient mystery were locked deep in the blue-black center of each flame.

  The birthday boy grinned at everyone over the blazing candles, then he lifted his index fingers as if ready to conduct an orchestra. The children all began to sing and sign at the same time, four simple signs that carried just as much joy and enthusiasm as the traditional vocals. Some of the adults knew the signs as well, others tried to fake it, and some didn’t attempt it at all. As we collectively warbled toward the finish, one voice rose above the others, strong and steady. Nash was doing the one thing he felt comfortable with, that he knew he was good at. He held that last note longer than everyone, adding a bit of melodic vocal range to the end. Nash could’ve held that note long after the candles had burned down to waxy puddles across the frosting, but Logan didn’t give him a chance. With eyes squeezed shut and a whoosh of breath, he blew out every last candle as the crowd clapped and waved jazz hands in the air.

  “Why do we wish over cake with our eyes closed?” Mick was behind me, leaning close. “Is it the same reason why we kiss with our eyes closed?”

  His close proximity and his question raised goose bumps on my arms and other questions in my head. Was the thought of what we dared to hope for so fragile that opening our eyes would shatter the magic of it?

  • • •

  As the guests drifted away and parents tugged on their children’s arms and collars to round them up and offer thanks to their hosts, I walked the perimeter, collecting stray juice pouches and candy wrappers. Nash was by the tree, tossing the disembodied piñata head back and forth between his hands and staring out at the river.

  “Hey.” I stashed the trash into a garbage bag tied to one of the slats of the picnic table and joined him.

  “When I was . . . I don’t know, maybe eight or so, I came here for Bear’s birthday party. His parents had hired a magician, I remember. And there was a cotton candy machine, like at the fair. And the biggest piñata I had ever seen.” He continued tossing the colorful crepe-covered skull from hand to hand. “We all took a crack at it. Mick, Bear, even little Quinnie. She was a couple years younger than us but had a wicked swing.” He smirked. “Still does. But none of us could break that thing. Mrs. Bradley came out with her broom and poked and prodded a weak spot on its belly, until it was nice and tender, and then we all took another turn at it. Bear was our Little League champion; he finally made the swing that cracked it in half.”

  Nash glanced up at the tree with a slight smile, as if replaying a movie of the day. “I couldn’t believe the amount of candy that came pouring out. And plastic jewelry, and toys. Little army men, rubber snakes, every kid’s dream. It didn’t seem like it would ever stop.” He cleared his throat. “All the other kids swarmed under it, pushing and grabbing. I was kind of paralyzed, watching it all. Then I noticed the piñata head, it had rolled over there.” He nodded his head toward the base of the large maple. “I remember racing over to it, and claiming it all for myself.”

  He placed the donkey head into my hands, and I turned it over. The cavity was stuffed with wadded-up newspaper.

  “I didn’t know they only filled the body with the treats. By the time I realized, all the stuff was gone from the ground. Every child had armloads of booty, and I was left with this.” He took back possession of the head and poked at the paper inside.

  “Mr. Bradley walked past me to gather up all the garbage, and I’ll never forget it. He saw me standing there with the head and he said, ‘That’s what you get for being so greedy.’ And he kept on walking.”

  “Oh my freakin’ God. What a horrible thing to say to a child.” That had to rate a good ten hours on the therapy clock, for sure.

  Nash shrugged and gave a bitter laugh. “Well, he was right. I remember thinking, ‘Why bother with fighting for a few handfuls on the ground when I can have the entire head to myself?’ I had taken the easy way out.”

  “Nash. You were eight years old. Lots of kids would’ve done the exact same thing.”

  “Then why did they have all the candy, and I had nothing?” he asked. He turned to face me. “Obey the rules, and you get rewarded. Be a sheep. Follow the herd.”

  “That doesn’t mean you were wrong. You were being smart, and creative.”

  “I was being greedy. I did want it all to myself. Was that so wrong?” His voice began to rise. “And I didn’t want to be like all of them!” He did a dropkick and booted the head down the embankment, where it rolled out of sight. We heard a watery ker-plop. “Who was I kidding? I couldn’t be like the Bradleys no matter how hard I tried. They had a big, beautiful house that people would drive miles to see just for the Christmas lights. I lived in a trailer. My dad would turn off the lights on Halloween because we couldn’t afford to give out candy.”

  I wrapped my arms around him and he buried his face in my hair.

  “Ca
n you see why I don’t belong here?”

  Mick

  LOYALTY LIES

  I made myself useful, far away from the kitchen window so I didn’t have to look out on Dani and Nash’s PDA under the old maple tree. Quinn worked silently beside me, sorting trash from the recycling.

  “I can’t believe Nash is back,” Bear murmured from the breakfast nook. He licked the frosting from the bottom of a birthday candle, lost in thought.

  I glanced at Quinn from my station at the sink. Her eyes and hands were darting back and forth, focused on their task. Compartmentalizing, like she always did.

  “Dani seems nice,” Bear continued, absently sticking another candle in his mouth. “Good for him.”

  “Yes. Hurray for Nash. Let’s throw him a party next,” Quinn grumbled, yanking the trash bag from the receptacle so hard, the plastic drawstring snapped. She glared at her brother as if it was his fault.

  “I meant she seems good for him.” He sucked the candle clean of frosting and slowly pulled it from between his lips. “For his psyche.”

  Quinn hauled the bag over to the table where Bear was supposed to be wrapping the leftover desserts. “He has a lot of nerve,” was all she said as she swept the nine remaining candles into the bag before Bear could leave his DNA on them. Knotting the frayed drawstring, she made for the side door.

  I had a fleeting memory of my mother, carefully washing and drying the candles from my fifth birthday cake to stow in the drawer next to the sink. We can reuse them for your next birthday, Mickey. Once they’re lit, no one will know. Our little secret. She’d winked.

  My mom had had all sorts of little secrets. She was gone before my sixth birthday, so saving the candles hadn’t mattered in the long run. The screen door slammed and the memory flickered out.

  “Think fast!” Nash tossed something shiny toward Bear, who wasn’t necessarily the world’s fastest thinker. But his lightning-fast reflexes made up for it. He opened his large palm and inspected the keys that’d landed there. “It’ll be in your shop tomorrow.”

  Bear grinned like Christmas had come early. He rubbed his thumb over the raised VW insignia on the metal. “An old soul. Nice.”

  “So when did her van break down?” I thought to ask, recalling Nash’s story of how he and Dani had met.

  “Six weeks ago. It’s been to four different garages along the eastern seaboard since, but no one was up to the challenge,” Nash scoffed, but Bear needed no buttering up. He was always an eager beaver when it came to helping someone out.

  Six weeks! I had royal icing in my shop with a longer shelf life. With a smirk, I took scissors to the mountain of cardboard Quinn had left for recycling. While I would never use the term love at first sight, Dani had made me into a believer of “goner at first glance.” Yet I found it hard to believe she would rush into engagement after a mere six weeks in the company of a guy like Nash. She didn’t seem the type to be swayed by money or fame. And Nash could barely commit to a hairstyle, let alone a lasting relationship. Something just wasn’t adding up.

  “What are you grinning at, Spencer?”

  “Nothing that amounts to much,” I murmured, pushing the blades along the seam of the box the juice pouches came in.

  “Joke’s always on me, right?” Nash began to pace.

  “Not everything is always about just you.” I kept my eyes on my task, crisply cutting out square after square from the top of each box.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Box Tops loyalty program,” I explained, holding up a colorful cardboard square. “Logan’s school collects them, and they earn money for turning them in.”

  “Well, so much for loyalty here on the Half Acre,” Nash blurted. “My kid’s uncle has been holding out on me. And you, little Suzy Fucking Homemaker”—he gave my shoulder a shove—“I bet you laughed your ass off, watching me give a guitar to a deaf kid.”

  “Hey!” I pointed the scissors at him. “It wasn’t our place to tell. You could’ve made a point to come home once in the last ten years, Nash. Instead of holding court in whatever little backstage greenroom you consider worthier than your own stomping grounds.”

  “Oh, so you didn’t like having those VIP All Access passes hanging from your neck? Hated the attention you got from the girls at the after-parties? All those free shows I invited you to? I never showed you a good time at all, did I?”

  “You showed us the rock-and-roll fantasy, sure. Very cool. But there was never time for one-on-one. Never time to sit down and really talk.”

  Nash was shaking his head, an obtuse smile gracing his lips the entire time. “You talk about home like it’s some fucking mecca. Maybe it is for you, Spence. But for me . . .” He gazed out the kitchen window. The late summer sky had morphed to blue-black, and the canopy of leaves from the mature trees on the property obscured the moon, making it impossible to spot the old trailer where it sat on the far end of the property. But I could tell his eyes had strayed there. “You talk of home. I didn’t exactly have one to come back to.”

  “So what the hell are you doing here?” I slammed down the scissors and faced him. My earlier hope of Nash taking a few precious seconds out of his day to check in on Logan seemed like a lifetime ago. Since he had arrived in town with Dani, time had slowed to an agonizing crawl. What had I been thinking? God works in mysterious ways, my aunt loved to remind me.

  Well, I knew how Nash operated as well. Someone was going to get hurt before this visit was through.

  Nash stared me down, slowly turning his head to one side. The road life had worn lines around his eyes that deepened as he scrutinized me.

  “I could ask you the same thing, Mick.”

  “He feels music,” Bear suddenly blurted. I’d forgotten he was even in the room. “And each sound feels different.” Nash winced, taken aback. “It’s true. He puts his hands on my amps all the time. I’ll show you, tomorrow.”

  “Show who what tomorrow?” Quinn was back, hands on hips.

  “I was thinking we could jam,” Bear said simply. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

  Nash just jammed his hands in his pockets in response.

  Quinn snorted; she knew and I knew there was nothing simple about it. If Bear wasn’t able to get angry, we would just have to get angry enough for him.

  “Too good to collaborate with your old bandmate? After all he’s done for you?” Quinn wanted to know.

  “It’s been a day,” Nash replied, his voice flat. “Let’s see what tomorrow brings.”

  Quinn turned on her heel. “Dani and Logan are out by the fire pit.” She unlatched a cupboard door and pulled a few items. “Make yourself useful, Spencer?” A bag of marshmallows hit my open hands.

  • • •

  Dani’s and Logan’s fingers danced in the light of the fire pit, set way back on a concrete pad on the property.

  “Hey, you sign?”

  “I finger spell,” Dani corrected me. “And I know a few signs. Yeah.” She didn’t elaborate.

  “That’s great. I’m not nearly as fast or as confident.” Handing Logan chocolate, I mimed breaking the bars to him, and he began his task. “When I sign, I mean.”

  “You guys seem to do well together, though. Sometimes you don’t need words.”

  “But sometimes you do.” I handed her a box of graham crackers.

  The screen door slammed, and Nash’s hulking figure paused on the dimly lit steps of the porch. I saw his head turn toward the darkness once more, searching out a memory, before he strode purposefully toward us.

  “It’s late. We should get going.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Dani laughed. “I haven’t had a s’more in years. Come’re.” She patted the bench between her and Logan. “Sit.”

  To my amazement, he sat. Logan smiled at him and handed him a square of chocolate. Dani handed him two squares o
f graham crackers. They both turned to me.

  “Well,” Nash drawled. “Lay one on me, Slick.”

  I popped the bag of marshmallows, and their sweet scent sifted into the air, mixing with the smoke. I tossed one to Nash, who caught it between nimble fingers. I wondered when the last time the bad boy of rock and roll had had his hands on an old-school, fat campfire marshmallow. We hadn’t exactly been Boy Scouts growing up.

  We sat in silence, save for the crickets and pops of the flames. All the ingredients were there, but without the tools, they were useless.

  Quinn came marching out of the house. With metal marshmallow skewers in hand, she reminded me of those army goons the Wicked Witch had in The Wizard of Oz. I could practically hear that chorus of “O-ee-O, whoa, O” and expected flying monkeys any moment. Or the witch, with her stubby broom.

  “One,” she signed to her son as she handled him a skewer. “Then bed.” Logan screwed his brow up, clearly insulted that turning double digits didn’t earn him more fire pit time with the adults. I loaded two marshmallows onto his skewer with a wink, to make up for it.

  Quinn doled out the rest of the skewers. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I only knew where four were. I had to hunt down the others.”

  Dani shifted uncomfortably, and Nash speared Quinn with a look that read, Cool it. I knew it was just Quinn’s way. She was a creature of habit. Marshmallow roasting was a nightly ritual on the Half Acre all summer. Four skewers were all that was necessary, on the nights I didn’t work and Bear didn’t gig. Otherwise, all she needed were two.

  Quinn and Logan were used to just two.

  I held out the bag to her and she retrieved her own marshmallow. “Where’s Bear?”

  “He’ll be here in a minute. He’s putting his guitar in his Jeep.”