The Forbidden Cake

What is a true story when seen thru the eyes of a 7 yr. old. I may have exaggerated some of the events, but I remember things being much bigger then.

 

The Forbidden Cake

 

          Our mornings were our best times. My two sisters and I formed a small troupe of explorers, each a year apart in age, I the second, since the only boy, was self-proclaimed leader. It was always left to me to chose what adventure was for that summer’s day. My older sister’s claim to authority was she had been to 2^nd grade that past year and I still had a lot to learn. I reminded her I was still stronger and there was no place in the surrounding farmland that I had not already explored. By myself! Alone! (That usually silenced her). Because just the year before, at the ripe old age of six, I had packed up my pillow case and left home to live in the woods in a bear cave. And I had been hiding just off the side of the road, all day until our father came home from work and found me. Though rewarded with a spanking, my great solo adventure had elevated me in the eyes of my two sisters to almost superhuman status (or so I’d imagined).

          Our summer days, between school, left us three farm brats to our own devices; providing we didn’t get hurt, didn’t fight, didn’t go out of sight of the house or Mom’s call, and sometimes had to drag our kid, three year old brother along when Mom needed some peace and quiet in the house (which seemed like most days). That particular day, my mother was in baking deserts for the pantry larder and we were assured of being left alone as long as our brother tagged along. “Mind you don’t take him far. She called after us as we scampered out the door.

          I had it in my mind that we should ignore her last words and head for the far pole barn. It was the favorite place of high adventure for us older children, but we had never been allowed to take our brother that far. The barn was filled with old farm machinery and one old Hudson sedan used by my father when he used to race stock cars. We would each pick a different driver’s seat and pretend to work the pedals and gears. I, of course, always got the Hudson; I had learned the trick of the stick shifter and now could imagine myself rocketing thru space with all this power. We were always careful to never reveal our presence inside the barn as it had locked doors. We kids found a loose board and had managed to pries it off enough to wriggle thru. When called we always managed to sneak out and pop-up somewhere else safe. Our weighted brother cramped our style that morning. Yet in spite of my older sister’s repeated warnings, we dragged our little brother thru the wall opening and into our ‘Wonderland’. “I get the car today or I’m telling mom you brought Gary in here.” Trumped my older sister. She had me and I knew it. She could always say the right thing to get her way. It was at times like these that I wished I’d been to the 2^nd grade. “Fine”, I replied, “But you’ll have to take Gary in the back seat.” None of the doors would work but the passenger side window was down. Occasionally a chicken would get into the car and we’d find a few eggs on the seat. But today there was just the usual dust.

          My 2^nd favorite vehicle in the barn was an old self-propelled planter. This was a piece of monster iron machinery made in the days of steam engines, and though ungainly, was still beautiful by its outlandish size. Still miffed at being outwitted, I climbed aboard my behemoth, grabbed the steering wheel and savagely rammed the frozen stick shift forward. To my amazement, it broke free and the shaft moved ahead, along with the monster. Its weight being held in place with the lone gear, it now began to slowly, relentlessly, roll forward. Immediately in front of the wheels were and assortment of metal chicken feeder boxes, haphazardly piled on the floor. Without a moment’s hesitation, the machine began to crush the thin metal frames beneath its wheels. I could hear both my sisters screaming at me from a hundred miles away, faintly yelling, “Jump! Jump!” But I was frozen. I had unleashed something about the size of a small locomotive and was riding it to its inevitable destination. Suddenly it came to my mind, ‘The stick shift!’ What I had done to create could be used to contain. I pulled backward hard and felt the stick try to come, but it would only bounce in my feeble hands as the gear teeth refused to engage. The machine had already consumed the metal feeders and numerous other small farm tools in its path. Now it inexorably set its sights on the heavy wooden doors that were containing it. With only a few feet to go, I realized failure to stop the machine would precipitate a fall-out from my mother that would make being crushed seem a small matter. So to the chorus of, “Pull! Pull!” from my sisters, I renewed my efforts to pull back on the stick. With one Herculean effort, I was rewarded with the satisfying click backward of the shaft and a lurching, rocking motion from the monster. As it’s forward motion was halted, I bolted from the seat, and with my sisters close behind me, we rocketed thru the opening in the wall. This time where was no subterfuge in hiding in ditches to evade discovery. We just wanted to put distance between us and the disaster we had so nearly avoided. “Where’s Gary?” said my younger sister, as we reached the safety of the yard. Though I immediately pointed a finger at my older sister, she had the ready answer. “Its all your fault. You go back and get him, or I’m telling what you did.” Defeated again, I went back alone to help my brother climb out the car window from which he’d been imprisoned. Still plastered on his face was a bright grin, “Do it again, Larry, do it again.” he laughed. “Come on.” I mumbled and dragged him outside. Dejected and disappointed, we all lay around in the yard that afternoon with only our thoughts consoling us. All except for our little brother; happily making little piles in the dirt, then driving over them with an old, one wheeled, toy tractor, each time yelling, “Grunch! Grunch! Grunch!”

          It was the smell that first reminded me, it was baking day. And though we knew we wouldn’t see the desserts, except slowly doled out over the next week. We each looked forward to see what treat would lie cooling on the kitchen windowsill. Pies, cakes, muffins, brownies and cookies would often rest there. What caught my attention was a large two layer chocolate cake centered in the window, with the soft lace curtains gently billowing out around it. Maybe it was my fear drunken state, maybe still reeling from my sister’s taunts, more probably some inner imp wanting a taste of chocolate; but I found myself carefully moving toward the cake. This had to be a delicate operation. This was no joint venture; this could only be done alone. My younger sister would have been willing, but she didn’t know how to whisper yet. Her attempts at hushed tones had gotten me into trouble more than once before. Next I had to divert my older sister’s attention, as she would often prowl around, and if she caught me doing something I shouldn’t, she would use it later to persuade me to follow her lead. My sisters were absent from the yard and must have gone into the house. Quickly I positioned myself on my knees below the kitchen window. Carefully I lifted my head to look past the edge of the plate. I could see my two sisters were there in the hall asking my mother for something. As she took them upstairs I got my chance. My mother always hand made her frostings and she would always make extra. Around every cake she would artfully lay the extra frosting with swirls and waves. It was tricky going, but I found that if I wet my finger with lots of spit, I could gather a large finger full of frosting and leave the surface almost as smooth and shinny as original. Once around the cake, and I could hardly see any change in its appearance. A second time around, and still good. But on the third time around the plate I could see that some of the china was now visible. I was focusing so hard trying to restore the cake edges that I didn’t hear my brother come up. “Do it again, Larry! Do it again!” He repeated loudly from under the window. Almost tipping the cake to the ground, I dropped to my hands and knees and began to crawl rapidly away. “Come back! Do it again! He called after me. Looking back just before I bolted around the side of the back fence, I saw movement and a dark shadow in the kitchen window. “Hi sweetheart,” came her voice, “Isn’t Larry out here with you?” I didn’t wait around to hear any more. Crouching, I ran as fast as I could and dove into the chicken coop. I knew I was safe; none of us went in here except to feed and water the chickens or to collect the eggs. The ammonia smell from the two years piled up droppings, made your eyes water and the bile rise in your throat. But this was nothing compared to what would happen if Mom ever found out what I was doing.

          It was about an hour before I realized no one was looking for me, no one had even been calling my name. Peeking out the door, I saw my brother and sisters back playing in the yard. The coast seemed to be clear. I had gotten away with my chocolate pilfering. I filed this new bit in information away for future use, I was evidently getting good at finger redecorating, and I could see it coming in handy many times from now on. Going up to my sisters I asked if Mom was looking for me. “No.” they said in unison, so I began to play with them. Looking back at the kitchen windowsill, I saw the cake was gone, too bad! My Mom wandered by the window and paused to look out at us. It looked like she was looking right at me.

          It was a few hours later that afternoon, and I was feeling hungry again and knew we would be called for supper soon. It was then I saw it – The Cake! Toward the back of our yard we kept a metal burn barrel for trash and such. Beyond that was a mulch pile for plant cuttings, bad produce trimmings, and the occasional leftovers gone bad. In front of the mulch pile was a small tree stump, not much bigger around than a serving platter. Sitting innocently on the stump, as pretty as you please was the chocolate cake. Both my sisters noticed my shocked face and following my gaze saw the cake too. “How did that get there?” my older sister said looking at me, “Did you take it?” “No,” I said. “Then how’d it get there?

“Mom must have left it behind.” I said. With that, my younger sister bolted for the cake, scooping up handfuls of cake and frosting and shoveling it in her mouth. I wasn’t far behind, I saw no reason she should get more than me. “Miff hours!” she said through mouthfuls. I didn’t know how the cake got to the stump, but she had assessed the situation correctly and made the right choice. Soon it was just the three of us scarffing cake, my brother, sister, and I. My older sister was keeping her distance from us, scowling at us like little children. “Mom must have left it here for a special reason, and you’re going to end up spoiling your supper if you keep it up.” she said. With a giddy smile on my face I looked at my younger sister. She was covered with chocolate from head to toe, from hairline to elbows. My little brother was even worse, I couldn’t see one square inch of him that didn’t have some cake on it, and some of it was even moving – ‘Moving!’

          Sure enough, though much of him was covered with frosting, most of the brown mass did seem to be on the move. I looked back at my sister; she too was quickly being covered with a growing invasion. Looking down at my own hands, I could see them now; very small black ants by the millions were covering our hands faces and now bodies. They didn’t seem to be biting, and if we hadn’t been so voracious we may have been able to feel them earlier. Just then my little sister started screaming, swiping at herself. My brother, without an interruption in his foraging, but ever sensitive to change, also started screaming. My older sister, the problem solver, ran to help out. “You’re all covered with ‘ants!” she said, “You’re ‘all’ covered in ants!” Running to the house both girls began to scream, “Ants!” My mother was just sitting there in the window with that pitiless look on her face. Staring right at me, very clearly she yelled, “Maybe that’ll teach you children to stay out of my cakes.”

          Though I’m not particularly found of ‘Chocolate Covered Ants’, and am not aware if our exploits gave rise to that vogue. I still to this day do not remember any of those ants struggling to get back out of my mouth, though I did find it annoying; them crawling over my hands and face and occasionally down my shirt. My mother had compassion on my brother and sister and cleaned them up, but left me to my own misery. Even to this day she can’t be sure who finished off the cake – the ants or me. All I know is I learned a valuable lesson that day – ‘Don’t lose sight of your brother!’

 

Author's Note

I probably should have broken this story up into two parts to keep them more reader friendly.

Reviews

[Kathy Van Kurin]

Night Rapture


Last sun glow trails over horizon a crystalline coalesce.
Slightest breezes curling in grace, please do not withdraw.
This side of night barely conceived. Saturn holds its place.
Heavenly bodies declare the glory of God. We are in awe.

Great moon lantern now mature- Star choirs sing praise.
Heaven’s bowl of black velvet night holds twinkling light.
Stars, planets, moon boldly testify. Night hangs in space.
Wonder flows out as if from my inner soul deep delight.

To stand open face against heaven’s Welcoming embrace.
Holding tenuous life breathe so afraid beauty may flee.
Great Moon’s orb, the witness to fire of sun glories enlace
O True beauty, its presence welcomed within soft light free!

[Reggie]

I can't believe there are any more pieces missing from your life story I haven't found yet but still to my amazement there is a few. Keep writing and I'll keep reading. You should have been an author because you would write best-sellers guaranteed. Thanks for the story Larry.