Just Like Mother's

"Is there anything you'd like to eat?" He looked down at the woman. She was slight, tired-looking on this day, with her neatly starched gray ensemble and hair in a bun. She wasn't wearing make-up, but her face was clean. She looked up and smiled gently at the man.

"Just a nice slice of chocolate cake, please."

"That's all?"

"Yes, thank you." She folded her hands neatly on her lap, to signify her decision and that she was done with the conversation.

"Not even milk with that?" the man asked.

"Oh, no thank you. I want to savor it a while." She smiled again in a slight, polite way. The man only nodded and left.

"You're only having a slice of cake?" The woman next to her leaned across and pried.

"Yes," she said.

"Why? You can have anything."

"Well," the woman began, "I love chocolate cake. It doesn't need to be complicated. I have loved chocolate cake since my mother used to bake it for us on the first Sunday of every month."

"That's a nice memory to hold onto," the prying woman said.

"It was. Until one Sunday, it just didn't taste like Mother's cake. So logically, it couldn't have been from Mother. So I killed her."

"You killed your mother?" The woman slid back along her bench. The bars between them would have protected her just fine, but she never met another woman on death row who killed her own mother. That was simply too much for her to sit near.

"No," she replied. "I killed the imposter. It wasn't Mother. It wasn't Mother's cake."

"How could you have been so sure?"

"You ask me these questions as if you aren't on death row yourself. Why are you judging me for killing an imposter when you have also killed someone to get here?"

"I didn't kill an imposter," the prying woman said. "I killed my husband. The bastard."

"And why did they give you the death penalty then?"

"Because it was premeditated. Why did they give you the death penalty?"

"Because," she said, "they believed I killed my mother."

The two prisoners sat in silence. The prying woman knew was being judgmental, but she felt justified in her reasons. Someone's food doesn't taste the same every time they make it; Her mother could have used the wrong ingredient, or made the cake a different way. Secondly, who kills their own mother? When the prying woman killed her husband, it was because he had another lady - several other ladies - and father a child by one of them. She would have shot him dead but he kept his gun locked up, and she couldn't get a divorce because he would have given her nothing. So she did the next logical thing and fed him rat poison. The prying woman didn't regret a thing.

"My name is Glenda," the prying woman said. "What's your name? Someone should know you by your name before you head to the gallows."

"That's sweet," the other said. "My name is Charlotte. But I'll be hung as number 2539."

"Pleasure to meet you," Glenda said. "Do you regret killing your mother? Or rather, the woman impersonating your mother?"

"No," Charlotte flatly said. "I regret not being able to find where my mother is, though. To tell her that I would have looked for her if my father hadn't called the police so soon."

"Did your father see you kill her?"

"No," Charlotte said. "But he found her in the kitchen. I tried to explain the cake, to make him see it wasn't her. He couldn't listen to me, though."

"That's just awful," Glenda said.

The prison guard came back with Charlotte's slice of chocolate cake. He handed it to her and addressed her as 2539. Charlotte only smiled and took the plate from his hands. With a plastic fork, she carved out a bite and put it in her mouth. Charlotte closed her eyes and chewed as Glenda watched and listened. She breathed in deeply through her nostrils, and Glenda noticed tears begin to roll down Charlotte's cheeks. When she opened her eyes, a flood of tears broke through.

"Oh my god," Charlotte said. She tried to speak, but her sobs were uncontrollable. Glenda only watched and felt pity for the woman, who clearly just realized she killed her mother over a piece of chocolate cake.

"I'm sorry," Glenda said. She frowned and tried to reach out through the bars, but Charlotte was too far away.

"This can't be happening," Charlotte cried out. "This can't be happening." She put the rest of the slice down and placed her head in her hands. Glenda watched Charlotte weep for two hours, until it was her time. The guard returned with another.

"Alright, 2539," he said. "It's time." He put a heavy key into Charlotte's cell lock and turned it. It went clunk clunk clunk, and he slid the door open and it echoed to a halt. Charlotte didn't look up. The guard grabbed her by the elbow - not hard, only to guide her - and she stood without restraint. Her head hung low.

"Good luck, Charlotte," Glenda said with a tear in her eyes. "Lord knows I'll be seeing you soon."

Charlotte walked the slow, dreadful journey to the gallows. Her eyes stayed glued to her feet as they shuffled obediently to the cadence of the guards. Outside the windows was a deep, moonless dark. It was almost midnight. She was guided to the execution chamber, and up the hollow steps to the noose, where Charlotte raised her head once more. Her face was flushed, and her eyes were puffy, but she had a smile that ran ear-to-ear. The noose was placed around her neck and tightened. The priest said a prayer.

"Before the hood is placed over your head, do you have any last words?" the priest asked.

Charlotte swallowed her remaining tears and sniffed hard to clear her nose. She shook her head until the hair was out of her eyes and looked down at the witnesses. Her father sat three rows back.

"That cake," she said, looking at him, "was just like Mother's."