Smith Island Cake Comes From Smith Island

"What if it's just about cake?"

Antonia stared at her brother. He shrugged, standing by his assertion with all the conviction of a kitten in a dog park. "Well it is!"

"On a surface level? Yes," Antonia hissed. "But step with me into Girl World for a second. You've picked out the thick, creamy paper. You're using a fresh-nibbed fountain pen. You take the time to draw little hearts and birds and flowers around a dictionary's worth of five-syllable words. Seal it up with, according to the acronym, a loving kiss. Just to dissect a recipe?"

Her brother picked at his fingernails. "Maybe. I don't know what the kids were into back before TV. A quality recipe could've been a good way to make conversation."

"Not forty envelopes good, Patrick! Not back when women were donating nylons and growing their own spaghetti sauce!"

The shoebox had been stuffed full of letters, some now strewn in a rough semi-circle on the dusty attic floor. The yellowed envelopes were thickened with small pictures, newspaper clippings, or pressed flowers brittle enough to dissolve in direct sunlight. Rooting through old journals and files, Antonia and Patrick had plenty of practice identifying their mother's handwriting, even the girlish loops that would over time flatten and slant into an austere calligraphy. The letters in the box were all written by a halting hand, angular and spidery in distinct contrast to the familiar script.

"That's a point, too," Patrick muttered over a bit lip. "Depending on the year, this might have been a time when sugar was pretty hard to come by."

"And eggs and milk and whatever else." Antonia picked up another envelope at random, eyes scanning the fervent words. "I actually have no idea what goes into a Smith Island Cake."

"Keep reading, I guess."

"This is not a recipe!"

The name on the envelopes was a Miss Cate Cooper. She couldn't be a relative, didn't seem to be a school mate, and hadn't offered condolences when her pen pal passed away. Antonia traced an illustrated wild rose with a gritty finger. "We only have one half of the conversation. I can't even imagine what Mom had to say. Dad was never exactly a poet, was he?"

"I don't think so. I don't remember." Patrick sniffed, and sneezed in the dusty loft. "He was there, though."

"Briefly." Antonia waved a hand over the box. "We have no idea how these two met or what separated them. Listen to this:

I entrust you, my most decadent friend, with this secret. Smith Island Cake is made for survival. It is not a delicate thing, all frothy meringue and colorless sponge, not a bird's nest of spun floss, all air and nectar. Smith Island Cake is a fortress of nourishment, built brick by layered brick, mortared with dark chocolate cement and plastered with liquid gold butter. It is meant to be carried, to be knocked around, deformed with heat and time, and yet preserving that nostalgic sweetness. It is supposed to be hurled through a maelstrom, and yet endure.

So I trust, my sweetest friend, that our long separation will not erode my appetite. Your sustenance is undiminished by the battery of a treacherous sea. Far from home, you will always be rich, fragrant, velvety and succulent, firm until the moment you were made to melt away. In that moment, my indulgent friend, I will savor your warm weight in my reverent hands. Until then, nothing else will satisfy."

Patrick coughed. "Well, everything sounds sensual in an NPR voice."

"Except NPR."

"Speak for yourself."

Patrick winced as Antonia pulled another letter from its envelope. Unfolding the thick paper, she released a thin white ribbon tied around a curling lock of human hair. Eyes scanning the page, Antonia read, "I adore your greed. When I send you a cake, it is not merely the taste of home, but the anchor of my affection. It is not meant to be rationed in temperance; I wish for you to feast. I hope you licked your fingers clean."

Fixing his wince to the shadowy corner of the sharp A-frame, Patrick mumbled, "This is kind of personal. I don't think we should read any more."

Antonia lifted the brittle bundle of hair, dusty light from the bare bulb unable to lend it any luster. "She could be dead, too, you know. Maybe that's why they stopped writing? Mom never, ever mentioned her, so something must have happened. You're not even curious?"

Picking at his raw-ripped fingertips, Patrick shook his head. "Look, Toni...I get it. Mom left behind a lot of unresolved issues. But something my divorce taught me is that just because someone doesn't have enough love for you does not mean they're spending it on somebody else. This lady won't be the secret, magical reason why Mom never had time for us."

"If you're gonna quote your shrink to me, you better steal his prescription pad." Antonia's fingers flicked toward the very back of the box. "I want to see."

The very last letter was scarred by a threadbare crease, the paper folded and unfolded many times with excessive reading. There were crinkled pockmarks on the lower half. Water damage. The signature was smudged with an oily film, about the width of a pair of lips.

"Dear future Mrs,

It is with regret that I must decline your invitation. I will have a more pressing engagement on the day in question. And when I know what that engagement is, it will be none of your business.

Perhaps you assumed I would find levity in your choice of wedding cake. I do not. It is a misappropriation of a proud culture, and a perversion of the English language to call that Delaware tart a Smith Island Cake. No matter how many layers crumble in your shallow pans, no matter what tacky adhesive you shove between them, Smith Island Cake comes from Smith Island. You may please your other guests with a cavity-carving facsimile, but I crave, no, demand authenticity. I am lethally allergic to anything less.

Good luck on your upcoming nuptials. I hope the resulting marriage is nothing you expect and everything you deserve. And I hope that mannequin's dress is perfectly lovely on the woman who gave up flavor to fit into it."

There was no closing salutation, only a dash blotted with emphatically slashed ink. Antonia carefully folded the fraying page, and tucked it back into the well-worn envelope. Patrick whistled. "Bitch."

"Sometimes 'bitch' is the polite response." Antonia slipped the last letter back into the box. "We know Mom was already pregnant when she got married. Maybe if she wasn't, she would have made a different choice."

"We know she was pregnant because she couldn't wait to be with Dad," Patrick pointed out. "She was devastated when he passed. And she didn't go back to the island after that. Maybe it was a fling, maybe a mistake, maybe it's really just about cake. We have no idea what's in Cate Cooper's shoebox."

“People can love more than one thing at a time,” Antonia said. “Choosing one and losing both would make anybody bitter. Maybe she couldn’t go back. Maybe it wouldn’t’ve been the same.”

"Couldn't've meant that much, then."

"Oh, Jesus Christ, Patrick!" Pulling letter after letter out of the box, Antonia dealt them in front of her brother like high-stakes cards. "She kept them! For decades, she kept them! The same woman who could never remember where her passport was kept these! In order! And cried on the paper when there was no one else around! The same woman who never glanced at our report cards and never put one finger painting on the fridge still has the twine from a forty-year-old cake box! Of course it meant something! I bet you everything you own that some fucking days, nothing in her flavorless world meant more!"

"We're not living in a Bronte novel, Toni!" Patrick lashed back. "This is Mom we're talking about! Who spent forty years starched into the same straight jacket! Who didn’t fart because it was against the rules! How does anybody know what really mattered to her?"

"Because I know letters like this!" Antonia insisted. "I've sent some!"

The stale air was close in the quiet attic, thick with dead flies and fiberglass insulation. Neatly avoiding eye contact, Antonia slotted each envelope back into the box. Patrick tore one of his fingernails down to the quick, and sucked at the single bead of blood that welled up stinging. He cleared his throat. "So. Any answers?"

"None of your business."

"Okay."

Antonia pressed the crumbling cardboard lid back onto the overstuffed treasure chest. "Long time ago. Guess it doesn't matter."

Sliding the box across the floor, Patrick ran his stinging finger over the age-softened edges. "Well, if...if you thought there might be a box like this...for you...would you want it? Even if it was too late?"

Twisting a lock of hair between her fingers, Antonia said, "You know, I really would."

Patrick stood up. He immediately bumped his head on a rafter, but he swallowed the reactionary curse and kept a firm grip on the fragile box sheltered under his arm. He held a hand out to his sister. "We better get going then."

"Going where?"

"The only place we can go for Smith Island Cake."

There were more boxes to go through, more attic to explore, more artifacts to rewrap or throw away. But the ferry wouldn't wait. And nothing else would satisfy.