Let Them Eat Cake

All we had to do was eat a birthday cake to get the money

Photo by Jon Butterworth on Unsplash

It was October 30, our father’s birthday. Traditionally, all of us kids gathered at the family mansion to celebrate the day, birthday cake and all. It was something I had always dreaded, especially since Mother had passed on. Father had become even harder to deal with. But now, God rot him, he was dead as well, and today was the reading of the will.

Missy hadn’t wanted to read the will on that day, saying something about bad luck. She always was the nervous one. Not that he didn’t make me nervous. On the contrary, I think I walked around with a permanent hunch to my shoulders, anticipating a blow or sharp word.

Anyway, James and I managed to convince our sister that Father’s birthday was the logical choice, as it would be exactly a year since he departed and also, he’d set it up with his lawyer that way, so it didn’t really matter what any of us wanted.

I arrived last, as befitting my position as the youngest, parking my late model clunker next to the others in the driveway. Father had been firm in his belief that his children make it on their own with no help from him or his money. Selfish bastard.

Rain pelted the top of my head, plastering my hair to my skull. I couldn’t help glancing over at the family cemetery, my eyes drawn to the last stone on the end. Strange. The grave looked disturbed…I shook the thought right out of my head. That was such impossibility it did not even deserve attention. The rain was playing a trick, that was all.

Inside I handed my dripping coat to the butler whose name I could never remember, and walked down the hallway, my heels loud on the polished floor.

The library door opened beneath my hand, and the familiar smells of cigars and old leather filled my nostrils.

James and Missy were there, standing in opposite corners, unhappy looks on their round faces.

“What the hell took you so long?” James demanded, raking a hand through his thinning hair. He looked the business man in his three piece suit.

“I’m here now, so let’s get started,” I said, and took a seat in my father’s soft leather chair. Missy gave me a horrified look.

“What are you doing? You can’t sit in that chair,” she hissed, eyes almost popping out of her head.

“Sure I can. Who’s going to stop me? Father doesn’t need it anymore.” I grinned, and my sister made a noise and covered her face.

“L…leave her alone,” James said, and I shrugged. I stroked the smooth leather of the armrest, thinking I might have to take it with me. I could use a chair like that in my office.

“Ahem.” Mr. Jennings cleared his throat. “If we could get started now?” Mr. Jennings had been my father’s lawyer for the last thirty years, and he was one cold S.O.B.

My sibling pulled out chairs as far away from me as possible, and Mr. Jennings stood by the fireplace and opened a folder.

“Let’s dispense with the formalities, shall we? You three are here because of your inheritance.”

“Of course we are,” James said, leaning forward. “So let’s get on with it.” He rested his palms on his thighs and waited.

“Very well,” Jennings said, placing a pair of reading glasses on his patrician nose.

“As you know, I’ve been your father’s legal advisor for a very long time. And, if I may take the liberty, I have also been his main confidant.” I rolled my eyes, trying to look bored. My shoulders were tight, though, because I knew my father wouldn’t pass up one last chance to screw us over.

“His last request to me was… how shall I put it?” Jennings paused and looked at each of us in turn. His eyes were so black the pupil wasn’t visible. Creepy.

“Come on, Jennings,” I interrupted, tired of the melodrama. “Out with it. What do we have to do to get our hands on the cash?”

Jennings wrinkled his nose at my crudeness. “Simply eat a birthday cake,” he said, and motioned behind him. The butler hurried in carrying a large silver tray. On the tray was a cake. A cake covered with blood-red frosting.

“Eat that cake? That’s it?” Missy sounded amazed, and relieved. She sat up a little straighter in her chair and actually smiled at me. I didn’t return it.

“That’s it,” Jennings said, smiling unpleasantly. “Although there is one thing you should know about this particular cake.”

“What’s that?” James asked warily. He, too, suspected something. Our father was fond of practical jokes, the malicious kind that made people cry.

“Your father insisted on being a part of the cake, if you’ll pardon the pun.” Jennings laughed, and James grabbed his arm, wrinkling the elegant black suit.

“Quit playing games, old man, and tell us.” Jennings narrowed his eyes and yanked back his arm. James didn’t back down, though, and I felt a moment of admiration for my brother. There was a backbone in there somewhere after all.

“Very well. In order for the three of you to receive the money, you must consume the entire cake--every single crumb.”

“And if we don’t?” Missy asked, eyes darting nervously. She twisted a strand of her mousy brown hair around a finger, a childhood habit our father had tried in vain to break. One of the only times he’d ever failed.

“Then your share will be divided between the remaining siblings, provided they meet the terms.”

“So there’s a chance one of us could get all 50 million,” I said slowly, and Jennings nodded.

“Minus my fees, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Oh, and there is just one more thing,” Jennings said, and he was really enjoying this. “As I said before, your father wanted to be a part of this, and he is. He’s at the center of the cake.”

“At the center….you don’t mean….” James stuttered, face white.

“Yes, I do mean. The cake was baked with your father’s head in the center.”

Missy screamed, fingers tangled in her hair. James’s mouth was an O of disgusted surprise. Me? It didn’t surprise me. Or at least not much. It was just the kind of nasty, tasteless joke my father had always enjoyed playing on his children.

Fascinated, I went closer, unable to take my eyes off it. Even Missy crept closer, hand pressed to her mouth.

Across the top of the cake, piped in white frosting, was a message: Love, Daddy. I wondered who had dug up the grave and baked this nauseating dessert.

“He can’t do this, can he?” Missy pleaded, tugging on Jennings’ sleeve.

“Madam, he can do whatever the hell he wants.”

“I hope it's chocolate,” I said, feeling a grin playing around my mouth.

“I can’t do this,” Missy whispered desperately, digging at her face with her lacquered fingernails.

I picked up the knife the butler had provided and brought it down right through the center of the cake. The blade made a loud clunk and Missy moaned and swayed.

James looked at me grimly. “Let’s get to it.”

“Righto, brother. One piece of birthday cake coming up.” I sliced him a thick piece and tossed it on one of my mother’s antique china plates. James picked up the plate and stared at it. Chocolate had never been his favorite.

“It’s your mother’s recipe,” Jennings commented, and Missy did faint then, falling to the carpet with a muffled thump. Neither of us looked around.

“I’m going to win,” James told me, eating his piece in two bites. I ate mine in one and dug into the cake with my hands, stuffing my mouth. The cake had a funny taste, but I’d eat anything for fifty million dollars. Hell, I’d lick the plate clean for that kind of money.

“You haven’t the balls,” I said, and he tore off half the cake, exposing part of the head. Rotted skin, now cooked through and through, clung in places to the forehead. The bone shone wetly in the dim light, and I heard James swallow hard.

“What’s the matter? Gonna toss your cookies?”

“Bite me.” My brother grabbed another handful, and this time what was left of our father’s face stared out at us. Yellowing teeth grinned through bits of chocolate, and I laughed.

“Hey, look! Dad’s enjoying the cake, too!”

“You’re disgusting,” James said, nostrils flaring. He kept swallowing, choking down the vomit I knew rose in his throat every time he took a bite.

I have to give my brother credit, though. It wasn’t until a long, grey hair got caught in his teeth that he gave in and puked all over the priceless Persian rug. But I didn’t mind; you can buy a lot of rugs with fifty million dollars.

Now my father’s skull sits in the center of my desk in the library. It is very shiny and very smooth. And when I take it in my hands and lovingly run my tongue over the coolness, it tastes ever so slightly of chocolate.