Chocolate Funnel cake

Throwing down her cleaning spray and grabbing a cotton cushion from the homey couch, Debra Blake did the unthinkable.  She actually put her head on it.  If a protesting screech ensued from a distant corner of her mind about the dust and oil from her unwashed hair leaving stains, she ignored it.  Willing herself to stay strong, she focused on the S-shaped crack in the ceiling, lying prone on the well-worn, slightly scratchy fabric.  By now, she had even put up her feet, too disillusioned to care if her strictly-for-home-use-only slippers would leave behind massive streaks, or at least, minor specks of dirt.  The color of the couch could be so well-described as a dirty brown that it was doubtful anyone would notice but Debra always fretted, scolding John and her three children into sitting ramrod-straight on it.  The thought of how pathetic she looked made her cry even more.  Debra Rose Blake, historically top baker of the three bakeries in Kansas City, had just been crowned second for the annual Kansas City Funnel Cake Baking Competition.  As the tears flowed, she tried to make sure none stained the fabric.  But when she turned to her side and felt the dampness under her cheek, she gave up.  Oh, what was the use?  She was done with baking and cooking and dusting and cleaning.  No matter how much she tried to make her house look fancy like the big-city IKEA store she had seen on her last visit to Chicago five years ago, the furniture would always be what her husband had sawed up in the shed.  He hadn’t even comforted her when she didn’t win, she remembered.  Just kept turning back to look at something under the store awning where the three contestants had lined up for first, second and third prize.  When she had snapped at him, he had followed.  But  he had hardly spoken all week, she thought.  As she looked at the clock, she realized it was past 5.  He always got back from the factory by 4.  Where was he, she thought, beginning to sniffle again.  Now she had lost everything.  First the award, then her husband.  All because of Mary’s new-fangled Chocolate Funnel cake.



Mary Smith looked around to see if anyone was looking before she moved the red cushion to cover up the stain on the green couch.  Considering that she lived alone and checked each door and window three times a day to ensure it was still firmly locked, the possibility was remote, but the request had made her imagine possibilities.  Some had even made her blush.  The last handwritten note she had received was from Fred in high school asking her to meet him at midnight in the corn fields.  That was the last time a man had touched her.  Her heart had stopped when she had reached into her creaky mailbox that morning.  Granny Smith was right.  A move to Kansas City from their tiny town of 500 was just what Mary needed to find a man.  She had even been written up in the Kansas Journal for Granny’s new funnel cake recipe.  Granny had written chocolate when she had intended vanilla, but the twist had worked.  Need ya for something, the note said.  Only a fine lady like you can.  Please don’t tell anyone.  Will come at 5 today.  Who was J.B., she wondered.  What did he want? It was 4:45.  She checked her hair in the large glass vase as she quickly blew out the dust underneath.  Her housekeeping was strictly on an as-needed basis, and today had been even quicker than her established 5-minute blowing and hiding routine.



J.B. came precisely at 5.  His first thought was different the house looked from his own.  He had always thought his wife would go cleaning to her deathbed.  Here, the scraggly garden wasn’t weeded, and the steps were dusty.  But, he hadn’t been able to resist.  She had haunted him since the competition.  He had been wanting to stop right then but hadn’t wanted to upset his wife.  For the past week, as much as he had tried to blot out the memory, the craving hadn’t abated.



Mary watched him from behind the thin curtains.  She had been writing his initials in the dust on her window.  He hesitated at the gate, but shook himself and quickly walked to her door.  When he knocked, her feet were glued to the floor.  She couldn’t see his expression from below the low-brimmed hat but squirmed when he wiped his hands off the dust from her door.  She had been meaning to clean, but chocolate was much more interesting.  And after the win last week and his note from today, any massive streaks that she might have noticed had been reduced to minor specks as she floated from one room to another.



When the oven timer pinged, she had to move.  This could be the start of something new, and the least she could do was begin with chocolate.  As she ran from the kitchen, she wiped her own dusty hands on her skirts, not noticing the streaks she left behind.  She opened the door with a huge smile.  As she sucked in her stomach and smoothed back her hair, she waited for him to look at her.  But he seemed to be looking into the kitchen instead.



“I am John Blake”, he said.  “Please don’t tell my wife that I was here.  But please, can I have some of your chocolate cake?”