Cake

The short man massaged his tired, creased hands as he finished drying the last of the dishes. Taking a deep breath, he tried to transition himself from his hectic mindset of work and focus on being with his family. He took a long swallow from a bottle on the counter and tried to let his shoulders relax. Even though his back was sore from hauling lumber for 12 hours and his ears rang from the constant screams of trucks and cranes, he decorated his face in a bright smile and turned from the sink.

Across the room, his young wife was tracing each feature on their two-year-old's face. She gleamed with joy at each squeal and giggle the young boy produced, guiding her finger away from his desperate, small body as he tried to end the silly assault. Mike took a mental pictures of moment in front of him. Years ago, he would have been brokenhearted to know that he would never explore the world outside the quaint state of Kansas. But as he watched his wife and child tease and prod one another, he was sure that the world sitting before him was more majestic and spectacular than anything else he could have found.

Mike retrieved a plate loaded with a petite, chocolate cake from the counter and walked towards the frantic, playful scene. "Happy Birthday, John." He said as he set the pastry in front of the child and his mother.

"Honey!" Sarah reprimanded, "We have to sing! This is the first one he'll remember."

Though he had taken up a chair next to her, Mike smiled at Sarah and found his way back to his feet to retrieve a small pack of candles from a drawer.

"What was I thinking?" He asked. "Let's make this count."

John watched his parents in absolute glee as his father pressed three small, waxy torches into the much anticipated pastry and his mom sang a simple, celebratory jingle.

Using the same forks they had dirtied with their dinner, the small family took turns working bite-sized pieces of cake off of the communal plate. Mike and Sarah listened intently as John described each detail of his day, from playing with building blogs to chasing their cat. As the evening grew late, his vocabulary shrunk, his pronunciation suffered, and his eyelids grew uncomfortably heavy. , he fell asleep in Sarah's lap and Mike lifted him into his arms. , he carried him to his bed, tucked him beneath the sheets, and kissed his forehead.

Upon his return to the kitchen, Sarah met Mike with a kind yet mischievous look in her eye. As soon as he entered the room, she switched on the radio, turned the volume to a simple lull, and grabbed his hands with her own. The sunlight that had illuminated the kitchen throughout the day grew weary of its task and retired for the evening, but the couple danced in circles late into the night, holding each other close.

...

"Hell of a day, huh?" Mike asked, folding his greasy, thinning hair over his scalp. He sat at the kitchen table, hunching his back and resting his arms on the flat, wooden surface. All around him were scattered, empty bottles that matched the one in his hand. "You've certainly been busy, haven't ya," he continued.

John worked his way from the sink to the chair across from his father, a plate bearing chocolate cake and two forks in his hand. He wore a loosened tie over a wrinkled and scraggly shirt. It had been freshly pressed and cleaned when he put it on, but the graduation gown he had worn all day hadn't treated it with too much dignity. "It was Dad," he answered, offering a wry smile. He fiddled with the tassel on the cap sitting on the table in front of him. "I'm glad you could make it."

Mike seemed to shy away at the statement, retreating from the conversation and into the drink in front of him. "Look John," he started, "I'm uh... I'm sorry I haven't been doing well the last years. Ever since she died, nothing seems to... seems to..." he trailed off before finding whatever words he was searching for and stared at the table before him. John yet sturdily placed his hand over his father's.

"I mean it, Dad," he assured, "I know have been hard for you, and I'm proud of you for working through it."

" not well enough," Mike pouted, nodding at the mess of empty bottles littered about the table.

"Rome wasn't rebuilt in a day," John assured him, using a phrase that had grown to be rather in describing his father's recovery. "But we switch vices for the night."

He pushed the chocolate cake to the center of the table and took a generous bite, exaggerating the gesture with exuberant noises of joy. Mike smiled at his son, retrieving the second fork from the plate. Together, they cleaned the sugary treat from the dish

...

"It's not your fault," Susan reasoned, "He had your phone number. He chose not to call."

Though John sat right next to her at the table, her words seemed to fall on deaf ears. Strewn about the wooden surface in front of them was his black tie, wrinkled and worn. He had practically torn the article off his neck as soon as they'd returned from the funeral, and he'd been sitting in the same position at the table ever since. His head was buried in his folded arms as his eyes alternated between crying, closing, and staring intently at random objects around the room.

"What does it matter?" He questioned, not raising his head to look his wife in the eyes, "He's gone, and there's nothing I can do now."

Susan gave up the cause of verbal comfort and rubbed John's back as he continued to loathe himself for his father's unfortunate demise. She continued working her hand up and down his tense muscles for what felt like hours before he began opening up in some small way.

"He had been doing so well," John mourned, "The drinking was all but under control. He hadn't smoked in months."

The meek statement was followed with a period of silence as Susan waited for a followup. A sequel to the remorse never came, , as their silent conversation was interrupted with a knock on the front door. Susan got up to go greet the visitor, leaving John in his depressed, moping position. Though he couldn't hear and didn't care to piece together the conversation she engaged in, John did listen for Susan to return. When she did, she brought with her a large plate stacked with a round, frosted chocolate cake. John stared at the sweet food for moments before sitting up.

"Why the hell would he get behind that damned wheel!" he growled, storming out of the kitchen.

Susan felt the door slam as he reached their bedroom. Confused, scared, and concerned, she had no idea what to do. , she grabbed two forks from a drawer, stabbed them into the cake, and made her way to her room. Hesitantly, she opened the door. John was lying face down on their mattress, cooling-off from his sudden burst of emotion.

"You need to eat something." She said, sitting next to him. John sat up, glanced at her, stared at the cake, and burst into tears.

...

John instinctively slid his hands over his rough, bald head. He felt each touch of his worn creases and noticed every small bump along his scalp. , he began to focus less on the kitchen around him and more directly on the table sitting directly in front of him. On the center of its wide top lied the remnants of a chocolate cake, separated from him by half a sphere of glass that had been placed over the plate.

Hours ago, Susan’s growls from the other side of the table had left him frazzled, but the burning liquid seething through his stomach had seemed to leave his mind hazy and unable to properly converse with her.

“Do you even try anymore?” She had demanded, shouting loud enough to frighten his dozing head off of the table. He met her eyes in time to see her nod at the bottle that sat within his hand and began trying to defend himself.

“Work was a little rough today.” he mumbled, “I wanted to calm down before Jack got home.”

“Jack’s been home for three hours!” Susan countered “You’ve been home since 12, have you been sitting here since then?”

“I was riled up Susan,” John countered growing visibly agitated at the sudden interrogation.

“You’re always a little riled up, aren’t you?” Susan questioned, restraining her voice from a shout to a stern yet sinister, venomous tone. “I come home every day to find Jack in his room, sitting alone while you’re passed out somewhere in the house.”

“It’s .” John comforted, staggering up to embrace his wife. “He’s a good kid.”

Susan stepped away from his open arms, scowling at his at reconciliation. , she walked to the drawer where she kept her keys and deposited the small chain. Then, without another word, she left the room. John took a moment to stare at the doorway, wondering when she would reappear. Hesitantly, he reached down and took another swig from his bottle, careful to be ready to set it down at a moment’s notice if Susan reentered the room. for him, she walked in right when the liquor was making contact with his lips, and his to hide his action ended in him soaking his shirt with the beverage as he yanked it away from his lips.

From the doorway, Susan observed the scene with a growing thread of sad disappointment in her eyes. She had gathered Jack in her arms. she addressed John once more. “Call me when you’re sober enough to talk,” she instructed. Then, before he had time to form a response, she walked out of the kitchen. John had tried to go after her as he heard the car start, but he managed to trip over nothing and fell flat on the floor, where he had felt comfortable enough to take another doze.

Now he sat alone, taking hesitant bites of Jack’s birthday cake, wondering where Susan was. He strained his mind to think of his son’s party that had occurred days before, but he couldn’t manage to conjure a single memory. He took another bite of cake as tears began streaking down his cheeks, falling amongst the bottles on the table beneath him.

…

John knocked on the solid red door, letting his knuckles beat against the cold wood as he tried to gather his thoughts. The years had not been kind to him, and the deep bags beneath his eyes coupled with his hunched, damaged frame to tell a story of cycling through recovery and relapse. Despite such scars from the past , he had ironed a shirt and put on his long forgotten suit to make this trip.

He held a thick plate whose large occupant was covered in a , wrapped sheet of tin foil. A cold breeze ruffled through his thick leather coat as he held his shaking knuckles by his side. After a moment, the door swung inside the house and a man emerged in the door frame. His bloodshot eyes and mangled hair both seemed too distracted to properly their functions, yet his entire demeanor shifted to a defensive, tense posture as soon as he saw John.

The old man smiled at his son. "Jack," He said , holding up the plate of chocolate cake. "It gets better, son."