How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [57]
My making a cake to be auctioned off was Zack’s idea. I was reluctant, but the kids said that was a good idea, especially if some rich people came to the sale like they did last year.
“Where’s your cake?” Bubba asks, sounding like he hopes I haven’t forgotten it.
“It’s in my Jeep.” I pray it’s all in one piece.
The children, Miriam, Zack, several church members, and I had placed advertisements about the sale in the Smoky Mountain Times, at shops, restaurants, the Swain County Chamber of Commerce, the Fryemont Inn, Harrah’s Cherokee Casino and Hotel, and the library. I baked all week. I taught my classes, baked cookies and cakes with the kids, and then baked at home. My two favorite items are the cranberry bread and the banana muffins.
Last evening I baked the cake to be auctioned, and then when Jonas came over to help frost it, I made him a cup of coffee with sugar. He watched me mix shortening, confectioner’s sugar, vanilla extract, and butter as he drank the coffee. Eager to help, he kept exclaiming how large the cake was. He asked if I had any donuts that needed frosting. “They are easy,” he told me. He started to hum “Take It Easy.”
Then he said, “My brother liked the donut I brought him. He said you were society’s finest.”
“What?” I lifted my head from the three-tiered cake to note Jonas’s expression. Was he teasing me?
“Yep. My brother said, ‘That woman who taught you how to frost a donut has got to be one of society’s finest.’ ”
Jonas squeezed a few beaded dots where I told him to, admired the cake, and circled around the living room. I could see he had lost interest. I sent him home, telling him what a help he’d been. He grinned like the kids at The Center do when they know they deserve praise. I didn’t finish the final touches on the cake until long after the owl had started his solo cries in his tree.
As he enters The Center, Zack greets me with a smile, large and warm. The whites of his eyes look especially clear, like he’s had a good night’s sleep. He’s dressed in a pair of jeans and a forest-green shirt.
I smile, too. I hope it’s a decent smile; my body is sore from lack of sleep.
Bubba walks with me to my Jeep to help carry the cake. Two cars pull into the driveway, and from one steps Bobby and from the other Joy jumps out. Both drivers wave at the children and me.
“Are we late?” asks Bobby.
“No,” says Bubba. “Man, you should see all the food on the tables!”
“I hope nobody made anything gross this year.” Joy runs a comb through her curls. “Does my hair look puffy? I didn’t have time to wash it this morning. I hate it.”
I unlock the trunk of my Jeep. The cake should be fine, I think. I didn’t drive more than twenty miles per hour the whole way down here.
Bubba peers at the cream-colored cake, beaded with frosting and crowned with two candy roses. “Just beautiful,” he says.
Joy thinks he is talking about her hair. “Thanks, Bubba,” she says with a smile that makes her eyes glow.
“Thanks, Bubba.” I lift the cake from the Jeep and, ever so slowly, with the guidance of the children, walk it into the building.
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Before the doors open to the public at eight, Zack assigns a task to each child. He reminds the kids to be polite, to nicely encourage folks to buy, and then adds that each child should make sure to thank people for buying.
Miriam has been at The Center since seven, making coffee. Robert, who teaches drama and art in the afternoon to the kids, has covered each table in the fellowship hall with a white linen tablecloth and an arrangement of daisies and lilies. Rhonda, Bubba’s social worker, also has come to help.
Charlotte accepts her post behind the table loaded with assorted cookies. As she sits in a folding chair, she asks if Miriam would like some oatmeal cookies. There are two packaged in cellophane with $1.00 written on the sticky label. The children and I made these cookies last week in class. After they’d cooled and we’d sampled a few, we wrapped