Chapter Four: A Trap is Discovered

The cake turned out to be quite pretty, with chocolate ganache frosting dripping down a soft, moist vanilla base. Thin swirls of homemade raspberry jelly whipped around the interior, over and under the layer of dark chocolate that was nestled inside. Three plump raspberries were an added garnish, decorated fittingly with a chocolate shaving.

As soon as Arthur looked at it, he groaned. "Dad, no one is going to want to eat this."

"Why not?" David asked, alarmed.

His son's face twisted as he fought for the right words. Although D.W. was unabashedly straightforward when it came to her father's cuisine, Arthur tried to have more discretion. "It's too… nice-looking."

David grinned. "You know, I'll take that as a compliment." He gently set the cake in a custom round carrier before handing it to his son. "Remember, if it sits out too long, the ganache will soak into the cake and it'll get soggy."

"I know, Dad." Arthur offered him a quick hug before heading out.

He smiled and looked out the window as his son waved Buster over, carrying his own dessert, and they turned the corner. Arthur's hug was still on him, albeit the hug of an adolescent boy fast outgrowing displays of affection. He wondered mildly, in a surreal pastry metaphor: If the effort behind the cake were divided into three slices, how large of a piece would belong to Arthur? or David? or Mr. Ratburn?

"That really was a nice-looking cake," his wife said behind him.

He turned around to face her. Her face was unreadable. "Thanks."

A pause.

She nodded and started to head back to the living room. Her name caught in his throat and he spent the rest of the morning making dour deliveries.

The family sedan rolled into the pick-up area of Elwood Elementary. David shifted into park, then waited quietly for Arthur to walk outside. He lazily looked around, recognizing a few familiar faces as his son's friends and unsure of whether to wave to them or not. It was a protocol with which he was hopelessly unfamiliar.

Until one person waved to him first.

And started walking over to his car.

shitshitshitshit-

"I don't normally do this, but I had to stop by. The cake was delicious," the man said with a broad smile. "Honestly, I'm honored that you had time to fit this into your schedule."

David's mind spun with interpretations. What did "this" refer to? Picking up his son? Making a cake for non-monetary reasons? Or something else?

"It was nothing, really. I'm glad it turned out." David began craning his neck looking for his son. "Arthur… was in class today, right?"

Mr. Ratburn laughed. "Yes, he was. But I already saw him get into Buster's mother's car."

David groaned and slumped in his seat. He'd already been driving all day and the mile or so home seemed both incredibly distant and far too close. "That kid… I must have taught him how to communicate."

"Don't sell yourself short. You're here, aren't you?" Mr. Ratburn glanced at the brown leather watch around his wrist, then looked at David's face, strained muscles under tiny wrinkles and dark eyes. He hesitated.

David was reminded of the parent-teacher conference where he had done this before saying something off-the-cuff. "Want to grab a drink?"

The answer was almost immediate. "Yes."

They sat across from each other fifteen minutes later. David tried not to think about how their positions paralleled the parent-teacher conference-staring over a wooden table at his son's teacher. They didn't say much until their drinks were brought. David ordered a dark beer, his guest asked for a glass of red wine.

The first sip was heaven. David exhaled and relaxed a little.

"So," Mr. Ratburn said, absently running the stem of his glass between his first two fingers, "I take it you weren't in a hurry to get home."

David shook his head slowly.

"Do you think your wife might worry?"

Another shake. "Jane and I don't talk a lot anymore. Look, Mr. Ratburn-"

"Call me Nigel. The surname isn't necessary."

"Okay… Nigel. I appreciate you having a drink with me. I know that it was impromptu. It's been a long week."

Nigel gripped the bowl of his wineglass and brought it to his lips. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. …yes." He paused. "Do you ever feel old?"

"I teach ten year olds how to read chapter books and write cursive. Of course I feel old," Nigel laughed. "Or do you mean when the children are gone?"

"Something like that, yeah."

In the same quiet voice that rebuked and comforted at the conference, Nigel said: "Every day. I used to think that my kids were getting more energetic, harder to keep in line. I'd had a few conversations with the principal about it, mostly talk about disciplinary methods that dissolved into a tangent about 'kids these days.' But I finally realized, I had changed. It's a tough pill to swallow because it doesn't happen all at once." He swirled his glass a little. "It's funny, you know. Teaching children who always seem to be the same age, it tricks me into thinking that I'm not aging either."

"Have you always taught third graders?"

"I had a few internships in college, one with kindergarteners, another with high school students."

"What made you end up in the elementary school?"

Nigel was silent for a moment. "The children at that age are so cognitive. They're dependent in the sense that they rely heavily on their parents and guardians for most things, including schedule and structure. But they have a certain sense of freedom in that security. Their minds are still developing. They need guidance without being smothered. That's the best way I can teach them."

David finished his beer and ordered another. Nigel followed suit. An hour later, they were laughing.

"-so Arthur walks in right as I'm mid-pour, nails falling out of the box, and his mouth becomes this big O! Meanwhile, I'm looking at the weirdest bowl of cereal I've ever seen, look back at him, and he just bolts! Bolts out of the room!"

Between peals of laughter, Nigel managed to gasp, "Did he tell you why he did it?"

"This is the best part-he says it's his teacher's breakfast."

Both broke into fresh laughter as David's phone lit up. He looked at the screen: where r u?

The laughter died in his throat. Nigel composed himself. "Your wife?"

David nodded and began to text back. saw an old friend, am having drinks. He thought a little more. don't know when i'll be home. His fingers felt too fat for the keypad.

He became more aware that he was beyond tipsy and was in no condition to drive. It was certainly a ticklish development and it dawned on both of them at the same time. Their eyes met and a silent decision was made, though neither of them may have been fully aware of it at the time.

"My house is a few blocks away from here," Nigel began, in a voice that held no slur. The bill for the drinks was in front of him-how long had it been there? when did it come? "Why don't we sober up there before you head home?"

David stood, a little shaky. His head felt heavy, but his body was light. A warm wave of grateful affection rushed over him and he turned to look at Nigel, who was now tucking his wallet into his rear pants pocket. Lucky pocket.

"I'm sorry?" Nigel asked, bemused.

Did I say that out loud? "Lead the way," David gestured.