Whiffle Cakes

Jose Chavez

My sister peddled whiffle-cakes to apples Saturday mornings. Their shiny red heads buried under silk scarves and pork pie hats. She listened patiently to their tales of the city: "I see, " she said, curling up her bottom lip, "terrible bees who live in sewers. Nothing a few whiffle-cakes wouldn't fix." She told them about our life in the country, the impolite ants, the daddy long-legs spinning a web in her room who would soon have to pay rent. Finally, when she got bored, she put on mom's black robe and accused one of the apples of stealing; a string of evidence was brought against it: a tea bag, a beer cap, a broken sea shell. Sometimes there were celebrations with juice and crackers, other times a head was paraded on the end of a stick as a warning to the others.

Puberty

I'm in a room the size of a cigar box, looking at a picture of a naked woman under the electric gaze of Virgin Mary when I hear the rhythm of slapping broom whiskers and boot stomping, grandfather growling: "Corner that little bastard."

There's a loud crash of pans followed by a moment of silence. I hear footsteps. My door cracks open and I fumble to shove the picture under my blanket. It's grandmother, her silver hair unfurled like a spool of wool. She's come to tell me: "The big black roach is dead, and we shall have no more of him tonight."

I want to say goodnight, but something is caught in my throat. I cough up dark skinny legs, a shell and head that drops from my lips and scurries under the bed to escape the harsh light.

Jose Chavez