The Last Cacao

“Grandma? Can you tell me about…chocolate?”

           Katie’s face was cautious. There was something like fearful anticipation turning the brown of her eyes black, the way truffles used to look. Her question stirred decades-old memories, making my mouth water.

           I swallowed and asked, “How do you know about chocolate?”

           My granddaughter cast a furtive look at her parents, standing in a corner of the room with the young woman who was my caregiver. The three of them were locked in deep conversation, and it didn’t take much to figure out what they were discussing. Me. My dementia. Or was it schizophrenia? Either way, they thought I was an insane old woman, a theory that would surely be confirmed if they heard Katie’s query.

           “Katie,” I whispered, “chocolate doesn’t exist.”

           At least, it hasn’t in sixty years.

           I thought Katie would accept my answer and put any further questions away in a dusty alcove of her mind. But she was smarter than that.

           “It may not exist now,” she said, “but I don’t believe what people say. I don’t think chocolate is a myth.”

           “Why not?”

           “Because…” Katie paused and glanced over her shoulder again. This time she caught Miranda’s eye. My daughter looked at Katie and I with a proud twinkle in her eye, overjoyed at the sight of her mother and daughter spending time together.

           Oh, if she only knew.

           Katie turned back around to face me. She gripped the edges of her chair and leaned in closer. Then, with the air of one divulging the earth’s most mystifying secret, she said, “My science teacher assigned us a project last week. We were supposed to collect dirt samples from our backyards and bring them to class to study them in the lab. So I went digging. And I found this in the ground.”

           It happened then. Katie reached into her back pocket and pulled out something old and crumpled and covered in brown earth. It was plastic, and there were words on the front that made my blood run cold. My eyes followed the letters, picking out the H, then the E, then the R…

           “Oh my goodness,” I gasped. My fingers shook as I extended them towards the wrapper in Katie’s hand. I tried to be discreet, but I was so stunned that I could barely keep from crying out in joy.

           I lost my mind. I forgot where I was. The hospital and all of its inhabitants disappeared. Suddenly I was twelve again, plucking bars from the shelf of a convenience store. Back when you could get three of them for a dollar.

           My heart ached and my stomach yearned. I brought the empty wrapper to my face and sniffed. The smell of dirt and age was prominent, but if I concentrated hard enough, I swore I could still catch a whiff of the milk, the sugar, the…

           “No,” I said suddenly, crushing the wrapper and pushing it back into Katie’s hand. “Put that away. It might arouse some of the old feelings…for those who remember…”

           I looked around at the geriatrics surrounding me. Many of them sat in wheelchairs with their heads lolling, completely disconnected from the world. I sighed heavily with relief. None of them appeared to have seen what my granddaughter just produced from her jeans pocket.

           “So, it’s true then!” Katie exclaimed. “This—this Hershey’s company—“

           “Hush, child!”

           My eyes flitted around in fear.

           But I was lucky. The majority of the souls in that room had terrible hearing.

           “I’m sorry,” said Katie, looking even guiltier.

           “It’s alright, honey. You didn’t know.”

           I felt sorry for her. How could one live a proper childhood without chocolate? It wasn’t impossible of course. Miranda had been a happy child, and she’d grown up to be a wonderful woman. But she too hadn’t known one of life’s greatest joys. To her, as it was to everyone in the world under seventy, chocolate was as silly and unbelievable as Santa Clause.

           And Katie was now following that same wretched fate. It didn’t seem fair for her to be kept in the dark. The time had passed for my own daughter. Maybe when she was younger I could’ve told her the stories. But now she was too old—now she would just say my schizo-whatsit was acting up because I believed in chocolate.

           But Katie was young. Imaginative. Open-minded. And she’d found the wrapper. Surely, she would believe. And though she would never be able to experience the wonder of eating it herself, at least she would know the truth.

           “What happened to chocolate, Grandma?” She prodded quietly. “Why is it forbidden to talk about it?”

           I breathed in and out. If anyone knew, if anyone heard me…well, I’d probably end up staring at a padded wall again instead of the wrinkly faces of my elderly peers.

           “Repeat this to no one,” I said.

           Katie nodded feverishly. Her eyes were like a wild animal’s. I imagine mine looked the same. 

           I leaned in close. So did she.

           “No one knew why the cacao plants went extinct,” I said. “People had all kinds of theories back then. Some said it was global warming. The eccentrics claimed aliens were behind it. But everyone agreed on one thing: chocolate was dying…

           I’d been fifteen when it happened. Back then, there’d been an ongoing shortage of chocolate for nearly a year. But the world just assumed it was a problem with the factories. Nobody dreamed the actual plants that gave us the beans to make the chocolate were in danger.

           That is, until the Black Summer.

           It was then that the news became nationwide. All the cacao plants in the world had died out. Cocoa production was finished. The only chocolate left was whatever remained in stores and homes.

           No one knew the truth of how badly the world was addicted to the cocoa bean until it was no longer readily available.

           World chaos ensued like no one had known before. Stores were robbed, cafes and bakeries raided, houses burglarized. Everyone wanted their hands on the last bit of chocolate the world would ever know. And those who were fortunate enough to succeed were quickly destroyed. Every week there was news on yet another poor soul who’d been brutally murdered on account of their chocolate possession. There was even an old woman living in my neighborhood who’d met the same fate. Her home was invaded by a group of chocolate-starved teenagers who killed her because she wouldn’t relinquish her last tin of cocoa powder.

           It was a frenzy, an epidemic no one could see the end to.

           “That’s horrible!” cried Katie. “All that, over chocolate?”

           “Oh, Katie.” I looked at her sadly. The poor child didn’t understand. “You have no idea what it was like. The rich sweet flavor…the way it melted in your mouth. Chocolate chips…brownies…hot cocoa with whipped cream on top. It was like heaven.”

           Katie stared at me in awe. “Wow. Chocolate chips…were those like potato chips with chocolate on them?”

           I couldn’t help but chuckle. “No, dear, they were—oh. Your mother’s coming, don’t say a word.”

           Miranda came clacking towards us. Katie looked up and gave her mother an innocent smile.

           “Mom, Grandma was just telling me about the old days,” she said. “Did you know that people used to have cell phones? I’m so used to doing everything on my Hologram—I could never use such a tiny screen!”

           Miranda chuckled. “Glad to see you’re having fun.” Then she looked at me and said, “Mom, we’re going to step away for a minute or two. The doctor wants to discuss your medication. Will you and Katie be alright by yourselves?”

           “Of course, dear.”

           She gave my shoulder an affectionate pat and then strode away with her husband in tow. Once she was out of sight, Katie swooped towards me like a starving buzzard.

           “What happened next, Grandma? Did people keep getting killed?”

           I looked around once, then met her eyes again. “Well…

           The government got involved. Seeing how society was coming close to driving itself extinct, the authorities made a new law. Possessing chocolate was forbidden. Violators got life sentences in prison.

           The officials visited homes and stores all over, destroying every ounce of chocolate left in the world. They thought getting rid of it all would make the people less violent. What it actually did was make them obsess over it even more.

           There were a couple months of tense calm, during which everyone tried to go about their regular lives and pretend like they weren’t the bunch of feening animals they were. I continued to attend school, where kids began to cite “chocolate deprivation” as an excuse for not turning in homework or doing poorly on tests.

           Snack companies started coming out with “faux-chocolate” creations, which didn’t actually contain the cacao but were chemically designed to taste like it. But the people weren’t fooled. None of these products sold, and the economy quickly began to decline.

           And then, Ronald Evans appeared.

           His existence started off as a rumor that swept through the towns like wildfire (“Did you know there’s a man that still has chocolate?” “I heard he lives in a cave somewhere—the cops never found his stash!” “No! He lives in Transylvania!”).

           But when he made his announcement, the entire world was forced to acknowledge him.

           On October 31^st, an old man with an egg-shaped head and beady eyes posted a video online that went viral in thirty seconds, all because of one word in the title: chocolate.

           In the video, he revealed his identity and his proposition. He was a retired baker of sixty-eight, living in an isolated location the authorities were unable to find during the confiscation raids. Therefore, he’d been able to keep the vastness of his cacao collection, and had been joyously relishing it for months. But now, he revealed, he too was forced to say goodbye to chocolate forever. He had only a tiny bit of cocoa powder left—just enough for one chocolate cake. To satisfy skeptics, he even showed the camera his tin of cocoa powder, a dark brown circular container filled with a small pile of reddish-brown powder.

           I’d watched the video at school with my friends, and at that particular part, many of those around me actually fainted at the sight of real, pure cacao and had to be carted off to the nurse’s office. 

           After Mr. Evans revealed the remains of his personal stash, he challenged the world. According to him, he was sick of chocolate after having eaten nothing but it for months on end. He wanted the deprived citizens of the world to have one final chance to taste chocolate before it disappeared from the earth forever.

           In my opinion, I think he was a nutty recluse who’d been cooped up with chocolate for too long and was now completely out of his mind. You’d have to be crazy to come up with such a proposition.

           Mr. Evans called it a “contest”, open to anyone and everyone who wanted chocolate bad enough. He would bake the last chocolate cake the earth would ever know on November 5. And to whoever could manage, on their own, to find his house, the cake would be awarded. No strings attached. He gave only one clue to his location: it was somewhere in Upstate New York.

           And then, with one last wild-eyed sentiment of Good luck!, the video went black and the pandemonium commenced.

           Katie swallowed, her eyes huge with rapt intrigue. “Grandma…did you try to find his house?”

           A smile like bittersweet chocolate tugged on my lips. “Yes. I did.”

           I’d grown up in Upstate New York. My older brother Philip attended Syracuse University. At the time, going on a scavenger hunt for the world’s last chocolate cake seemed like a no-brainer, especially since the man lived in my hometown. But now, I almost wish I hadn’t gone. Perhaps I could’ve saved myself from being sent here.  

           There was news that people from all over the world, even countries I’d never heard of before, were causing frenzies at airports to try to get to New York as fast as possible. But I never gave them a moment’s consideration. Somehow, I just knew I would be the one to eat the last chocolate cake.

           Together with Philip and two of my friends, we began our journey early in the morning on November 5^th. My older brother was smart—he deduced that since the police hadn’t found Mr. Evans’ house, it was probably somewhere deep in the mountains, and most hermits typically took to the Catskills. So we headed there.

           It took us four hours to get there. Philip’s logic said that the house would never be somewhere obvious, like the livable areas of the mountains. So we combed through all the dangerous, inhabitable parts instead.

           And after much climbing, sweating, and cursing our stamina, we found the house. It was a log cabin balanced precariously on the cliff of a mountain like a box teetering on the edge of a table. Just looking at it made me anxious, like it would come crashing down at any second.

           We went up to the house, and knocked on the old wooden door.

           It opened to reveal the man from the video, smiling a congratulatory smile at us.

           “Wow!” he said. “Four winners! What a surprise. But there can only be one, you know.”

           He’d led us inside his shack, which was warm and smelled so strongly of chocolate that I nearly went dizzy from the aroma.

           “It’s okay,” Philip said. “We all came together. We’ll share the cake.”

           Something about this “sharing” business didn’t sit well with me. I realized then how much I truly loved chocolate, how desperate I was to have it all for myself.

           After a brief walk through the old man’s house, we came to the kitchen. And there it was. Sitting in the center of a small table was the most glorious-looking chocolate cake I’d ever laid eyes on. It was round and richly brown, its surface shining beneath the room’s golden lights.

           We all stood there, gazing at it in reverent silence.

           Some time passed, and then our group dispersed. Philip went to use the bathroom. My friends lingered by the sink, guzzling down cups of water. Only I remained at the table, eyes frozen on the cake.

           Then my gaze strayed a bit and landed on the large knife sitting on the table. The old man had brought it out to cut slices for us. I looked at him, standing there with my friends and congratulating them for completing the challenge. Then I peered back at the knife. It looked very sharp.

           I wanted that cake. I wanted it all.

           I knew then what I had to do.

           I reached out and picked up the knife. Despite its size, it was surprisingly light and fit nicely in my hand. I looked again at the old man, whose back faced me. Defenseless. In a split second of desperation, I made the decision. I raised the knife, and charged at him.

           It was over in a second. One moment the man was standing and laughing—the next, he was a silent heap on the floor. Blood gushed. My friends screamed.

           “I’m really sorry about this, guys,” I told them as I reached down to pluck the weapon from Mr. Evans’ back. “But that cake…it’s the last one in the world. I don’t think I’ll be able to share it with you.”

           Before they even had time to react, I stabbed them both. Their bodies fell, joining the old man’s on the kitchen floor.

           Side-stepping the blood puddles, I stumbled back towards the table, where I snatched up the cake and fled from the scene.

           But the moment I made it outside, the door flew open behind me and my brother rushed out.

           “What the heck did you do?!” he demanded. Shades of emotion painted his face, from shock to repulsion. He screamed at me, calling me a psycho and a murderer and a bunch of other things I wasn’t listening to. I was too busy watching the way his eyes moved. They kept flitting back and forth between my face and the cake in my hands.

           He wants it. He wants my cake. I can’t let him have it.

           “I’m sorry, Philip,” I said.

           Sitting the cake down carefully, I freed my hands and then turned towards my brother, who had begun to back away from me like a scared animal. With every step, he got closer and closer to where I wanted him to be. Finally, he reached the edge of the cliff. He stumbled a bit, then managed to catch his balance before it was too late.

           But I was quicker than he was. Before he could fully regain his footing, I leapt towards him, gave his chest a great push, and then listened to his screams as he plummeted, all the way down.

           Then it was official. I became the winner. I was the one to eat the last chocolate cake. And I savored every second of it. 

           “But, of course,” I finished, “my joy didn’t last long. Shortly after that, I ended up here in this hospital.”

           I smiled sadly at my granddaughter, who backed away from me slowly, just as Philip had done sixty years ago.