Siblings, Trust, and Cake

“Listen. Clara Bell’s birthday is Friday. I ordered the cake. It will be ready tomorrow. So I need you to pick it up.”

Laura and her husband were eating a peaceful dinner while Clara Bell was at her grandparent’s house for the night. Laura’s brother, Charles, was in attendance as well. He did not come around often, but he was “in between projects” right now. To him, that meant that he was transitioning to a new position that respected his traits and skills more. To Laura that meant that he was unemployed. Again.

“I can pick it up,” Charles said as he took an enormous bite of meatloaf.

Laura glanced at him from the corner of her eyes, but she pressed forward, looking at her husband, “Decorations are all good to go. We’re having it…” here she breathed out her regret. “… at Chuck E. Cheese.”

“Clara was insistent.” Roberto, Laura’s husband and Clara Bell’s father, added, rolling his eyes.

After stuffing another bite, Charles said, “Icangeducashe.”

Laura eyed her brother, “We do not talk with our mouths full, Charles.”

He swallowed, “Right. Sorry, mom.”

Laura ignored his insult. “Everyone has been invited. I have everything set to go. I just need the cake picked up. Roberto, can you pick it up?”

“No,” he said reeling back in case of violence, “Sorry, I have a meetings all day.”

“Roberto…”

“Yo se, yo se!” He placated himself with his palms raised, “Lo siento, mi amor. But I tried. Mi jefe said that if I miss these meetings, then I can say goodbye to that raise I’ve been working toward.”

“What a jerk.” Charles interjected, his fork poised.

“Yes. He is.” Laura said.

“I could do it the morning of the party?” Roberto tried.

“No,” Laura stabbed her food harshly but did not eat. “We cannot, Roberto. Because the bakery is not open on Saturday. I’m lucky that they made it for me on such short notice. The bakery is closed for vacation starting that day. Since the owner, Tabitha, and I are old college friends, she did me a favor and rushed the job.”

“That was nice of her.” Charles was trying to feel a part of the conversation.

“So you need to get out of the meeting, Roberto.”

“I can do it, sis.”

Laura finally stopped and looked at Charles, and Roberto did the same. She looked at her husband. He shrugged his shoulders, uncertain but not against the idea.

Of course, Roberto was also hesitant. He was not the most reliable person. For example, when Charles and Laura were in high school, she a senior and he was a freshman, he had asked to borrow her science folder. He was trying to get close to a girl. The folder was important because it contained her project that was supposed to be turned in for her semester project. The folder vanished and Charles had no idea what happened to it. Turns out the girl coaxed it away from Charles and used the project herself. She aced it. Smaller instances like how Charles never repaid money that he borrowed, was notoriously late for all appointments, and always needed a ride because his car was out of gas or broken down or something else. One more minor detail why Laura is hesitant to trust Charles is when her daughter was born, Charles had promised to supply them with some ready-to-serve meals and some other supplies to get them started taking care of a tiny human being. He did not come through, which only worsened the sleepless nights since Roberto was run ragged, helping Laura take care of Clara Bell and taking care of the house while mom recovered. This is only the short list of reasons why Laura does not trust her brother.

Laura glares, “Charles. You’re kidding me. Right?”

He shook his head, “No way, sis. I’ve let you down so many times that I know that you would literally decapitate me if I screw up one more time.”

“We have an axe.” Roberto added.

“We do.” Laura confirmed.

“See,” Charles leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head, “what do you have to lose?”

She looked back at her husband and they shared a thought, So very much.

“Have you met your niece?” Laura posed.

And Roberto emphasized, “She’s a tyrant.”

“Look, sis,” Charles leaned forward, “This is a new me. I’ve been doing Uber Eats lately and my reviews average 4.12 stars”

“What does that have to do with anything?” She asked.

“That’s an odd number,” Roberto questioned.

“Right?” Charles laughed, ignoring his sister, “Higher than my high school GPA.”

Roberto, confused, looked to Laura, “That’s a good thing?”

“I… I just…” She looked to Roberto, hoping he would shut this whole thing down. But he made no moves to do so. She made a mental note to ice him out later on for this.

“C’mon, sis” Charles begged with his best puppy dog eyes. “Pwease wet me hewp.”

She looked to Roberto one last time, a final effort to get his attention and hope that he would shut this whole ordeal down. But he made no move to do so. Apparently, he was refusing to accept responsibility for any part of this.

“Fine. But if Clara Bell has a tantrum because of you—”

“I will give myself as a sacrifice!” Charles jumped out of his seat, spilling his water and flinging the food from his fork all over the floor. “You will not regret this, sis!” As the dogs rounded on the food on the floor, Charles jumped and cheered the whole way out of the house and to his car outside.

Laura looked at her husband, her white-knuckles gripping her fork, “You’re to blame for this.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you!” She released her fork, fearful of what she might do with it, given the time. “You should have—”

Then Charles busted through the front door again, “Hey… sis?”

She turned to face her brother.

“Two things.” He smiled meekly.

“I can only imagine what you need.” She grumbled.

“One: can you text me the deets for the cake?”

“Yes…” She said through gritted teeth. “And?”

He smiled and ducked a bit more behind the door, “I’m outta gas. Can you give me a lift to the station? And pay for some gas?”

Roberto got up quickly, “I’ll take you.”

He grabbed his coat on the way out, shut the door quietly and then Laura was left alone in the house. From outside, birds in the trees were disturbed and fluttered away from their townhouse. Roberto flinched, almost like he had been hit in the back of the head. He even rubbed his neck.

“Let’s go,” he said. “It’s not safe here right now.”

Charles woke up the next morning in his basement apartment that he rented from an old lady. He had a separate entrance, so he could come and go as he pleased. Last night, he returned home later than he intended. For one, Roberto was stalling. He had apparently made Laura quite angry last night. Charles could not imagine why she was so upset, but he shrugged it off and went about his night. He went to a bar. Came home. He cracked open some beer, watched some Netflix, then passed out on the couch. Somewhere in the middle of the night, he was able to transfer himself to his bed, which, strangely enough, was the couch. He had pulled it out into a bed and flopped back on the mattress, snoring happily.

When he got up and ready, he looked at himself in the mirror, and he noted the bags under his eyes, his graying stubbly chin, his thinning hair. He took stock of the pooch in his belly, and its lack of definition.

But today was a good day, regardless.

His sister was putting faith in him.

He checked his phone and saw the information from his sister.

Tab’s Bakery and Confections. They close at 2. Don’t be late!

He typed back: I got you.

Before he hit send, he noted the time. 1:15. In the afternoon!

“Holy!—” How he had let himself sleep this long, he was unable to tell. He grabbed his flip-flops and ran out the door without putting them on.

1:20.

Finally at the car, he checked his pockets. Where were his keys? He ran through the visual catalog in him mind. They’re on his dresser. He ran back to his apartment.

1:22

Back at his door, he turned the handle. Locked. Because safety. The handle again? Yep. Locked. In his panic he slid down the door, moaning when he hit the small terracotta pot that contained a dead flower. His extra key. He threw the pot. He placed the key in the knob. The pot shattered. He opened the door, retrieved his keys, then ran back to the car. He grabbed his flip-flops off the concrete.

1:32

He started the car. It choked and gagged then sagged silently. He tried again. Again. Again… but he let it set for a moment, hearing the second tick away in his mind He needed to calm down. Let the engine rest. Don’t flood it.

1:35

“Start!” He screamed. This time, it coughed to life and shook violently. He backed out and began driving. The car sputtered as it ignored the speed limit signs. With his free hand, he googled the bakery to get directions.

1:37.

According to the machine, it would take him seventeen minutes to get to the Tab’s Bakery. He should probably call Laura— no! Terrible idea! He could already hear her voice like nails on a chalkboard, complaining about yet another failure. Fix it.

“Call the bakery.” He mumbled.

He gets the number just as his periphery picks up some unusual activity. His eyes dart to the windshield and he simultaneously slams on his brakes, the car’s tires screaming to a halt, his heart nearly breaking through its cage as his momentum settles.

Traffic jam.

“Perfect…"

Now that he was stopped, he calms himself enough and tries to call the bakery. The phone rings and rings for what feels like an eternity, dragging off into infinity. Finally, voicemail.

Beep. “Hi, my name is Charles, and I’m on my way to get a cake for my sister Laura, who ordered it. She knows you. That’s not important. Anyway, I am on my way now, but traffic. I’m in traffic. My drive is supposed to be seventeen minutes, no… eighteen minutes. Anyway—” Beep.

The voicemail just cut him off. And he slaps himself in the face because he was a rambling fool, not even getting what he needed to say off his tongue. For an instant, as traffic inches forward, he thinks of having one of those movie moments, where he exits the car with montage of him running across town, making it to the door just in time. In a practical sense though, that does not track. He’d then be stranded: with no car, probably getting towed and ticketed. All he needed was another expense.

But the line of cars began to inch after a moment and he checked his phone to see that his drive time had changed to nineteen minutes.

1:48.

He decided that he would need to drive like his head was on fire to get there on time. He called the bakery again, but voicemail picked up. He centered his mind and decided that he would manipulate time and space to get to the bakery on time.

He managed to shave a lot of time by willing the lights to stay green, and cutting through a few yellow ones. He rolled through several stop signs then double-parked outside the bakery.

2:03.

The sign proclaimed that the store was closed. He pounded on the door, just short of breaking the glass door. No one came. He sat on the concrete steps, they laid back. Looking at the sky, he resigned himself to fate. He pulled up his sister’s number on his phone, and began to call.

A bell sounded, and he looked up to see a woman with a dirty apron, flour up to the elbows, and her hair tied in a high bun. Her apron advertised “Tab’s Bakery” stitched upon it. “You Charlie?”

“Charles. Yes.” He said from his prone position on the ground. “Tabitha?”

“Tab. Yeah.” Her voice was flat. “You just gonna lay there, or…”

“Oh. Right.” He sat up, stood, then dusted himself off. “So…”

She waved him in the store, then locked the door behind her. “Follow me.”

“Sorry about pounding on your door. And for the voicemail…”

“The what?” She called over her shoulder.

“Never mind.” He scratched the back of his head. “So, I need—”

“I know what you need.” She disappeared into a cooler, then reemerged with a large rectangular box. “Here.”

“Thank you.” He took the box, surprised by the heft. “I’m really—”

“It’s fine. You’re not the first nut job I’ve had banging on my door.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m a nut job…”

“Anyway,” she gestured toward the door. “I’ve got bread to prep before I go home and pass out on my couch.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” He ushered himself toward the door again, feeling his feet shuffle awkwardly on the ground, his nerves not quite settled yet. His hands felt sweaty under the burden of responsibility that he now bore. “Sorry. Thanks. Good day. Bye.”

Tab opened the door, the bell chiming the riff to AC/DC’s “Hell’s Bells” in its wake. “Bye.”

“Ooh, I like your bell…” But the rest of his thought was caught off guard like concrete was had pulled itself away from him. He forgot about the steps he climbed on his way in. And then he fell. As he fell, he was unconcerned with his bones or his pride. He thought only of his sister. He thought of the face she made when he suggested that he pick up the cake. She looked at him as if he was tied up in a padded room. Crazy. Insane. A nut job.

He watched in slow motion as the box slipped from his grip, flipped over itself, the lid creeping open, then landing upside down on the concrete sidewalk. He was so focused that he did not even notice that he scuffed several parts of his body, even his flip-flops were tossed, lying prone as he did.

“Nononononononononononooonono!” Charles crawled toward the box, lifting it up… wait…

Then Tab’s voice came from above and behind him, “Yeah, Laura, you were right.” A pause, like she was listening to someone. “No, he showed up. Late.” Another pause. “I dunno. Like five minutes?”

Charles sat up, lifting up the box to see… not a cake.

“Alright. Bye.” She must have hung up the phone, because she was now silent. He could feel her judgment.

“What is this?” He picked up the packages. each one filled with a white powder.

“Icing sugar.”

He turned to face Tab. “Icing sugar?”

She nodded. “Yep.”

“But… why?”

“Perhaps you should ask your sister.” She leaned casually against the door frame with her arms crossed over her apron.

He stood, hearing his still running car against the curb. “I assume she has her cake, then?”

Tab nodded. “Yeah. She came and got it this morning.”

“Oh, ok.” Charles dusted himself off as he walked back to his car. “No, I don’t think I will.”

“What’s that?” Tab called.

He stopped and turned, “I’m not going to ask her.”



The knocking at his door startled him. His apartment was unnaturally quiet. Normally, Charles had music or television or idle ramblings filling the background. But after yesterday’s debacle, he felt that silence was what he needed.

“Charles!” the voice from the door yelled. “Open the door!”

“Nooooo!” He called back.

Then the door made some shifting and clicking noises and the door opened. “I have a key, dummy.”

“Then give it back.” His voice was a low whine.

Laura ignored him and sat down on the couch. “You didn’t come to the party.”

“You didn’t tell me that you got the cake.” He was pouting, holding a pillow to his chest.

“Charles,” Laura sighed. “Charles, do you know how many chances I’ve given you over the years?”

He shrugged.

“Too many to count.” She crossed her legs on the couch. “Do you remember when I had my tenth birthday?”

Charles nodded.

“I wanted a magician.”She scooted closer. “But dad said that magic wasn’t real. And he said that if he wanted me to believe in magic, that I should do his taxes so I could see what real magic was. Because—”

“‘No one knows their secrets.’” They said in unison.

She smiled, “Yeah. And do you remember what you did?”

Charles smiled, too. “I put on your magic show.”

“You did.”

“But it was terrible. I’d never done magic before.”

“That was obvious.”

“It was more of a comedy act than anything.”

“My point is,” she scooted to where they were shoulder-to-shoulder, “you’ve always meant well, Charles. But your ideas are half-baked at best. But what you lack in execution you make up for in pure heart.”

“But you didn’t trust me.”

“No,” she sighed, “I didn’t. And I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

“But you didn’t let me down. You came through.”

“I tried.” He corrected.

“You just have to understand that I couldn’t risk it for Clara Bell’s birthday.”

“I know.”

Then they both laughed and said the same thing, “She’s a tyrant.”

And the pair laughed aloud, knowing that even if they disappointed each other, they would always love one another.