The Dessert that Failed
I blame the cake.
Jake and I each held our palms up to the glass between us, as close to touching as the jail allowed. To either side of us, other unhappy pairs murmured sweet nothings into the communicating phones, or fought, or left the phones on the hooks and just stared at each other.
“It’s Spring,” I said, wiggling my eyebrows. “I brought you a cake to celebrate. For Easter, you know? Remember the true meaning of Easter, Jake. Remember the true meaning of Spring.”
When he was planning this latest job, we had talked about how, if he got caught and convicted, I would smuggle in a fake gun that he would paint with shoe polish and use to force an escape. I hoped he remembered, because it had taken me a lot longer to make a gun than it had to make a cake. I was afraid the shape would show up on maybe some kind of x-ray machine, so I made it in pieces and poked the pieces up into the finished cake, then wrapped the whole thing in fondant. A Mardi Gras cake. What they call a King Cake, like.
At home, I watched the news. No breakout. I watched the back door. No Jake.
They must’ve tossed the cake in the trash, the bums. Didn’t even give it to him.
But, next visiting day, when Jake sat down on the other side of the glass and we each picked up our handsets, the first thing he said was, “Thanks for the cake, Babe! It was sooooo good!”
I was afraid to say too much, but I said, “Didn’t…was it…. Was there anything, you know, different in it?”
He laughed. “Oh, yeah! Those candy lumps in all the pieces. They were maybe the best part. But here’s something funny: You forgot to put the plastic baby in the King Cake! You scatterbrained princess! But Jakie loves you, Babe.”
No, it wasn’t the cake’s fault. I think Jake’s mother must have dropped him on his head a couple of times too often when he was young.
I’m posting at Fatal Foodies today about a make-do salad that did not fail.
MY PROMPT TODAY: Dessert FAIL