Ritual (fiction)

It was the wrong day for this to happen. The post office had NOT delivered to the leasing office in her apartment complex as they had always , in the past done. Sarah found herself fighting to gain custody of a turtle cake that her creative 80 year old mother had baked.
She did not want to worry Mom that it had not yet arrived. The post office HAD it- but by Proctor and Gamble , she was not going to let the outside world upset her mother. Her mother had baked that cake while waiting for the prognosis on her husband of fifty eight years come August. He had collasped , his second that week, this time in the pasta sauce aisle of the local supermarket, where they had shopped for decades - the right side of his face reddening and swelling as her parents waited together for the ambulance. He was disoriented as he lay on the ivory chip floor. The assistant manager had gone to high school with their oldest daughter who was Sarah. He had married right away one of the women in their class from near the lake. , and had three boys all grown with families of their own. There was broken glass, spaghetti sauce but no blood, all around the fallen man, he did not appear to be cut. Her mother was stiffly formal with the assistant manager because though she had known him forever since his childhood , she could remember neither his name nor his wife of thirty eight years. All she could remember was that he had been a spare lad when in the cub scout pack that she had led.

It was not long before the ambulance came. In the retelling, Sarah's mom recounted that she had followed in their car. That, when her husband was finally comfortably resting, Mom had stopped back at the store and told Walter- that's right, that was his name that her husband was being examined . That he would be released the next day. Then her mom plundered the baking aisle with a vigour usually reserved for invading armies. Walter personally escorted Sarah's mom to her white Toyota and loaded the groceries into the back. " Call us", he said " if you need anything. Joyce is home all day. I hope that Bill feels better."

Before Sarah's mother left for the hospital , she stopped at the the local post office to mail the turtle cake to her daughter. She told Sarah to call her when it came. Everything depended on that cake arriving. Her mother said that she knew that Sarah's dad was going to be alright because the cake had turned out and packed up beautifully. Two out of three, Sarah thought, Damn it! No ! I am not going to lose the third and dialed the post office yet again.

" Hello, this is Ms Pine - My mother , Ellen in Middleboro , Massach...Massac...no there is NOT a T AFTER THE S...There is a cake...my mother baked a cake. Listen , you moron,,,How the heck do I know if the cake was good- YOU have it and I have been chasing it for a week, No , she did not mail it from Minnesota...M_A_S_S_A_C_H_U...Yes, like John Hancock. No , not the Insurance company. No ,the package is not from an insurance company...its from my mother. How long what? No , my mother doesnot work for an insurance company. She baked a cake so my father would get better . What kind of cake? I think that she said that it was a turtle cake. You don't what? Transport live animals? Its not a live animal - its a cake. A turtle cake , chocolate, pecans ,carmel...like the turtle candies. No there ARENT any turtles IN the cake...yes, I will wait. Catching her breath, Sarah leaned back against the wall . Her mother was counting on her. Would the rule of three work IF she could not recover the cake and eat a piece? She was determined to do just that even if it were green and fuzzy or all dried out. Green and fuzzy cake and muzack...oh goody!!! She was NOT going to lose her father over fuzzy turtle cake and muzack. She knew she was tougher than that. What she might not outlive was the wait for the superviser- this was what , the third time that she heard the greatest hits of John Barry. She hadn't realized that there were quite so many Bond films.

Turning slightly to her left, she could see her postman carrying a brown paper wrapped box up her stairs. He swung it as he labored up the stairs, just as she opened the door. His eyes opened wide- he had not yet knocked on the door. There it was on the package, her mother's writing addressed to her. Thanking the mail man, Sarah grabbed the cake,slammed the door,tore the package open and shoved a handful of turtle cake into her mouth. It wasn't green or fuzzy and she had saved her father's life. It was no wonder that her mother had fewer grey hairs than she.