Aunt Sally's Cake

I couldn’t believe my eyes as I pulled the car up to Samantha’s bakery to pick up Dad’s cake. Instead of the seeing the rows of gorgeous pastries, the beautiful cakes, and the freshly made doughnuts that usually lined the windows, what I saw was a smoldering mess. Two fire trucks remained in the parking lot and Samantha was sitting off to the side with two police men taking notes.

Off I drove. Clearly I wasn’t going to get my cake from Samantha’s. The problem was, it was five o-clock on a Sunday evening and in one hour, almost fifty people were showing up at Dave’s to celebrate my Dad’s one hundredth birthday. I was in charge of the cake, my only responsibility. Of course, I should have gone out much earlier but waiting until the absolute last minute was a skill I’d mastered since childhood.

As I feared, three attempts to locate and call another bakery came up empty. Two were already closed and the third had a rather rude baker who couldn’t possibly decorate a cake on such short notice. He was an artist after all, he had informed me. What was I going to do?

Completely defeated, I made my way over to my nephew, Dave’s house. I was empty handed figuring no cake was better than a store-bought one. I would just have to shamefully admit my failure to the family. I let myself in the back yard where the party would be held. Luckily, no one was around and I sat alone on the patio absorbed in my humiliation.

After a short time, I heard the footsteps of someone behind me.

“Charlie, you look like you’re in a funk,” said a voice. It was Sally, my aunt. “It’s your Dad’s birthday. What’s got you down?”

Sally was the rogue of the family. Every family seems to have one. She was now ninety-seven; our family tends to live a long time. In her life, though, Sally was always chasing some irresponsible dream that never quite panned out. The one getting bailed out. The one that had a million failed relationships that always ended with her needing money or a place to stay. She typically didn’t come to these events and Sally was the one who most often was the subject of the story when the family was getting bored and a little grouchy. “Did you hear what Fred and Nancy had to do for Sally now?” They would say. Or, “Do you remember when Sally…..,” never followed by something complimentary.

I told her about the cake. Misery loves company, they say so I thought Sally was probably the best I could have hoped for to break the news.

“I can make a cake for him,” she said. I had yet to turn around and I could feel Sally’s old, cloudy blue eyes staring down on the back of my head. "Could this get any worse?" I thought. Not only did I let the family down but now I had the ninety-seven year old family outcast offering to make my Dad’s one hundredth birthday cake.

My hesitation must have made my intentions clear because Sally said, “What’s the matter, Charlie. You don’t think I can make a cake? I’ve made a few in my time, you know,” she said.

“Aunt Sally, it’s just that people are probably already arriving. I don’t even have any ingredients and, for goodness sakes Sally, you’re ninety-seven. What would people say if I had you baking a cake?”

Sally chuckled. “I know what they’d say, Charlie. Believe me, young man, I know my status in this family. Let’s face it though, Charlie. You don’t have too many options. Martha’s got a kitchen big enough to feed half the city in there so I’m guessing she’s got a cake mix somewhere. No one will even miss me if I’m a little late.” This wasn’t looking good but she had a point. “Charlie, I’m going inside now to bake a cake. Unless you tell me no, I’ll see you in an hour and a half.”

The party proceeded as planned. Dave’s famously grilled ribs were the usual hit. People were laughing and sharing stories of my Dad. At one hundred, Dad was still alert, though frail, and looked as if he was having a terrific time. Of course, people had been asking me about the cake. All I’d offered was a not-very-heartfelt, “it’s coming.” I got some odd looks but people pretty much accepted the answer. Martha, Dave’s wife, of course was the exception. I saw her coming from the kitchen shortly after the party started. She looked at me, shaking her head. Later, she caught up with me at the drink table.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” she whispered. I didn’t.

The dinner was finished. Everyone was sitting around, smiling contently. And now, of course, people began to look at me expectantly. It was time for the cake.

Just as things were getting awkward, the glass door slid open. In Sally’s hands was a round, double layer, chocolate cake. It was slightly lop-sided. In red icing, in shaky letters, she had written, Happy Birthday Frank, we all love you. The letters were not quite centered on the cake. Slowly but proudly, Sally walked through the croud and up to my father.

“Happy Birthday, Frank,” she said and sat the cake down on the table in front of him.

“It looks familiar,” my father said. “Just like the one you made me a long time ago.”

“I remember,” she said.

“Thank you, Sally.” The party was silent and my dad was smiling. Sometimes waiting to the last minute has its benefits after all, I thought.