The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake: A Novel Read Free

us chopped and cleaned while she made breaded chicken breast with green beans and rice. Joseph sprayed diluted bleach on the cutting board in the sink. Oil crackled in the fry pan. I tried to push my mind back to thinking about school, but the anxiety kicked in for me about halfway through the preparation; as I watched my mother roll raw chicken in breadcrumbs, I thought: What if I taste it in the chicken too? The rice?
    At six-forty-five, my father's car drove up and parked. He pushed the door open, jovial, bellowing I'm home! as he usually did. He said it to the hallway. By the end of the day, his hair, black and thick, was matted and rumpled, having taken the hit for all the work worry in his hands.
    He paused at the kitchen door, but we were all too busy to run to greet him.
    Look at the team go! he said.
    Hi, Dad, I said, waving a knife back. He always seemed a little like a guest to me. Welcome home, I said.
    Glad to be home, he said.
    Mom glanced up from her fry pan and nodded.
    He looked like he might want to come in and kiss her but wasn't sure if it would work, so instead he lined up his briefcase against the closet wall, vanished down the hall to change, and joined us just as we sat down with the food surrounding steaming in bowls and platters. Joseph began serving himself, and as slowly as I could, I put everything on my plate in even spoonfuls. Half a chicken breast. Seven green beans. Two helpings of rice.
    It was dark outside by now. Streetlamps buzzed on with their vague blue fluorescence.
    The dinner taste was a little better than the cake's but just barely. I sank down into my chair. I pulled at my mouth.
    What is it? Mom asked. I don't know, I said, holding on to her sleeve. The chicken tastes weird, I said.
    Mom chewed, thoughtfully. The breadcrumbs? she said. Is there too much rosemary?
    Oh, it's fine, said Joseph, who ate with his eyes on the dish so no one could get eye contact and actually talk to him.
    As we ate, my brother told a little about the after-school astronomy program and how a cosmologist from UCLA would be visiting soon to explain universe acceleration. Right this minute, said Joseph, it's just getting faster and faster. He indicated with his fork, and a fleck of rice flew across the table. Dad told a story about his secretary's dog. Mom pulled her chicken into threads.
    When we were done, she brought the iced, finished, half-sliced cake out on a yellow china plate, and made a little flourish with her hands.
    And for dessert! she said.
    Joseph clapped, and Dad mmmed, and because I didn't know what to do, I forced my way through another slice, wiping at the tears with my napkin. Sorry, I mumbled. Sorry. Maybe I'm sick? I watched each of their plates carefully, but Dad's piece was gone in a flash, and even Joseph, who never liked much about food in the first place and talked often about how he wished there was a Breakfast Pill, a Lunch Pill, and a Dinner Pill, said Mom should enter it in a contest or something. You're the only person I know who can build doors and cakes and organize the computer files, he said, glancing up for two seconds.
    Rose thought I missed a part, Mom said.
    I didn't say that, I said, clutching my plate, cake gummy and bad in my mouth.
    No way, said Joe. It's complete.
    Thank you, she said, blushing.
    We all have different tastes, honey, she said, rubbing my hair.
    It's not what I meant, I said. Mom--
    Anyway, it's the last cake for a while. I'll be starting a part-time job tomorrow, Mom said. With a carpentry shop, in Silver Lake.
    First I've heard of that, Dad said, wiping his mouth. What are you fixing, more doors?
    I said carpenter, Mom said. Not handyman. I will be making tables and chairs.
    May I be excused? I asked.
    Of course, Mom said. I'll check on you in a minute.
    I took a bath by myself and went to bed. I felt her come by later, as I was dozing off. Her standing, by my bed. The depth of shadow of a person felt behind closed eyelids. Sweet dreams, sweet