This Cake is for the Party Read Free

sauce like a lurid Rorschach test. I think it would be nice, she says, for our babies to grow up together. She rests her hands on her belly.
    Flip stares at her. I think we should wait, he says. Until you start teaching. You’ll get maternity leave when you have a job. He touches his upper lip with his thumb. We could get a dog first.
    Like Janine, says Sanderson.
    Janine’s dog is a baby replacement, Shona says. I want the real thing.
    Flip holds the edge of the table with his hand. No, no. I’m way too irresponsible.
    Shona sighs when she brings the stack of plates to the sink. You’re just a scaredy-cat, she says. If I got pregnant, something would click for you. You’d get another job.
    I say, What’s wrong with working at a bar? Bartenders are respectable people.
    You know what a baby means, says Flip. The money. There are those trust funds, those babies with the little graduation caps. No. Not until my own student loans are paid.
    Shona laughs. Stop it, you’re killing me. Paying off our student loans!
    Sanderson turns off the tap and swishes the water with his hand. There’s the bumping sound of plates swimming against stainless steel. Shona is beside him at the counter. She puts an arm around his waist and leans against him. He braces himself against the counter with one hand and holds her weight. Look at Sanderson, she says to Flip. He’s not a scaredy-cat. I bet he still has student loans. Don’t you, Sandy?
    I glance down at my stomach, the way it makes a small ball of itself when I sit. It looks flat when I’m standing, but there’s a little roll when I’m sitting down. I fix my posture in the chair. My belly changes when I straighten my back, but it still rests in a small lump on top of my legs. It’s not a pregnant lump, it’s just a weak abdomen, too much for dinner. But I try to imagine what it would feel like. When you’re carrying a baby, you must feel like you’re always carrying around a little Christmas present.
    I’m actually all paid up, says Sanderson. But I had scholarships, so.
    Flip stands up and fills my field of vision with his long legs, his green plaid torso. Sanderson is older than I am, he says. He’s much more mature.
    Don’t you forget it, Sanderson says. Now excuse me, all of you, but I’m old, and I need a cigarette.
    Don’t turn on the porch light, I tell him. You’ll attract the moths.
    When he goes outside, I reach over the table for what’s left of Shona’s wine. Flip waggles his finger.
    Oh, drink it, Shona tells me. It’s not going to hurt anything. If Janine were here, you’d be drunk by now anyway.
    This winter, when she bought a new condo downtown, Janine sent an email: I’m throwing a housewarming party. Just for us. Come at eight, stay till late. It was the coldest night in February, steam swirling on top of Lake Ontario because the air was so much colder than the water. When I blinked, my eyelashes stuck together, frozen. We arrived with housewarming gifts: a bottle of Tanqueray Ten, a jar of vermouth-soaked olives, a shiny silver martini shaker.
    Janine opened the door and there was a gush of warm air in the hallway. The entranceway was a bright lacquer red. All along her wall, a line of tea lights glowing in glass saucers. She wore a short sequined cape on top of a black dress. It fell just above the elbows. A capelet. I felt the air melt around my body, my face defrosting. Janine had sparkles brushed along her cheekbones.
    You brought cocktails! she said. She took the tall bottle out of my arms.
    You look gorgeous, I said. I’ll have a virgin cosmo.
    Virgin my ass, she said.
    Great paint job, I told her.
    Like it? It’s the same shade as Love That Red by Revlon. I had it specially blended and shipped from this place in Oregon.
    It’s hot, Sanderson said.
    Inside, Flip and Shona were already drinking, sitting on chrome bar stools. Shona stirred pink juice