The Widow

Set at a whopping 375 degrees, the old oven struggled to get up to temperature. I kicked the hissing box of scrap metal causing the partially hinged door to fall open. “Shit.” I muttered. I slammed the door shut and set down the overloaded paper bags. My shoulder throbbed wearisomely, and the oven, unbothered, continued to whistle and wheeze behind me. I unpacked the groceries arranging them into an orderly pile and assessed my damage. There were some eggs, a bag of potatoes, and a small slab of red meat but the rest of the items were for my special recipe. I had spent nearly all this week’s grocery budget but that wouldn’t matter after tonight. That is if things went according to plan. I pulled out my phone and clicked on a website link saved in my favorites. The screen froze for a minute before displaying an overly cutesy but well put together blog. I scrolled through pictures of brightly colored macarons, chocolate chip paleo cookies and the like before finding what I was looking for. The proprietor of the blog blabbed about the warm, cozy evening with her hubby that had inspired the recipe. I swiped endlessly through the nauseating confession of love and I would have swiped right past it if it didn’t have such an eye-catching title. In large, decorative script it read, “Death by Chocolate Cake.”  My heart rattled up against my bones and I gripped the cool countertop with my sweaty palms to steady myself. Death by chocolate cake. I just hoped Farm Girl, City Chef was right.

Getting the dry mix situated proved to be simple but tempering the chocolate was no easy task. The first batch had come out chunky with an uneven smoky brown color. Still in the beginning stages but undoubtedly frustrated, I picked up the remaining packages of chocolate. I started in, quickly reducing the hunk of dark chocolate into small slivers. I did the same with the milk chocolate and then the white. Each pile of shavings got their own glass bowl along with a splash of heavy cream. Busy whisking the delicate mixtures, I failed to hear the keys rattling in the lock or the firm shutting of the door. I turned around slowly with one of the molten chocolate mixtures in my hand and promptly dropped it when I caught sight of the dark silhouette in the kitchen doorway. It collapsed into a heap of chocolate covered shards. My husband knelt to pick up a piece of the already hardening mess and pretended to put it into his mouth.

“What a dangerously delicious treat,” he said.

 His face was pale and there were blue-black crescent moons under his eyes, but he was smiling and that was good. I slapped his shoulder playfully and gave him a kiss.

“You scared me!” I shouted at him. I crossed my arms and pretended to pout. He pulled me close to him and made loud smacking sounds as he pecked at my face and neck.

“I’m sorry baby. What is this that you’re making?”

He gestured to the chaos on the floor and the two-remaining bowls by the stove.

“That,” I said still grinning like a fool, “is a triple layer, triple chocolate, death by chocolate cake.”

He raised his eyebrows in an expression that portrayed cartoonish excitement and I hit him again, this time on his chest.

“Stop it.” I said giggling.

“No, it’s good. That sounds amazing. What’s the occasion?”

I looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes aware of what was coming next. What had to come.

“Did you forget, baby? It’s your mother’s birthday today.”

His body tightened and he drew away from me.

“That woman, is not my mother,” he spat.

“Of course, baby, but she is technically family…” I trailed off. He still looked unwell but now he also looked incredibly angry.

“I’m sure it’s what your father would have wanted.” I said.

He looked like he might like to hit me, but he didn’t. Instead he hastily unbuttoned his jacket and threw it, along with his briefcase, onto the counter.

“Clean up this mess, “he ordered before disappearing into the bedroom.

Reassured by his hostile response, I added the melted chocolate to my dry ingredients and stirred them together until it formed a light and smooth batter.

               She was draped and layered in a variety of fine silks, some resting comfortably on her thigh, the others held delicately at her neck. Even the intricate linings of her hands looked expensive on our worn table. Her chin never titled, even as she ate, but remained stuck up into the air as she examined our tiny apartment. I cleared the empty dishes and serving platters into the kitchen and returned with the cake. I carefully set it down in front of her. Her perfect teeth formed a smile that wasn’t totally disingenuous.

“How nice of you! You two really didn’t have to do this.” She squealed.

She looked to my husband, but he seemed to be somewhere else entirely.

“Of course, Ms. Horizo. After Mr. Horizo’s death we figured you must be terribly lonely. I know we’ve had our disagreements in the past, but nobody should spend their birthday alone.” I said. 

“Oh, I’m glad and I’m glad that you two realized that it really is better this way.” Her diamond rings made a cold, clicking sound as she clasped her hands together. “Your father wouldn’t have done what he did if he didn’t think that you could handle it, Morgan, honest.”

His gaze was so fearsome as he looked at her that I was surprised that she could stand it for as long as she did. She eventually turned away with a knowing look.

“Go on and cut the cake, dear.”

I took the cake out of the cardboard box, “Sorry it’s store bought. We’ve both just been so busy.” I said laughing. Now it was my turn for my husband’s fearsome gaze. His eyes narrowed into slits, but he said nothing.

“Don’t worry about it, as they say, it’s the thought that counts.”

I piled a heaping slice onto her plate.

“My goodness does that look good! Why, I wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference.”

I gave her a wide grin. “Well lets just hope it tastes as good as it looks.”

She took a surprisingly large bite for a woman of her stature. There was silence save for the humming of the overhead fan and the delicious munching of cake. When she finished, she wiped the corners of her mouth with a folded napkin before returning it to her lap.

“Well that was just absolutely marvelous.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” I said. This time my husband cleared the table. The silence was heavy and awkward as we both waited for his return. When he did, she glanced at the small face of her Rolex and then back at him as if she were waiting for something.

Not looking at her he said, “It’s getting late now. You should probably head home.”

 “You’re right, I’m sure Twinkles is wondering what I’m doing out so late.”  

She made no move to grab her belongings.

“I’ll go and grab your coat for you.” I offered.

“Would you mind grabbing me a glass of water first,” she asked. Her hands were placed delicately on the hollows of her throat.

“Sure.”

I gave her the class of the water and she tried to chug it but her throat, which was probably the size of a pinhole at this time, failed her. The glass hit the carpet unscathed as she sent a cool jet of water over the table. She gasped for air, her hands clutching her throat desperately. She was wheezing uncontrollably, and a thin whistling sound escaped her. It sounded unnaturally like our dilapidated oven.

My husband hopped up from his seat at the table.

“Do something for Christs’ sake!” He shouted at me.

Before I could make a move, he shoved past me and started the Heimlich maneuver.

“I don’t think she’s choking, Morgan. It seems like an allergic reaction.” I whispered. He looked at me bug-eyed.

“An allergic reaction to what? Water? Call an ambulance!” He said still screaming.

I was sweating heavily, and I could barely grip the phone. Maybe this whole thing had been a mistake.

“Why are you just standing there, call them!”

I was shaking now and crying.

“I’m sorry Morgan. This was a bad idea. I knew this was a bad idea!”

“A bad idea… what are you talking about a bad idea?”

“The cake Morgan! It was the cake.”

Ms. Horizo was becoming increasingly less tenacious in her fight and her face had swelled up considerably.

He dropped her sagging body, finally realizing.

“You poisoned her.”

 It was more of a statement than a question.

“Not poison,” I said wiping my snotty nose, “fish oil.”

He laughed. The otherwise delightful sound was jarring considering the context.   

“You did this… for me?” He asked.

I wiped my eyes and nodded my head, feeling, and looking, like a child.

He stood leaving Ms.Horizo on the ground where she looked on with eyes that were already reflecting the final stages of death. He embraced me, taking the phone from my trembling hands.

“Let’s wait a few minutes and then call the police. We’ll tell them that it was an accident, of course. We never suspected the cake to have fish oil, hell, we didn’t even know she was allergic.”

I looked up at him.

“We could even sue company who made the box. Tell them someone screwed up big time.” I said.

He grabbed my face with his large hands and kissed me long and hard.

“That’s a great idea. But first, get rid of the rest of that cake.”