The Cake House (13 page)

“—straight to the back of my skull, twisting around and around. I had to fix it. Goddamn it, I had to shut you up—you were screaming. You’re gonna kill us all one day—”

“Dad,” I repeated.

“And she was yelling at me, and you were screaming your head off, and—”

He fell silent and our eyes met. I saw it there, finally, what he was trying to say, written in the depths of his endless stare.

I remembered: my mother’s shocked cry of pain, her white face, and the way she fell back against the refrigerator. And the smoke in my throat as I screamed.

“You hit her,” I said.

He shook his head, as if he wanted to get rid of a bug. Get it away, deny that it ever happened.

“You hit her,” I said again, but it was harder to say a second time.

The ghost was crying now.

“No, I didn’t, no, I didn’t. It wasn’t my fault,” he said. “God, my hand was bleeding, blood everywhere,” he whimpered. Then his voice turned hard. “We needed that money and she knew it. What did she think I was supposed to do? How was I supposed to play the game and work at the same time? I was out there, every day, trying to make our dreams come true, goddamn it; I couldn’t take a fucking job. Only small-minded assholes take hourly jobs. The truth is she didn’t want to work. She was lazy. It wasn’t my fault. I bled so fucking much.”

I realized what made the ghost appear at the mall—it was the clothing; it was the new bedroom furniture; it was the thinness of my mother’s lips when she remembered why she left him.

“She forgave me,” he said, but I knew he was trying to convince himself. I had to look at him again. “You saw the whole thing. Do you remember?”

“I remember,” I said, and he disappeared.

I sank to my knees. My arms went over my head the way they taught you in school in case of an earthquake.

“Honey, you okay in there?” asked one of the salespeople.

I fumbled with the buttons of the blouse, tripping as
I kicked off the jeans. It took a moment to find my worn shorts and T-shirt, and then I was bursting from the stall as if I were escaping the swelter of hell, tumbling into the freshness and light of the open store.

My mother and Claude stood by the jewelry counter. When he saw me, he stopped talking to the saleswoman, a laugh caught on his face. His eyes went from me to the clothing in my hand. “Did it fit?”

“Such a lucky girl,” said the saleswoman, her eyes lined with black, lipstick on her teeth. “Did you like that? There are other styles.”

My mother brushed the hair from my face. I flinched.

Noticing that something was wrong, Claude stepped forward. He mumbled thanks to the saleswoman, dismissing her and bending down to my level.

His hand felt heavy on my shoulder. I wondered if the ghost had followed from the dressing room. Maybe he watched as Claude knelt down before me, offering comfort, offering to buy anything I wanted, everything I wished. I would accept the clothes and the furniture that Claude bought. And he would know that I did that. He would understand that I was taking Claude’s money and that I wanted him to go away.

“I’ve been thinking,” I said. “If you’re still … If it’s okay, I would like the bed. And the clothes.”

Claude’s face lit up. He smiled, not laughing or boastful for having won, and took the jeans and blouse from my hands. “That’s great. After we finish here, how about we all go to the food court? And then afterward, ice cream.”

“Can I change back into the clothes? Right now? I want to wear them right now.”

“Okay, sure,” said Claude, obviously confused but taking out his wallet to pay the sales attendant.

The pile of clothing included dresses, skirts, a few shirts and another pair of jeans, and more that I hadn’t tried on. Underwear my mother said I needed. A new robe and pajamas. The sales attendant folded each article of clothing with her long nails clicking on the counter. She was taking too long, so I fished out the jeans and blouse as soon as she scanned them.

“You don’t have to change into them now,” said my mother.

“I want to.”

“All right,” she said. “I’ll come with you.”

Together, we started back for the dressing rooms, but then I stopped. “No,” I said. “Not there.”

“Rosaura, I don’t understand,” she said, beginning to get frustrated, but all I could do was shake my head. I wasn’t going back into that dressing room.

Alex pointed somewhere outside of the store, into the atrium of the mall. “There’s a bathroom over there,” he said.

In the stark lighting, I started putting on the new clothes. My mother sighed but didn’t say anything. Instead, she took hold of the tags on the jeans and jerked hard enough for the plastic to snap.

Women and children entered and left, sometimes staring at me or at my mother, her sunglasses still perched on her head, the diamonds a little ridiculous in the barrenness of the bathroom.

She took the shirt from my hands. I shivered in my bra.

“I’m sorry,” I said as she snapped another tag off the shirt.

“What for?” she asked.

“I’m sorry.” I said it again, not moving. “For Dad, for … everything.”

She continued to hold the clothing, played with the buttons on the blouse, but her eyes were unfocused. “It’s okay. No one blames you,” she said. Then she turned to the sinks, as if there might be something for her to do there. “Do you need to use the bathroom? We better hurry; they’re waiting.”

I took the clothing from her. What had fit before now felt uncomfortable, either too loose or too tight.

When we emerged from the bathroom, there was a crowd gathered in front of the department store. Mall shoppers slowed down as they walked past; a few joined the crowd. Claude’s shaggy head was in the center.

A woman stood in front of him, talking very fast, beginning to yell, her voice rising above the noise of mall music and the ever-constant thrum of shoppers.

I couldn’t see Alex anywhere.

Claude held his hands out in front of him, trying to smile. “I’m afraid there must be some kind of misunderstanding,” he said.

“There’s no misunderstanding. I know who you are,” she insisted.

“Lady, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re Claude Fisk, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“My name is Helena Myers. My husband is Raymond Myers. He came to see you a few months ago.”

Claude reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, tugging out a business card. “Here, take my card. Give me a call. I’m sure we can figure this out. But I’m here with my family.”

“I’ve tried calling,” she said, pushing his hand away. She would have been pretty except for the lines of exhaustion etched deep into her face, with her mismatched clothes and dark tangled hair pulled back into a ponytail. “I tried sending letters, but I don’t get a response. I don’t get anything.”

The words were different. The people were different, but it was like a scene from my past, back when my father was alive. The memory came, sharp and clear, of my mother yelling like this, yelling at my father. “Why did you do it? Why can’t we live like normal people? Just get away; just leave me alone. I can’t do this anymore. Tell him you can’t do it. Tell Claude you changed your mind.”

I expected my mother to be upset, but she watched the scene with only a slight crease between her eyebrows, as if trying to place the woman in her memory. There was something familiar about the woman—in the shape of her eyes, in the roundness of her face—I couldn’t place.

“Don’t you walk away from me. You have to listen.” She came after Claude, using her hands, using her body, and Claude stumbled as he tried to get out of her way. From off to the side, Alex appeared leading mall security. They bustled over and the crowd began to disperse. One security guard tried to lead the woman away, but she fought and dragged her heels until she saw Alex. Then she seemed to collapse.

“You won’t get away with this, either of you. Stay away from her, stay away from us, leave me alone,” she cried as they disappeared through a side door.

The other security guard came up to Claude along with a man dressed in a suit like a manager. They asked if Claude knew the woman, if he recognized her, if he’d done anything or seen anything that could have triggered such behavior.

“I’ve never seen her before. She clearly needs help,” said Claude, passing a hand through his hair. “Thank God you came. I was beginning to fear she’d hurt herself.”

We waited while the manager took Claude’s name and number, asking more questions before thanking him. When they said he could go, Claude wasted no time ushering us out of the mall. There would be no visit to the food court, no ice cream for the birthday girl.

Inside the Mercedes, no one spoke.

When we arrived at the house, Claude didn’t even get out of the car. “There’s something I have to take care of,” he said in the driveway.

My mother protested. “But what about—”

“I’ll be back later.” He cut her off, barely waiting for us to gather the shopping bags before he put the car in reverse and backed into the street.

Alex was the first to move. “Let’s put these in your room,” he said, taking my bags and waving them toward the door to get me walking.

Once inside, I headed to the kitchen for a drink and a snack, since I hadn’t eaten anything, but Alex stopped me.

“First your room,” he said.

Together, Alex and my mother herded me toward the stairs. “But I’m hungry,” I said, not trusting their strange expectant smiles.

They stood in the hallway as I entered my room. The door had been left wide-open, and I stopped at the sight of the canopy bed fully assembled, veils billowing in the breeze from the open window.

“Surprise,” said Alex. “It was done while we were out.”

“But he just bought it,” I said, the bed’s presence sucking me in. The wood felt slick; the knob on the bedpost
fit into my hand. It answered every wish I had when I was six, or nine, or twelve. Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.

The matching dresser was there too. My clothing no longer lay stacked around the circumference of my room. Against one wall stood a small bookshelf for my magazines and books, and against the other wall beanbag chairs sat like fat Buddhas.

Alex leaned against the doorjamb. “Dad arranged it, a couple of weeks ago,” he said.

A couple of weeks ago Mrs. Wilson fell down the stairs. A couple of weeks ago, we had Child Protective Services visiting.

The bed overflowed with perfection. Some other girl’s flowered sheets, some other prisoner’s ruffled cage. Claude had known I would refuse but had bought it anyway. The trip to the mall was just for show—I never had a choice. Not in the furniture for my own room, not in the clothes I would wear. He had known I would say yes, and I realized how lightly he had manipulated me, how I played into his hands. He did the same for my mother, even if it came in the shape of a diamond bracelet or an original art print framed and hung on the wall.

“Do you like it?” she asked, passing her hand over the smooth wood of the new dresser, and once again I remembered our old apartment. “Now you no longer have to have your clothing on the floor.”

I hadn’t thought she cared, but I guess she had. The top dresser drawer opened smoothly. I’d never had drawers that opened with such ease. Each drawer was packed with my missing T-shirts and shorts and underwear and socks.

“It’s perfect,” I said, even though I would have thrown
all of it out the window. But I had no more fight left, and I didn’t want to disappoint her.

My mother leaned over and brushed her lips against my forehead. “Happy birthday,” she said. “Be sure to thank Claude when you see him next.”

She left, leaving Alex and me alone in the room.

“It’s not so bad,” said Alex, still leaning against the doorjamb, thumbs hooked into his front jeans pockets: the image of a young rock star on an album cover. “You get used to it. Dad always likes to have things done his way.”

From Alex’s tone, I couldn’t tell if he believed what he said even if it was a lie or if he stated fact, inevitability. Was it a warning? Accept it or else. Either way, I had nothing to say.

“You can have my old stereo; that’s my birthday gift to you. I’ll bring it in and set it up. If that’s okay.”

He left without waiting for an answer, and I went to the bathroom to hide, leaving my new blouse and jeans crumpled on the floor. In the shower I sat on the floor of the tub and let water pound down my back, plaster my hair to my skull, and didn’t leave until my skin felt scoured. Wobbly from the heat, I brushed my teeth, brushed my hair.

As promised, Alex had the stereo all set up and playing some punk album I recognized from my time spent in his room. He was sitting in a beanbag with his guitar across his lap, lost in the sea of ruffles and ribbons, strumming along with the music until I entered wrapped in my towel.

“Turn around,” I said, not waiting for him to do so before dropping my towel to stand naked. Ignoring the new shopping bags on the floor, I pulled open a drawer and found an old T-shirt that fell to the tops of my thighs, and some underwear.

As I passed him, my nakedness once again covered, he
picked up the thread of his song and I climbed into that big bed so I could watch as he plucked the strings of his guitar.

“Who was that woman at the mall?” I asked.

He continued playing with his eyes focused on his fingers switching from one chord to another.

“It was weird. Like she knew him. Like she knew you. Have you seen her before?”

He paused, mid-pluck, resting his hand against the wood of his guitar, fingers tapping, pinky to thumb. “No,” he said.

“What does he do, anyway? How come he always has so much money?”

“What does it matter?” He got up from the beanbag holding his guitar and came over to sit next to me on the bed.

“You’re not answering my question,” I said, turning to look at him.

“Here, take this. I’ll teach you a chord.” He handed me his guitar and guided my left hand to the fretboard near the top and forced my fingers where he wanted them. “This is C major.”

He took my other hand and scraped across the strings. We strummed a couple of times. Then he forced my fingers into another position. “G major,” he said.