A Taste of the Sweet Life
Bernadette Miller
She was inside a cake. Three-layered and enormous, it had been ordered for a company party. The outside was sponge with vanilla icing, adorned with pink rosettes; on top, candied letters read: CONGRATULATIONS TO OUR NEW VICE PRESIDENT. Crouched inside the birch container, Sally waited to leap out like a fairy godmother. Air holes between the letters let in oxygen, but it was hot; her sexy mini-skirt and sequined bodice might be ruined from perspiration. After hours of primping in her apartment, she waited impatiently, eager to note the men’s appreciative gazes when she appeared.
In the dim light she checked her watch’s luminous dial: nine-thirty. Soon, she’d hear a drum roll, her signal to push open he top layer and spring out onto a table where she’d tap-dance while the men whistled and clapped. Still, it was uncomfortable in the cramped space; if only they’d get on with it...
The last occasion had been a sales convention. She smiled, remembering. The salesmen, mostly married, had crowded around her, propositioning, but she’d held them off with a shy, dimpled smile. If they were serious about buying her gifts, they could contact her modeling agency. But if they just wanted fun, she wasn’t interested.
Her watch read ten. It seemed as though she’d been cooped up here her whole life. Well, think about the future: exciting Broadway shows, leading movie roles, and many lovers! She sighed, remembering then her childhood in a drab little Missouri town. Mama, looking worn out with her wispy hair and faded housedresses, had been snubbed by townspeople for doing their laundry. Daddy, a handsome construction worker, had run off when Sally was nine. Poor Mama, always worrying about unpaid bills, all hope crushed. Sally shuddered recalling that dilapidated shack and Mama’s weary voice:
“Sally, dear, not so much shampoo. You’ll wash the oil out of your blonde hair.”
“Mama, I want my hair shiny, not dingy like some of the other girls’.”
Later, when Sally’s curls turned mousy-brown, she used an expensive hair dye because, as the commercial stressed, her appearance was worth the extra cost.
“Sally, dear, popularity won’t guarantee happiness,” Mama had said, ironing a blouse. “You should settle down with a decent fellow who loves you.”
Sally shook her head in amazement that Mama couldn’t see beyond her ironing board. Hands fisted on hips, she replied, “Settle down in this hick town? Why, every boy in school says I’m the prettiest thing he’s ever seen! Just look at me: big blue eyes, cute nose, sexy body. I could become a famous movie star. Why stay here?”
But Mama just shook her head, sighed, and continued ironing, as if she’d never understand doing something important with your life. By thirty-five, Mama seemed middle-aged; by forty, positively ancient. And, finally, the year Sally moved to New York at twenty-eight, Mama died. Standing in that tiny room, tearfully staring at Mama’s apron draped over a rickety chair, Sally promised herself, “I’m going to stay young as long as I live, and never grow old like poor Mama!”
Moist drops oozed down now between her full breasts. She felt her costume to see if it was wet. It was. She’d look awful by the time she jumped out. Funny, though, it didn’t sound like a party going on, though it was hard to tell sometimes because the cake muffled noises. She sat very still, listening. There was silence.
Checking her watch, she gasped. She’d wasted over an hour, thinking all sorts of silly things. She should remember that jumping from party cakes paid good money!
Still, she’d give anything to stretch her legs. To divert her mind from her discomfort, she remembered last year’s cruise with fat Robert, the movie producer. What a beautiful yacht! They’d sailed all around the Bahamas. True, she hadn’t done anything except make love, but when they finally docked, Robert bought her those gorgeous designer clothes. Well, that was worth the boring lovemaking!
Hunched over, she shifted her cramped position, and began to feel abandoned. Why hadn’t someone arrived to see if she was okay? She strained her ears against the birch. From afar a woman sang a Black spiritual, the voice alternately booming and soft, the endnotes quivering as though suspended in mid-air:
“Sometimes I feel like a motherless child.
Oh, Lord, I feel like a motherless child.”
It was probably just a cleaning lady in the next room, but the song reminded Sally of warm, fragrant evenings on Mama’s front porch, crickets chirping in adjacent fields, and the occasional chugging of a second-hand car on the distant dirt road. Mama, working as usual, mended a dress, while Sally waited for darling Billy Lee to escort her to the prom. It reminded Sally of his sadness when she’d refused his marriage proposal, and her regret when he’d finally married someone else. It reminded her of events she’d tried to forget since living in New York. The song faded.
Sally shifted her position, and sighed. This cake business was beginning to seem dopey, just sitting here, waiting. Did it really matter if men whistled at her? After two weeks with ugly Robert, she never even got a screen test. Then, whenever Sally called him, his secretary said he was busy. She shook her head; she was just depressed. She’d never waited so long in a cake, usually a half-hour at most.
By eleven-thirty, she couldn’t wait another second, “Help,” she said timidly. Then she yelled as loudly as possible. “Help! Get me out of here!”
There was no reply.
“Help! Get me out! Get me out!” She pounded at the top layer; the hinges refused to budge. Kicking the birch with her high-heeled foot, she finally managed to puncture a hole. Hunks of cake cascaded onto her arm. She grew terrified of being buried under an avalanche of vanilla frosting. What a disgusting way to die! Not like in the movies: a handsome lover shooting himself after shooting her, refusing to believe that life was worthwhile without Sally, although, of course, she certainly didn’t want to die. There were too many wonderful events ahead. Thank goodness she was pretty. After all, if a girl wasn’t pretty, what else was there?
Bruno, her agent, had gotten her a commercial that paid good money since it ran primetime. She smiled, cheering herself by remembering the commercial:
“Hi, I’m Sally Rae, the Allure girl. To me, there’s nothing more satisfying than Allure deodorant. Know why?” Here, she’d performed her charming tap dance, and pointed a scarlet fingernail at the grinning cameraman. “Well, wouldn’t you like everybody to think you’re marvelous? Then come on, America. Find that fulfillment you’ve searched for. Use Allure--and the world is yours!”
Bruno had said, “Baby, without you, that commercial’s for dumbbells. Your knockout sex appeal makes all the difference. Why, you could become another Marilyn Monroe!”
Except that nothing happened afterwards. She’d slept with Bruno, a schnooky guy with buckteeth, but no Hollywood contract emerged, as he’d promised.
Another hunk of cake brushed her arm. Hungry, she devoured crumbs and considered eating her way through the spongy layers. The cake was sickeningly sweet. She squinted her nose in disgust. Starvation would be better than that awful stuff! Besides, she’d better keep her curves in the right places, or she’d grow fat and ugly and be rejected--like Mama.
It was nearly midnight. Didn’t anybody care about her? She’d longed to be rich and famous; instead, here she was, skirt gooey from icing, bodice soaked with perspiration, and a vicious gash in her nylon. If only she could escape! A child ran up her spine. Maybe she’d died, and this cake was hell...
Suddenly footsteps neared. A bucket scraped and water splashed, as though someone was mopping a floor.
She screamed, “Help! Get me out of here!”
“Who’s that?” a man called out, alarmed--as if fearful a ghost lurked in the room.
“I’m inside the cake. The top won’t open! Get me out!”
“Well, imagine that, a girl inside a cake.”
“Please, help!”
The footsteps approached warily, as though he still wasn’t convinced it contained a live person. He fumbled with the hinges.
Weak and dizzy, Sally desperately longed to stretch her legs, but told herself to be patient awhile longer.
“The banquet manager will know how to open it,” the man said finally. Don’t worry, honey, I’ll come back.” The footsteps retreated.
Sally grew panicky. Suppose he didn’t come back. Suppose nobody did. She shuddered. From now on, no more wasting her looks and talent in party cakes, no matter how big the salary!
More footsteps hurried into the room, followed by the banquet manager’s anxious voice, “Sally, the party was canceled. Unfortunately, I forgot you. Please forgive me. I’m terribly sorry.”
Forgot... Terribly sorry... Men had said she was so beautiful, they couldn’t bear to part from her. She shook her head sadly. Maybe after they left her, she slipped from their minds for some reason. “Please, help me. Please.” She was too tired to yell.
“Don’t worry, my work crew’s here. You’ll be out shortly.”
She tried shifting her legs. They felt numb, as though she’d been stricken with polio. She pictured herself freed from the cake, able to walk, dance, run. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?
“My God, the top’s stuck!” one of the men said, panting. “The hinges won’t open.”
“Come on, use some muscle,” the banquet manager said. “They have to open!”
“I’m telling you there ain’t no way we’ll open that top layer. We’ll have to dig a tunnel and pull her through.”
“Then do it!” the banquet manager snapped.
They scraped aside the cake and drilled through the wood, muttering obscenities, chided by the banquet manager.
Finally, Sally noticed light glimmering beyond a widening hole, and a hand gooey with icing beckoning her.
“Careful!” the banquet manager called out. “We don’t want a cave-in.”
Gliding on her stomach, Sally inched her way through the tunnel toward the hand. Hunks of cake brushed her shiny blonde curls, caressed her rouged cheeks, and slid down her nylons. Ignoring the discomfort, she continued her journey, anxious to escape her sugary imprisonment. Suddenly she was pulled outside. Seated on the table splattered with crumbs, she rubbed her mascara-smudged eyes and blinked in the chandelier’s bright glare, while the men crowded about, gazing at her sympathetically.
“I hope you’re all right,” the banquet manager said, concerned. Slender with graying temples and soft brown eyes, he wore a handkerchief neatly folded in a breast pocket.
Trembling from her ordeal, Sally brushed a sticky rosette from her cheek, and glanced at it clinging to her hand. “I don’t understand. I’m a model and an actress. I did a television commercial! How could anybody forget me?”
“My dear, I’m deeply sorry. I was so preoccupied with important matters...” Embarrassed, he stopped, face flushed.
Astonished, she stared at him. After slaving all afternoon, trying to please people by looking pretty, she wasn’t important enough to be remembered? Her eyes filled with tears.
Awkwardly he patted her shoulder. “There, there, I didn’t mean...” He handed her his handkerchief. “Why don’t you rest in a lovely room upstairs? Stay overnight, if you wish.”
“No, please,” she wiped away a tear, “I want to go home.”
“But, my dear, you can’t go out looking like that.”
“I don’t care.” She sniffled and blew her nose. “I wouldn’t be remembered anyway.”
He eyed her curiously, as if wondering whether her sanity had snapped. “Naturally, I can’t make you stay,” he said, and smiled. “But, let me pay your cab fare.” He removed his wallet and extended a hundred-dollar bill.
The offer as generous since Sally’s apartment was in the neighborhood. She hesitated, then shook her head. Somehow men’s gifts no longer satisfied. Exhausted, she climbed from the table, aided by her rescuers, and staggered toward the door, her legs stiff and wobbly. She glanced at the formerly magnificent cake, now pimpling the table with ugly lumps. Why had she been forgotten?
Thoughtful, she turned and opened the door.
