Chapter Three: The Anniversary Cake
Dallas clocks out and makes his way out of the factory, wiping the sweat and grime off his face. He's tired and hungry; the only thing that's open this late is a diner two blocks from the factory.
Cajun Lonnie's is a new diner that's opened up on the outskirts of town, deep within the black demographic. It didn't bother Dallas one bit; he's not looking for trouble and he knows how to act. He walks in to the diner and takes his seat. He notices how silent the atmosphere is and he looks up.
Just about everyone in there is staring at him, some of them none too friendly.
It is so quiet you can hear a pin drop.
"Are you lost?" A sweet voice cuts through the air. It's a pretty dark skinned girl in a waitress uniform with the nametag that reads Shirley. Her pitch black hair is styled into a fluffy afro that hides her ears and frames her heart-shaped face. Dallas sees her curves, her delicate fingers gripping pen and paper and those shapely legs that give a peek of her upper thigh from the hem and feels stupefied.
"I'm right where I want to be," he answers, his voice unnaturally soft.
"Well, my name is Shirley, and I'll be your server for today. What would you like?"
Dallas looks up at the menu over Shirley's head and sees what he's looking for.
"Collard greens, mac 'n' cheese, fried chicken and hushpuppies with a side of candied yams and fried okra."
"You want some cornbread?"
"Do oranges grow on trees?"
Shirley smirks.
"Drink?"
"Iced tea. You think you got mint leaves back there?"
"No, we don't."
"That's fine.
"For here or to-go?"
"Here."
"You want some dessert?" Her soft brown eyes smile at him.
"New customers get a free dessert the first time they come in," she adds with a wink.
"Yeah." Dallas answers.
"What would you like?"
"Surprise me."
"Alright," she scribbles it down.
"What's your name?"
"Dallas."
"You from Texas?"
"No, New York."
"Okay. Sit tight and your food will be here in a couple of minutes."
"Thank you, Shirley."
"Anytime." She winks at him.
Dallas feels his stomach flutter.
When he was left alone, he pulls out the teddy bear he pocketed from work. It used to be so big when he was young, yet it's so small in his large palm. They don't make the teddies like they used to; it feels too mechanical, too impersonal and unfeeling. He squeezes the teddy bear's stomach and feels nothing.
"I miss you, Mom." He tells the teddy bear whose sad brown eyes stare back at him. He sighs and sets down the bear. He feels his eyes burn but pushes it down. He won't cry, he refuses to cry. He's been strong for this long; no need to go back now.
Harlem, New York, 1955
"Can someone please tell me what the fuck we just saw?"
Marco is pacing back and forth while Delilah is vomiting to the side. Dallas is stuck in place while Ricky is rubbing his eyes, trying to will the image away in his head.
Old Man Cricket is dead. Dead.
He'd been dead for a while; he's been sitting in his own rot for about a few days, the water accelerating his decomposition. To add more to the disgust, the stench has attracted flies and almost everywhere they stepped they were squishing into squirming maggots.
Delilah threw up all of her breakfast.
The four got out of there, screaming and trying to come to terms with what they'd just witnessed. This is the first time Dallas had seen a dead body, especially one this badly decaying. He was green, bloated, and stunk to high heaven; that image will haunt Dallas for as long as he lives.
"What we need to do is call the police. They're the only ones that can do something about it." Dallas reasoned, remembering the phone number his mother always told him in case of emergencies.
"I never thought I'd say this, but the white boy is right. We need to call the cops on this one. Let's get to my house and call." Marco guides them down to the 5th floor.
The cops came within hours. All the kids got was Old Man Cricket being wheeled out through the front door by a white sheet that's drenched in water. When his hand flopped out of the sheet, Delilah fainted on Ricky.
The kids' parents individually talked to them regarding Old Man Cricket's death, scrambling for a decent explanation regarding what they had seen. It didn't do that they all had nightmares that prevented them from getting up in the morning for school.
Dallas had it the worst; he'd have nightmares, panic attacks, and bedwetting incidents. He couldn't eat certain foods for weeks at a time and couldn't go to bed without his mother lying in it with him. It put a strain on the Winston household and Mr. Winston has had enough. Dallas tries to sleep, but can't help but hear his parents fight over him through the thin walls of his apartment.
"We need to do something about our son, Teresa. We are running out of sheets and we can't afford another mattress for him to soil!"
"What do you want me to do, Franz? Our boy has seen a dead body! He's way too young to understand death!"
"Because you keep babying him! We need to toughen him up and prepare him for the real world!"
"Honey, he's seven years old. He's a little boy, not a man. I think I have an idea." Dallas hears his mother's footsteps and feigns sleep. Mrs. Winston looks over at Dallas's silhouette; he could feel her sadness radiate in waves and feels guilt.
"Mommy, why am I spending the night at the Jimenez's?"
"Because Mommy has to work late and Papa needs to clean the linens again. I'll come get you in three days, okay?"
"Okay."
"Got your clothes?"
"Yep."
"Toothbrush?"
"Yep."
"Mr. Teddy?"
"Uh-huh."
"Flashlight for the boogeyman?"
"Uh-huh."
"Mommy's kisses?"
Before Dallas could respond, Mrs. Winston places numerous kisses on her son's face.
"Done and done," she chuckles against his cheek. He laughs heartily and they make it to the front door. After knocking, they're greeted by Delilah and Marco, dressed in their pajamas.
"Dallas," Marco greets. Dallas nods and they make their way in.
Ricky is in the kitchen helping Mrs. Jimenez cook while Mr. Jimenez is straightening out the pillows on his couch. Mrs. Jimenez looks over her shoulder and smiles.
"Hello, Mrs. Winston and hello, hijo!" she hugs them both, unaware that cake batter is smearing onto their faces. Mrs. Winston laughs, wipes the cake batter off her cheek and tasting it.
"Lemon cake?"
"Of course. And in a couple of hours, the carrot cake will be finished for you to take home. Dallas has everything?"
"Yes."
"Alright, I'll let Marco and Ricky get him settled in. I appreciate you letting him come, Mrs. Winston."
"Oh please, call me Teresa and anytime."
"Teresa, I think your son and my son will be the best of friends."
That night, Dallas shares a room with the boys while Delilah got the room closest to the bathroom. It's then Dallas wants to talk to them about last week's events.
"Did you guys ever think about Old Man Cricket?" Marco begins.
"Yeah, man. That was real foul, seeing him like that. I can't eat rice for a week because of him!" Ricky makes a face.
"I'm used to seeing them, you know. Dead bodies. Dad used to take me to his job where I'd see lots of 'em. He'd cut them open and stuff 'em, make 'em look real pretty, you know? But I've never seen one like that, though. Makes me wish that smell of formaldehyde was there to mask the smell."
"What's formaldehyde?" Dallas asks.
"This liquid that keeps people from rotting. It stinks really bad and makes people look waxy."
"Oh." Dallas hugs his pillow.
"It's your first time seeing one, is it?" Marco looks over at him.
"I know it's gross and even scary, but trust me, they won't do you no harm. It's just a body; the spirit is long gone and up to Heaven or down to Hell. Death is normal, it's a part of life."
"I don't want to die," Dallas mumbles into his pillow.
"We're all gonna die, Dal. Dad says dying is gonna happen to everyone. If everyone lived forever, the world would be overcrowded. Do you want to be 800 years old, where you're literally bones and skin?"
"Yuck!"
"Exactly!" Marco snaps his fingers. "So don't be afraid of death, Dallas. It's a part of life. I'm going to be dealing with death more than you; Dad says when I turn 17, I'm working with him in the funeral home. When I'm 25, I own the business."
"You have your whole life set up, Marco?" Ricky asks.
"Yeah. He wants me to carry on the family name. So I'm following into his footsteps and making him proud."
"That's cool," Dallas mumbles. He still feels scared about seeing Old Man Cricket in his dreams.
"Hey, man." Marco claps his hand on his shoulder.
"We need to lean on each other and stop letting what we saw scare us. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Now let's get some sleep. Mom's making some of her famous breakfast treats and whoever wakes up last has to clear the table."
"Aw, man!" Ricky groans, before flopping on the bottom bunk bed and Marco on the top. Dallas sleeps on the bed adjacent from his friends, trying to sleep, but finds himself unable to. To calm his nerves, he pulls out Mr. Teddy and feels a little bit calmer.
It's 5 in the morning when Dallas wakes up with a scream. He had a nightmare that Old Man Cricket grabbed Dallas and tried to drown him in the bathtub.
Marco and Ricky swing into action, flipping on the light and gripping baseball bats. Seeing a nonexistent threat, they look to Dallas.
"Boy, you out your cotton pickin' mind? What the hell are you shouting about?" Ricky hisses.
"I had a dream Old Man Cricket tried to drown me in the tub again!"
The boys sigh and put down the weapons.
"White boy...you working my last nerve." Ricky plops down on Dallas's bed. Marco sits on the other side.
"I really don't want to clear the table in the morning all because you have nightmares."
"It's not my fault! I can't help it!"
Marco and Ricky sigh.
"We know." They say in unison.
Dallas feels ashamed; he never asked to be such a burden on his new friends' backs.
"I'm sorry, guys."
"No need to be sorry. Ricky, go back to sleep. Dallas, follow me in the kitchen."
Wiping the leftover sleep from his eyes, Dallas follows Marco down the dark hallway for the kitchen. He flicks on the light and rummages through his refrigerator and pulls out what he's looking for. It's a murky, green fluid sloshing around in a jar, bubbles popping at the surface.
"What is that?" Dallas makes a face.
"Dreamcatcher Juice. It worked on Delilah and it'll work on you."
"What about Ricky?"
"Ricky's a big kid; he'd seen enough death to last him a lifetime. Now drink up." He pours a quarter glass full in a cup and hands it to Dallas. Dallas gives it a whiff and blanches.
"Yuck!"
"Hold your nose and drink it, dummy."
"Don't call me that."
"Just drink it."
Taking note of Marco's advice, Dallas pinches his nose and knocks it back. His body lurches forward from the awful taste, goosebumps riddling his skin and a fiery roaring in his gut took root. He coughs and jerks, pushing down the bile coming up.
"Chase it with water."
Don't need to tell Dallas twice.
As Dallas chugs glass after glass of water down his throat, he notices Marco looking at him, his expression unreadable.
"You're going to be up for a minute." Marco warned, "that's one of the side effects from the Dreamcatcher Juice."
"That's the worst thing I've ever tasted."
"Everyone says that. You'll be thanking me in the morning. Wanna talk?"
"Aren't we talking right now?"
"Smartass. I mean let's have a conversation. I sort of want to know why Ricky would invite you to play with us. No offense, but you're a white boy."
"What's me being white have to do with anything?"
"Whites and Coloreds don't have the best of relationships. The white kids used to call us names and give us shit because we look different than them."
"I've been made fun of too; they would call me names and try to steal my lunch. They'd call me Lederhosen and mock my Dad's accent."
"It's different. They make fun of you for the money in your pocket or the clothes on your back. They make fun of us for the color of our skin and the things we can't control." Marco looks away into the darkness.
"We made a promise to not even talk to the white kids, and here you are. White as a sheet with blond hair and blue eyes, like a true blue-eyed devil." He snorts, "funny how things turn out."
"Hey, what you two doing in the kitchen? This coffee hour or something?" Ricky comes into view, flashlight in hand. Delilah follows after, wrapped up in her blanket.
"I can't sleep." She pouts.
"I want to know why on Earth would you be friends with this gringo? He's clearly not like us." Marco points at him. Dallas snarls.
"Because I'm my own person. I'm not like anyone," he responds.
"That's your answer right there. He ain't like them rich boys. He's a gutter kid, just like us. He's tough. You see how he handled himself when he saw Old Man Cricket? He was cool, man. Cool as a cucumber and hard as ice. He's ice cold. Ice." Ricky beams at Dallas.
"Yeah, he did keep a cool head, especially after seeing his first body. You're pretty tough, white boy." Delilah pats his shoulder.
"Hmm…you got a point. He was pretty smart when we were all bugging over Old Man Cricket. If you earned their props, you've earned mine." Marco digs into the refrigerator for four Bubble Ups. When he pops off all four, he holds them up in the rising sun.
"To the new addition to our crew, Ice."
"Ice!" the cousins salute.
Dallas grins.
They clink glasses.
Here you go,"
Dallas's plate is placed on his table. It looks so appetizing; Dallas can't wait to eat.
"Got napkins, forks and spoons, and here's your iced tea."
"Thanks," Dallas replies, taking the utensils and sipping the tea. It's sweet with a hint of lemon. It doesn't compare to Ricky's mom's tea but it comes close.
"No problem. Let me know when you're ready to pay and I'll get you the check."
He nods at her. When Shirley leaves, he tears into his meal. It reminded him of Delilah's cooking, of cool September nights where Delilah invites him over for dinner to eat. If he closes his eyes he can almost feel them there. He closes his eyes and it's like he's back at his old home, on his 12th birthday, the first few years after his mother's death, celebrating his birthday and having fun with his friends. Delilah smearing cake frosting on his chin, Marco singing an off key tune, Ricky wearing a cheap tux and singing along with Marco. Every bite, every sip and slurp of the food brings him back to a better time, a happier time. When he finishes the last bite, the memories fade. His reality is staring back at him in the face. He's not twelve and in Harlem; he's seventeen and in Tulsa. His mother is dead and gone and his father is forever haunted by her memory.
There, as the nail in the coffin, is the lemon cake placed on his table. His mother's favorite and Mrs. Jimenez's specialty. He feels his throat catch and no matter he tries to fight it, it's fruitless; the tears fall and they won't stop. He's crying over his losses, the fact that he'd lost contact with his friends in three years. He cries until he feels better, until his demons are at bay and he can harden himself again.
"Sir?"
Dallas looks up.
Shirley is leaning over him, her big brown eyes filled with worry.
"Are you alright?"
"Yeah," Dallas hastily wipes at his tears, "I just remembered something."