A Just Dessert

Nineteen Thirty-three, the height of the depression. Hitler had taken power in Germany, U.S. unemployment was at its peak, and Darla was married to Bruce. The Twenties’ had been the pinnacle of Darla’s youth. While the lounge-lizards and dames were drunk in the speakeasies, and gangsters played with the police, Bruce was busy chasing Darla. In those days, Bruce spoke words of love and desire, he would touch her gently, and he was sober. But, those days were gone. Bruce picked up the bottle the day prohibition ended, and was an abusive ogre there after.

Darla’s bruised reflection looked back at her from the vanity. The swelling was gone, but a black ring still encased her eye. “He’ll never change,” she thought, “Not after this, not ever.” She ran out of make-up the last time he hit her, and there was no money to buy more, at least none that she was willing to spare. It had been six months since Bruce started his habit, two months since her first black-eye, and a month since she began hiding change for a train ticket. After each visit to the grocer, Darla hid the remainder in a ceramic rooster in the kitchen. Bruce never cooked or cleaned, he left the chores to her. The kitchen was her place of solitude, and the living-room was his. “He’ll never know,” she thought, “not until I’m long gone.”

Bruce’s voice boomed through the locked bedroom door; the doorknob jiggled furiously. “Darla! Damnit woman, why ain’t supper on the table?”

“It’s in the oven, I just put it in, you’ll have to wait!”

The banging stopped. Bruce walked down the stairs and began sifting through empty bottles to find a drop of hooch.

“Just a few more dollars and I’m outta here,” she thought.

She heard the front door slam. The downstairs had become silent.

Darla served Bruce meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and greens. A newspaper and a bottle of scotch sat next to him.

“Meatloaf again? Can’t you cook anything else?”

“It’s all we can afford.”

“What I would give for a nice porterhouse, but I suppose your slop will have to do.”

Bruce shoveled the meal into his mouth.

“We’d eat better if you didn’t drink all the money,”she whispered.

Bruce paused, opened the bottle of scotch, and took a swig.

“It wasn’t my money that bought this. You think I didn’t know about your rooster?”

Darla’s blood went cold. She felt a pit open at the center of her stomach.

“What?” She stammered.

Darla walked to the counter and peered inside of the rooster.

“I took what I needed. What would you use it for anyways?” Bruce takes another swig. Darla’s lip quivered. A tear ran down her cheek; she sniffled and wiped her eyes.

“It was for you. . . Your birthday is coming up, and I thought of making you a cake. A grand chocolate cake that you could eat for days. . .”

“That sounds heavenly,” Bruce slurred, “I’d rather have it sooner rather than later.”

“As you wish,” Darla said coldly.

Bruce removed the change from his pocket and placed it on the table.

“Here’s what’s left.”

Bruce walked into the living room, sat, and turned on the radio. Roosevelt’s Fireside Chat echoed into the kitchen. Darla sat and stared blankly at the table.

“Mother was right, Bruce is just a wolf in disguise. He lured me in like honey, now I’m just a fly caught in it. . . I can’t live like this anymore, I’d rather die. But, I don’t want to die, I just want him to. . . Die?,”she thought as she picked up the newspaper. The headline on the paper read – California Family Dies from Apricots. Her heart pounded as her mind began to race. “No,” she thought, “I couldn’t do that. . . prison would be worse than this place. . . But, I’m already in prison aren’t I? Is this how I escape? Is this what I have to do?”

Darla stood and walked into the living room. She loomed over Bruce as he snored in his chair. Roosevelt’s voice played over the radio, “My citizens, you must have the strength to do what is necessary.”

The kitchen filled with the aroma of warm cake, as Darla pulled it from the oven. It was her mother’s recipe, one that she loved as a child —chocolate with apricot filling and walnuts. She followed the recipe to the letter, except for one thing – instead of walnuts, apricot seeds. The article she found said the family had died from cyanide, and that apricot seeds were the cause, but it did not say how many seeds could kill a man. “If I could just make him sick, I could do the rest myself,” she thought. She hoped it would not come to that, as she was squeamish when it came to blood.

She placed the cake on the counter and frosted the top. She sprinkled on more crushed apricots seeds for good measure. She covered the cake with a glass dome and waited for Bruce to return home. “This is it. . . The beginning of the end,” she thought.

Bruce staggered through the front door, dropped his hat and coat on the floor, and stumbled into the kitchen. Darla stood to greet him, “Welcome home, hun! I have a surprise for you!” She stepped aside to reveal a steak dinner, “Just for you my dear.”

“I’ll be damned, Darla. You actually listened for once.” Bruce sat and ate. Darla took his plate, and laid a piece of chocolate cake in front of him. “I could get use to this kinda treatment, what’s the occasion?”

“After our talk, I realized you could use some pampering, and I need to carry my weight around here.”

“About time you took up some responsibility,” Bruce dipped his fork into the cake and took a bite. “By God Darla, you made this?”

“All for you, hun. There’s plenty more.”

Each day, Bruce brought a piece of cake to work and gloated to his co-workers. “I tell you what, she sure did surprise me with this, I just can’t get enough. She ain’t as useless as I thought she was.” As the week waned, his co-workers saw Bruce’s productivity slow. His breathing became heavy, and he complained of terrible headaches. On Thursday, he was sent home to rest.

Bruce sat in his chair, Darla sat across from him. His skin was mottled, his breaths were shallow, and his lips were blue. He weakly lifted a glass of scotch to his lips; Darla reached forward and lowered it before he could take a sip.

“How ‘bout one more bite, hun.” Bruce nodded weakly. Darla fed the last bight of cake to her dying husband. He savored the last bight before swallowing. He looked at his wife lovingly; Darla stared coldly back. She whispers softly into his ear, “Do you know how many apricots it takes to kill a man? Because, I do.” The light in his eyes faded as the life left his body.

The coroner ruled Bruce’s death to be sclerosis of the liver, but Darla knew the truth. She moved to California after Bruce’s death. The insurance money was not much, but it had enough for a train ticket and a hotel-room. She found a job at a country café where she worked as a waitress. On occasion, she treated the locals by baking her mother’s chocolate cake. “This cake is to die for, Darla!”

“If you only knew,” she thought.

*If you or anyone you know is in a domestic violence situation, contact the National Domestic Violence Crisis Line at 1-800-799-7233.