Sour Candy

Two cups of all-purpose flour. Another two cups of granulated sugar, three-quarters of a cup of cocoa powder, and two eggs, at room temperature. Two teaspoons of baking soda, one teaspoon of baking powder, vanilla, milk, and a pinch of salt. Candy Deacon made her daughter’s birthday cake from scratch every year, just as her mom did for her, and her grandmother did for her mother before that. It was a family recipe, a jealously guarded secret, the perfect chocolate cake. It was moist and fluffy and not too sweet, and Luanne asked for it specifically. This year was extra special, her daughter’s sweet sixteen, so Candy planned on giving Luanne everything she wanted.

She plucked the cake tins from the cupboard, shone them up with grease. Hank was quiet today, which was a nice change of pace. Normally by this time, he’d be three beers in and mean, but today he seemed content to leave Candy alone, letting her enjoy her kitchen time in peace. She reviewed her plans for the day in her mind. She’d already readied Luanne’s present and made the batter. All that was left was to tidy up the place a little bit while it was in the oven and set up the decorations.

She poured the batter into the tins, humming to herself as she worked. This was her favorite part, the cascade of smooth brown batter spreading out evenly to fill the tins. Something about it felt so satisfying to her. She just couldn’t get enough of it. Most of her days were spent doting on Luanne, cleaning up the house, and avoiding Hank. She’d learned about sixteen years ago to take her little joys where she could. Her hands were a total mess, sticky and splattered with stains. Making a cake was hard work, after all, and this one was made with extra love. She popped the tins into the oven, swiped her hands on her apron, and wandered into the living room.

“Hi, honey!” Candy smiled at Hank as she glided past him, picking crumpled cans up off the floor. He didn’t lift a finger to help, as usual, his gaze fixed on the TV. I Love Lucy was playing, one of Candy’s favorites. Her eyes kept straying towards the screen as she tossed the cans into the garbage bin. That Lucille Ball sure was a hoot. She reminded Candy of Luanne, with her wide eyes, infectious smile, and bubbling humor. She wondered if Lucille Ball ever had to pick beer cans up off the ground for her husband. Maybe that was something they would have in common. She liked to think they’d have things in common.

“I know you’re enjoying your TV time, but Lou’s going to be home at 4:00,” she said. Hank clearly didn’t care enough to respond, but Candy felt compelled to at least warn him. He hated surprises, after all. She ventured back into the kitchen and fished the bleach out from under the sink. Her gloves came next, the heavy-duty rubber kind, obnoxiously yellow and just right for the tough jobs. She may have cleaned up the worst of the cans, but she still had to deal with the stains.

Candy rolled up her sleeves and got to work. The splotches across the carpet were a nightmare to clean up, the kind she had to work at until her wrists hurt. Canned laughter bubbled up from the TV as Lucy struggled to keep up with a tap-dancing routine. She looked like she was having fun. Candy used to tap dance. She’d been pretty good at it, too. She’d done it once in a beauty pageant about a decade ago. But then she’d met Hank, and then Luanne came along, and before she knew it, Candy’s dancing days were long behind her.

“You know, I’d appreciate it if you’d help once in a while,” she said. The words slipped out before she could stop them, a rare flash of irritation welling up in her. It was completely unlike her, really. Normally she hated making a fuss. She still received no response. She rolled her eyes.

“I know, I know, this mess is all my fault anyway,” she sighed. That’s what Hank always said, at least, whether it was him spilling his beer or tossing her around. If Candy was nicer, he wouldn’t have to be so mean. If she kept the house clean, he wouldn’t have to make such a mess. If Candy just stayed quiet, he wouldn’t have to yell to shut her up. It all made perfect sense to Hank. She clenched her jaw and scrubbed at the ground, holding her rag with white knuckles. The fumes from the bleach were making her a little dizzy, but she was in a hurry. Hank always just sat there and watched her clean, his eyes following her across the room, lingering on her like a stain. These kind of days were the worst, the ones where he’d work up his appetite and demand a “taste of his little candy”. Over the years, all the cleaning products she used had burned the prints clean off her fingers, but of course Hank had never lifted a finger to help. Instead, Candy just started wearing gloves.

It took a bit of elbow grease, but the stain eventually lifted, leaving a suspicious patch on the carpet that was cleaner than the rest of it. Candy bit her lip. Sure, it was clean, but it stuck out like a sore thumb. In one brief moment of insanity, she wondered if it would be better to just deep clean the entire carpet, but she dismissed the notion. The cake would be done baking any minute, and she still had to take care of the decorations. After thinking on it, she grabbed the couch and pulled it a few feet forward, enough to cover up the spot. It was a little crooked, not her best work, but it got the job done. Hank made no comment from his spot on the recliner. He was pretty engrossed in the TV. Candy couldn’t really blame him—it was a pretty good episode.

Finished with her cleaning, Candy took a moment to admire her handiwork. The floor looked much better in her eyes, like nothing had ever happened in the first place. It was amazing what a little effort and patience could do. But cleaning was only half of the battle. She still had to put up the decorations, and Luanne wouldn’t be at school forever.

She made her way to the back hallway and flung open the storage closet, digging around in its depths for the good tablecloth. All the hard work meant that sweat was starting to frizz up her do. She’d spent ages taking her curlers out in the morning, and it was already going to waste. She fought the urge to run a hand through her hair to try to salvage it. As she stood up on her tiptoes to pull the tablecloth down from the top shelf, an old box tumbled down with a terrible clatter. Candy froze. If anything interrupted Hank’s TV watching, he’d start throwing things again and ruin all of her hard work. Today was a perfect day. It had to go perfectly. She bent over to pick it up when she heard a riiip. Her skirt suddenly felt a little looser around the waist.

“Rats!” First her hair, and now her skirt, too. Candy cast a dirty look at the offending box, wondering if what was inside would survive being stepped on a few times. Instead of punishing it for ruining her skirt, she cooled off, and snatched the box up off the ground. She was about to shove it back into the depths of the closet when she hesitated. After looking around to see if anyone was watching, she blew the dust off the lid and popped the box open. Her tap shoes rested inside, somber black and stark white patent leather, with scuffed metal plates nailed to the bottom. She hadn’t worn them in years. They’d been sent for an early retirement after her wedding. Tucked in between them was a royal blue ribbon, bent and crinkled and limp.

In another life, Candy would’ve told Hank to kick rocks and stayed with her mother until she’d found the right man. Maybe she would’ve tried out for the Rockettes. Maybe she would’ve been dancing on the screen with Lucille Ball. She’d have as much fun as she wanted, and when she’d finally had her fill, then maybe she’d settle down. In another life, maybe she would’ve given Luanne a better father. In this life, however, Candy would have to settle for giving her the perfect party.

She retrieved the tablecloth from the closet and set out the decorations. All of them were pink, Luanne’s favorite color. Candy twisted up the streamers, hung them from the ceiling with snipped-short swatches of scotch tape. She smoothed her grandmother’s tablecloth across the table until it lay without a single wrinkle. She was a little scared to let Luanne and her friends use the good china, but they so rarely ever had a reason for a proper celebration. Luanne was turning into a real young lady—Candy wanted to do things right. The timer on the oven dinged just as Candy was setting out the last of the dishes. She couldn’t contain her squeal of excitement, Hank be damned.

“It’s ready!” she sang. She sailed over to the oven and gently lifted the cake off the rack. She had a bowl of her special whipped buttercream icing at the ready, the perfect shade of pastel pink. Piping the frosting was messy work, but Candy was methodical and patient. Her hands were completely steady as she added pink florets across the base. Unflinching, unerring, perfect, perfect, perfect, even after everything. A small smile fought its way onto her face. Her daughter was going to have the best sweet-sixteen ever. Candy had even picked out the perfect present. She could picture the look on Luanne’s face when she saw it now. Oh, she’d be shocked at first, for sure, but then the joy, the relief—it made Candy excited just to think about it.

The clock struck on the hour. Luanne would be home any minute. Candy was a flurry of movement, plating the cake, blowing up balloons, and finally, planting sixteen candles onto the perfect pink cake. It looked like a scene out of Home and Gardens magazine. Candy couldn’t be prouder. But the most important part was the gift. She’d made it special, the way only a mother could. She dusted off her hands and wandered back into the living room.

“Honey,” she cooed, “Luanne’s almost home.” Hank didn’t move from his recliner. Candy bent over to look him in the eye. Greasy rust-colored combover. Heavy brow, Mouth hanging open, slack and stupid. At their wedding, he’d drunk himself into a stupor and slouched over in the back. He looked the same then as he did now. She patted his cheek twice, maybe a little harder than she should’ve.

“Get off your ass, Hank!” she said. “It’s time to look presentable for our lovely daughter.” She hooked her arms underneath his pits and lifted, hauling him out of the chair and dragging him across the floor. Hank’s foot caught on the edge of the couch. The laugh track roared. Candy yanked his foot free and dragged him further. It was hard work. The man was heavy and bloated, and the years of drinking hadn’t helped him shave off any weight. But she only had a few minutes left, and she wasn’t willing to let anything go wrong now. Finally, Candy sat him upright in the dining room, planted her hands on her hips, and took it all in.

She’d cleaned up nicely—she’d honestly thought the stains would be harder to get out. The hole in Hank’s forehead wasn’t oozing blood anymore, which was a relief. Now it was just a little red circle, completely crusted over. He looked like he did every other day, seated at the head of the table, a blank look in his eyes. Honestly, Candy had done them all a favor. Luanne was gonna love it. Something was a little off, though. Candy examined the scene for a moment, then fished an empty beer can out of the trash. She curled his fist around it, fighting against his stiff fingers. Now he looked like he should. She figured he deserved one last beer for the road.

Every couple went through their rough spots, or at least that’s the advice Candy’s mother always gave her. If Candy wanted to give Luanne any advice, it’d be not to get married at all. The fights were long and exhausting, and bullets were expensive these days. Cleaning up all the mess took forever. No, really, it was better for her to avoid the trap entirely, and Candy was ready to lead by example. After Hank had thrown the bottle at Luanne’s head last night, Candy knew that this problem was one she should’ve solved a long time ago.

The door swung open, with a clatter, signaling Luanne's arrival. Candy startled and took one last frantic look around to make sure everything was just right. She caught a brief glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her curls were a frizzy mess, her smile stiff and a little manic. The back of her skirt hung awkwardly on her hips, and there was still a little bit of blood in her hair. All in all, she thought she’d put things together quite well. She puffed out her chest and went to greet her daughter.

“Hey, honey! Happy birthday!” she put on her biggest smile, the kind that stung her cheeks. She was half in a daze, all aflush with excitement and relief.

“Hi mom!” Luanne dropped her backpack next to the door and gave her a hug. “Thank you.” The hug was sweet and warm, a fresh-baked cake, a bowl of batter perfectly poured into a tin, a sweet treat that Candy treasured every time. One of life’s little joys.

“Welcome back, sweetie! Follow me, I’ve got something for you!” She put a hand on Luanne's back and steered her into the dining room.

There it was, her magnum opus. A table straight out of a Rockwell painting, piled high with dinner rolls and Luanne’s favorite pot roast, set with a pristine white tablecloth and delicate porcelain dishes. The food still had steam rising from it. The tablecloth didn’t have a single stain. The dishes were polished to a shine. A towering pink birthday cake rested at the center, with sixteen pink candles arranged in a perfect circle. And there, at the head of the table, sat Hank. Her husband, dressed in a suit and tie, his eyes gazing into nothing, beer can still in hand, no breath in his lungs, and no light in his eyes. Luanne let out a gasp, and Candy knew she’d nailed it. She placed her hand on Luanne’s shoulders, squeezed them hard.

“Surprise!”