Two Slices of Cake and One Man

Garrison Sanders liked to think of himself as a perceptive person. Someone who made good judgements, could put together clues and read most people, that’s why he was training to be a police detective. Yet as he stood behind the counter at his part-time job at the Purple Hut Cafe, he had never been more baffled in his life at the mystery before him.

Enter Henry Jones. 85-year-old, retired, Henry Jones. Mr Jones had been frequenting the Purple Hut Cafe every day at 11 am for the past three months like clockwork. He would wobble through the door, walking stick in hand, and order the same repetitive order, one cup of expresso and two slices of chocolate cake. He would then sit by the same table near the window and enjoy his coffee and one of the slices of chocolate cake. Mr Jones would sit there for a while staring out the window, a few tears would fall down his face and then eventually he would get up and walk out the door, leaving behind the final slice of chocolate cake.

From chatter in the staffroom Garrison knew that this was a common occurrence, even before he had started working at the café three months ago. After agonizing over the situation and pondering all the possibilities, Garrison decided that enough was enough, he was going to speak with Mr Jones.

So the next day, as Garrison took Mr Jones his coffee and two slices of cake, he asked him the all-consuming question. “Excuse me sir, I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering, why do you order two slices of chocolate cake if you only eat one?”

Mr Jones looked up at Garrion and gestured for him to sit on the vacant seat at the table. “It’s not for me,” he replied, his voice as rich and smooth as Morgan Freeman. Garrison remained silent; he chose not to pry, no matter how intrigued he was. Lucky for him, Mr Jones continued.

Even though Mr Jones sat less than 3 feet apart from Garrison, the look in his eyes would vouch that he was miles away, in the past. It turns out that the final slice of cake was for his high school sweetheart, a girl “that danced like Ginger Rogers”. Mr Jones was black, and she was white. They grew up in a time of segregation when mixed-race consorting was deadly. But they were in love and for that, they risked everything. They thought that they were invincible, that they were the exception. But the universe had plans of its own for the two love birds and they got pregnant. Being in high school, pregnant and breaking societal laws, was bound to end in heartache, and it did.

The girls’ parents made her give up the child when he was born and married her off to another man soon after she graduated high school. Mr Jones never saw her again.

But he never forgot, and she was always on his mind. He wondered where she was, what she was doing, if she was even still alive. He thought of the son he never knew, the one he never saw or got to hold, the one that he was forced to give up. And as for the chocolate cake:

“She loved chocolate cake,” Mr Jones had explained, “so the other slice is for her and the life I lost.”

By the end of Mr Jones’ tale, Garrison was in teras. Mr Jones reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled up black and white photograph of a woman and handed it to Garrison. The second his eyes landed on the woman; Garrison dropped the photo.

The story had been heartbreaking and shocking. But as it turns out, it wasn’t even the most shocking thing that Garrison was going to come across that day. Because the woman in the photo was his grandmother, and he certainly did not see that coming.