Cherry Cheesecake
By Stacey James
Smashwords Edition
Copyrite 2012 by Stacey James
Short Story (1250 Words)
Cherry Cheesecake
“Milo,” my father hissed. “Stop texting and say hello to Mr. Sweeney.”
I looked up from my message to the most popular girl in the tenth grade, Carla Bloom. Didn’t he realize this was life or death? I sighed and pushed my cell phone into my pants pocket. This job is going to ruin my life.
My father scampered to open the door for the petite elderly man in brown trousers and a dark gray overcoat that could easily have been plucked from a rack at the Salvation Army. His face swanked more wrinkles than all of my mother’s great aunts combined.
“Good afternoon, Benny,” the old man chirped. A brisk February wind accompanied him into my father’s bakery, Benny’s Italian Pastries, blowing rose petals from the counter onto the floor. Groaning, I picked them up, noting his tattered black shoes.
I estimated that it would take him three minutes or more to shuffle across the floor to the counter in front of me. Plenty of time for me to have finished my text message to Carla.
My mother swooped in with a tray of fresh strawberries dipped in chocolate and placed them meticulously inside the glass pastry case. Sweet aromas of chocolate cake and cookies lingered in the air like a chocolate fog, heavy and delicious. My stomach growled, even after all these years of helping out in our family’s famous establishment I could not resist my parent’s pastries.
“It’s Tuesday. I have a piece of cherry cheesecake ready for you,” my father said, rubbing his hands together as he always did when he was pleased about something.
“Dandy!...I have a date. Cherry cheesecake is her favorite,” he boasted, running a grooved hand over silver strands of hair. Musky aftershave tickled my nose.
“Yes.” My father gave me a nod in the direction of a small pink box with brown polka dots placed behind the cash register. A matching bow secured it closed. I noticed one fork taped inside.
“Hello, young fella.” Mr. Sweeney gave a toothy smile, eyeing me over his dark rimmed spectacles.
“Hello,” I said, wondering when this conversation would be over.
“That’s my son, Milo. He’s helping out after school to pay for his violin lessons.”
The old man’s eyebrows arched over blue eyes that reminded me of the powdered confetti my mother sprinkled on baby cakes when she knew the mother was expecting a boy.
“Dad, do we have to talk about that?” My head jerked around, afraid my friends from school had overheard how I was taking music lessons, a secret I’d kept since I was five years old; nearly ten years now.
“You any good?” Mr. Sweeney rolled his lips like he was contemplating something important.
I shrugged.
Mr. Sweeney paused, his eyes furrowed. “I’d like to hire you… if it’s okay with your father of course.”
We both glanced to my father, dressed in a white baker’s uniform, standing behind the counter with his arms crossed. “Of course,” he nodded.
Mr. Sweeney gave me the one day job description along with twenty dollars.
“How much do I owe you for the cheesecake, young man?”
I started to reply, but my father placed his hand over the keys on our antique cash register. “No charge, Mr. Sweeney. You have a good time on your date.”
“I always do.” He winked as he shuffled back out the door, clutching his package.
“Why did you give him that cake for free? Didn’t you say he was the richest man in New York City?” I gasped when the old man was gone.
“He is,” my father responded before leaving me alone in the front of the bakery.
Four days later was Valentine’s Day. As agreed, I met Mr. Sweeney in the park across the street from the bakery. The sun warmed the afternoon, which I appreciated, as I had to play my violin for him and his date for an entire hour.
He cradled a bouquet of crimson roses in the crook of his arm, which he soon placed on the rustic wooden bench beside him. Then he took the slice of cheesecake- identical to the one he’d come for earlier in the week- and placed it in his lap. Then he just sat there, relishing the sights.
Bluebirds played like children in the branches overhead. A single squirrel sprinted up and down the cracked bark of a nearby oak tree, pausing to study me when I began to play my violin. Couples walked hand in hand along the crumbled brick pathways; smiling, laughing.
Mr. Sweet sat alone. I wondered if he felt embarrassed. If he was, he hid it well. How can he be so happy?
Mr. Sweeney eventually pulled out the fork and nibbled at the cheesecake. I thought about Carla Bloom while painstakingly for me, he savored every morsel. Carla had promised to consider my offer to take her to the movies later, for Valentine’s Day. I fidgeted beneath my leather jacket; sweating despite the fact that it was February in New York.
I nearly applauded when it was time to leave the park. A quick glance at my watch indicated that I still had fifteen minutes in which to serenade Mr. Sweeney. I watched as he tossed his empty cheesecake box into the trashcan nearby before twitching his head for me to follow him. I obliged him, happy to move things along.
We walked separately for three blocks before he stopped at a black iron fence. He held the traffic cop hand for me to remain at the gate. I nodded and kept playing sweet melodies; love songs that I’d learned at my lessons.
Suddenly I realized where we were. My heart grew heavy at the same time my fingers grew wings; flying over the strings on my violin. I played music like it had meaning; purpose. People stared at me but I didn’t care. I was playing sweet music for Mr. Sweeney- and his date.
Later, when I arrived home, I found my father reading in the living room.
“How was your afternoon?” he inquired, removing his reading glasses.
“I enjoyed myself,” I told him. “But I have one question.” My father’s eyes met mine. I struggled with my words. “Why did you say that Mr. Sweeney was the richest man in New York City? When I walked him home, we went to a small one bedroom apartment near the river. It was loud with traffic…and dingy. One chair and a small television. Mr. Sweeney claims he’s the richest man in New York City, but I think he’s the poorest man in New York City. We visited his wife in the cemetery.”
My father frowned. His sad eyes shrunk me. “Milo, my only son,” he said in a voice I’d never known him to use before; kitten soft. “Mr. Sweeney has lived the life that he wanted. He is rich.”
***
“Ten years later I can’t remember what Carla Bloom looks like,” I announced with a champagne glass in my hand yesterday, my wedding day. I touched glasses with my bride and felt her warm lips on mine. The reception crowd toasted with us. I searched the wedding table for my mother, lamenting the empty seat beside her. “But I do remember the way love felt those ten years ago. And, like old Mr. Sweeney in the park, I intend to be the richest man in New York City.”