This Cake is for the Party (11 page)

Janey holds on to Milt's arm like it's a tree trunk.

God, you're beautiful, he says. Bonnie, isn't Janey beautiful?

She's gorgeous, I say.

Janey covers her face with one hand. Stop it, she says. You guys.

Becky goes into the kitchen to inspect the damage for herself. She'll see my mess: The cutting board with the core of red pepper on it, all the seeds. Papery skins from the garlic bulbs, fragrant and unmanageable.

Please, I say to Milt. Have something to eat.

Janey pulls him to the table and slips an olive into his mouth. He nips at her fingertips with his teeth like a goat at the petting zoo, making her squeal and pull away, feigning injury with a pout.

Becky comes out of the kitchen and goes straight to the bread on the table. I found a marvellous balsamic at Olivieri's last week, she tells me. She tugs at the knife to pull it out. Aged, she murmurs. It pours like a syrup.

I like Olivieri's, I say, and try to think of a good reason for saying this. I add: Their cheeses.

Don't you just? she responds, ripping a small piece of bread off the loaf.

I've forgotten to put on music. The sound of everyone eating and swallowing. There's a smudge of flour on the corner of Becky's mouth.

Is this
levain
bread? she asks. It has a perfect crumb.

I have a compilation disc that I know Janey likes. I go to the bookshelf by the window to find the CD, but Milt beats me to it. He pulls my stereo out from the wall so he can see the cords in the back. With two gentle yanks, he disconnects my speakers. Then he attaches another cord—this one connected to his cellphone. His index finger touches the screen and the device makes clicking insect noises as he looks for what he wants. He chooses an old Miles Davis album.

David bought the same album for me years ago. It sounds like our first apartment. It was so drafty we had to buy sheets of plastic for the storm windows and seal them to the edges with a hair dryer. Then Timotei sliced the plastic with her claws three days after we put it up. David tried to fix the cuts instead of buying another package of plastic sheeting. As though Scotch tape could keep the draft out.

He's obsessed with his new toy, Janey says. It knows how to tell you what music is playing, anywhere you hear music. You hold it up in a bar, it listens, and then it tells you what the song is, what album, everything. Press a button and you can buy the song, right there. She's back on the couch, sitting up straight, finger combing her hair. Milt, can you put something else on?

Becky has moved over to the olives. I scan the table quickly to see if I've remembered to put out a dish for the pits, which I have. I zip into the kitchen to check on the sauce.

Becky follows me. Do you mind if I have a taste? she asks. She's come prepared, with a crust of bread in her hand.

I nod to the saucepan on the stove. Tell me what you think.

She lifts the lid and moves to avoid the steam, then pokes her face in. Mmm, she says, and dips in a corner of bread. I've laced the sauce with red wine and baby clams. I've tied a bunch of thyme together with string, it's been in there all afternoon.

Nice and herby, she says. Bonnie—can I ask you?

It's thyme, I tell her.

She looks at me intently, her forehead wrinkled. I can tell that she's misunderstood my response. Her lipstick has worn off. There's a plum-coloured line left on her top lip, drawn carefully, the top of a heart.

I don't want to have this conversation. I turn away from her and look for something to stir the sauce. I think this is just about ready, I say.

The sauce makes little bubbles of itself and each one splatters with a breathy pop. The stovetop is sprinkled with drops of sauce. It's been simmering for a long time.

I turn off the heat. Becky is quiet, watching me.

Then she asks, What do you think Janey wants?

This surprises me. I thought it was obvious: Janey wants to be married. She wants to have a job that makes her happy and a house of her own. She wants a husband who's not afraid to kiss her in public, who will volunteer to light the barbecue and fix the plugged drain. Soon she will want to have a baby.

Janey wants to be loved, I say. Just like we all do.

Becky nods slowly, still looking down at the saucepan. You understand that I'm simply concerned about Milton. He's more sensitive than he lets on.

I fill a second pot with water and sprinkle some salt in it, turn the burner up to high and look on the counter for the lid.

They're getting married because they love each other, I say.

I would hate to see him get hurt, Becky says.

I can't find the lid. The water will never boil without it. I find a plate and rest it on top of the pot instead. The salad is ready. We can just start with salad.

Janey has a good heart, I tell her. Nobody's going to get hurt. I try to smile. I reach for the salad bowl and hold it with both hands. Do you mind bringing in the pepper mill? I motion to the wooden club standing beside the toaster oven.

Listen to me. Becky moves her body so it blocks my passage to the living room. She's had her eyebrows shaped into two isosceles triangles. Her face is like an arrow pointing right through me.

She says, Your good-hearted Janey told my little brother that he had to spend three thousand dollars on each wedding band. Don't try to tell me this is simply about love.

I exhale. Okay, I tell her, I don't know what's going on with Janey. It looks like she caught the wedding bug. I haven't been able to talk to her about it. She's just obsessed with everything bridal right now. I eye the pepper mill on the counter.

Becky follows my gaze, sighs, and reaches for it. It was my mother's pepper mill, handmade. There is a small flower design carved in a ring around the middle of it.

Milt told me about your broken engagement, Becky says. I want to say that I think it's admirable. I mean, I respect what you're doing here. To wear the brave face, making us dinner tonight, handling the rehearsal dinner as well, the wedding cake, everything. You must feel resentful about their wedding, though. I understand.

I don't feel resentful, I say.

Because it would be only natural for you to want to see another relationship fall apart right now. It can be very threatening to spend time with a couple when you know that your own relationship was a failure.

I take a breath and do that thing that David taught me to do whenever I feel angry with someone: I try to imagine Becky as a child. I really try to do this. I look down and imagine that I'm looking at a small version of the woman in front of me. I say to this little girl inside my head, I know that things didn't go well for you. I know that your mother died and your father went away to India because he was so sad, and I'm sorry that your bossy Ukrainian grandmother made you eat unfamiliar food and wear homemade dresses. But mostly I say to this little girl, I am sorry that you turned into such an unpleasant, spiteful woman.

So, Milt says when we come out of the kitchen. He grips the stem of his wineglass like it's a squash racquet. How's it going in there?

There's a strange voice coming from the stereo. Deep and unwavering, a voice like fruit soaked in liquor. I look at Janey on the couch. Her eyes are closed and her body seems loosened, relaxed, possibly drunk.

Who's this? I ask.

Local guy, says Milt. Singer-songwriter who's been playing the circuit up and down the Island. He raises his shoulders in a shrug and drinks a gulp. Goes by his last name, Rastin. Janey's gone to see him play a few times.

He calls himself Rasputin? says Becky.

Rastin, says Milt. Not Rasputin.

I've misplaced my wineglass. I spot one on the coffee table and move the salad bowl under my arm so I have a free hand to pick up the glass. I shouldn't be drinking more wine; I already feel clumsy. I want everyone to go home.

Janey opens her eyes. She smiles at me, one arm wrapped around herself in a half hug. Are we ready? she says.

When Janey was six years old, her father was hospitalized for mononucleosis. Something went wrong in the hospital. The mono turned into pneumonia and he died. I don't know all of the details. I doubt that Janey knows them herself. After he died, Janey and her brother went to a neighbour's house to spend the night. The neighbour baked a cake for the two children. It was a yellow cake with chocolate icing. When they tried to slice it, it crumbled everywhere, all over the table, like a fallen sandcastle. Her brother made up a song. He started singing, Messy cake, messy cake! Janey remembers laughing until they were screaming and crying, running around the table at this nice neighbour's house, yelling a song about cake at the top of their lungs because it was the only thing they could make themselves cry about.

I'm making Janey and Milt's wedding cake. It's going to be coconut with vanilla buttercream frosting. There won't be any chocolate. I won't even make a lemon cake because I am afraid to make the batter yellow, afraid to trigger the memory. I don't want to see their relationship fail. I love Janey and Milt. I want this to work for them.

Come and eat, babe, I tell Janey.

Becky, subdued from carbohydrates, sits down first. She glances at the slices of roasted red peppers, which I've peeled and arranged on a plate and drizzled with oil. They look obscene now, like tongues. I stand uselessly at the head of the table. Milt has turned the volume down, but he hasn't changed the music. Janey is still looking at me with that half smile on her face. I can't meet her eye. I put the salad bowl down on the table. I use a pair of wooden spoons to place shining bunches of green leaves on their side plates, as though each offering is a prayer.

David has been drinking. He's at the door wearing his blue snowboarder hat and the tacky fleece scarf that he got as a freebie at the wine store last winter. A bunch of grapes embroidered in cheap gold thread with
Cherry
Pointe Vineyards
in cursive stitching at the bottom. As soon as I see him, I remember why I don't want him in my life.

I heard there was a party happening, he says. I heard that this is where it was all going down tonight.

You were invited, I tell him quietly. You said it would be a bad idea.

Bonnie, Bonnie! He holds his chest with one hand, pretending that he's been stabbed, and staggers a few feet back. He holds on to the door frame with his other hand and pulls his face in close to mine. Bonnie, he says, you're killing me.

Who is it? Janey calls from the living room.

Please can I come over for dinner? he asks in a high voice. Please?

Timotei is rubbing herself against David, winding herself between his ankles. She's happy that he's come back. She pushes the side of her face against his leg, rubbing each side over and over, as though she wants to wear through the corduroy.

You could have called first, I say. He walks past me and hangs his coat up on the hook that he drilled into the wall. When he raises his arm, his bicep pushes against the cuff of his T-shirt. I close the door behind him.

It's in a jar of formaldehyde, Janey is saying. Like twelve inches. It's on display in a Russian museum.

So that's why he's Russia's greatest love machine, says Milt.

Well, well, look who's here, says Janey.

If it isn't Miss Janey Brown, David says, holding his arms out for a hug. Give us a kiss, baby.

Janey stands up when David hugs her. Watching David touch Janey used to make me feel cramps of jealousy, but I made myself get over it. This is the first time I've seen them together since we broke up. There's a new cramp now, an unnamed feeling. Milt gets up too, puts his hand on David's back. I didn't think you could make it tonight, he says.

David is still wearing his blue hat. Change of plans, he grins.

Well, it's good to see you, man.

There's something stuck in my molar. A piece of walnut from the salad. I am aware that I'm distorting my face when I move my jaw to the side and let my tongue fish around for the offending crumb in my tooth. I leave them to it at the table and go into the kitchen so I can jam my finger back there and dig it out.

I say to everyone, I'm just going to get another bottle of that wine.

Let me help you, David says.

I can do it.

I need a glass, he says.

I'll get you a glass.

Oh, let her get it, says Janey. You have to tell us about the kayaking place. We might do that for our honeymoon. We might find a little lodge and learn how to kayak, and you're the perfect person to talk to about that. What do you think? Do you think I could do it, David?

I stop listening once I find myself in the kitchen. I crouch down and open the lower cabinet and stare at the eleven remaining wine bottles lined up on their sides in the rack that David built to fit the cupboard. The bottle necks point out at me like long snouts. I pick at my back tooth with my forefinger but can't find whatever has lodged itself in there. I take my finger out and try my teeth again. It feels like I'm biting on a chunk of granite.

David and Janey used to love each other. They lived together for a handful of years and then David met me and things changed. David and I were good together. He used to say that being with me felt like coming home. I want to tell everyone at the dinner table: You can't trust love. Everything changes eventually. Don't try to cement something just because you're afraid you're going to lose it.

My Chianti! says David. He's crouched behind me.

Um, I say. I've just got something stuck in my tooth.

Let me see it.

No.

Let me see.

His hands touch my shoulders.

This is weird, he says.

What part?

I don't know if I'm happy for them. I don't think I am.

Does it really matter if you are or aren't?

Are you happy for them?

Look, I just need some dental floss.

Bonnie, okay. I need to tell you something.

Don't.