Stephen 'No Checkmark For Me' Pomes

We compared schedules. He left my house after breakfast. He arrived at hers when she got home from the school run. Every evening, she let him out because he insisted. Twenty minutes later, he came through my cat flap, apparently exhausted from supporting two households. I’d kept him indoors for three days while our street was being resurfaced. Her daughter had spent those three days looking under parked cars. That part stopped being funny. I invited them over. The little girl came through my door holding a stuffed mouse. She crouched beside the table and whispered, “Biscuit?” Walter opened his eyes. Then he got up and climbed straight into her lap. Her mother and I looked at each other. I showed her photographs from when he was a kitten. She showed me a video of him sitting beside her daughter while she practiced reading. Apparently, he’d heard most of a book about horses. We agreed he’d stay indoors at mine for now, and they could visit. Neither of us wanted another afternoon of her daughter searching the street. Before leaving, the girl asked whether he could keep the mouse. “Of course.” “And you have to put it beside his bed. He likes to know where it is.” I promised. That evening, her mother sent me a list of things he liked. Chicken. The blue blanket. Having his ears rubbed. I sent back a photograph of his expensive untouched cat bed. A minute later, she sent me a photograph of the exact same bed at her house. Also untouched. Between us, we’d spent eighty dollars finding out he preferred a cardboard box.

Someone called from the dining room asking where the plates were. My sister answered in her normal voice, took them from the cupboard, and walked past me. I finished cutting the cake. When my uncle complimented the bakery, I told him I’d made it. Mom turned toward me. “You did?” I nodded. She asked whether I’d used fresh lemons. We talked about the recipe while my sister collected cups. I waited until the next morning to ask her to return the money. She offered to send it to me instead. That almost annoyed me more. The cake had been my gift to Mom. I didn’t want twelve relatives paying for it without knowing. “Just tell them what happened and refund it.” She said I was making her look dishonest. I stared at that message for a while. Then I asked my aunt to add me to the group. I wrote three sentences. I’d made the cake. I hadn’t charged for it. Anyone who’d contributed should ask my sister about getting their money back. The refunds started that afternoon. My sister hasn’t called me since. Mom did, though. She wanted to know whether I was upset that she hadn’t thanked me at lunch. I told her she had. “For bringing it. I didn’t know you’d stayed up making it.” Then she admitted she’d thought it was a little lopsided, but hadn’t wanted to criticize an expensive cake. I laughed. “Next year you can tell me.” “Oh, next year I’m coming over to help. You never let the layers cool long enough.”

Last Saturday, my aunt asked which bakery charged $180 for my mother’s birthday cake. I was standing in the kitchen, cutting it. “I made it.” “Oh. Your sister said she ordered it.” Mom was turning seventy. My sister offered to host lunch, and I offered to bring the cake. Lemon, with the frosting Mom used to let us eat from the beaters. I’m not a professional baker. One layer came out crooked, and I spent Friday evening hiding it with buttercream. My aunt took out her phone. My sister had sent a group message: “Cake is $180. If everyone sends $15, that covers it.” I wasn’t in that group. I found my sister in the hallway and showed her the message. She glanced toward the dining room. “Can we do this later?” “Did you collect money for the cake?” “I organized the whole day. There were other expenses.” “Then why does this say cake?” She lowered her voice. “Because people will contribute to a birthday cake. They won’t pay me for cleaning my house.”