Little Things Matter

by R D Larson

Source: Raymond Carver, “Little Things”

Early that night the weather turned warm and the moon was melting into lake water. Streaks of moonlight ran down from the little shoulder-high window that faced the backyard. Loons called on the water outside, where it was getting dark. But it was getting dark on the inside too.

She was in the kitchen dumping butter into a bowl when her brother came to the door.

“I’m glad you’re cooking Mom’s birthday cake! I’m glad you’re cooking!” he said. “Do you hear?”

She kept on putting ingredients into the bowl.

“I’m her son! I’m so glad you’re cooking!” He began to cry. “You can’t even look me in the face, can you?”

Then he noticed their mother’s picture on the bed and picked it up.

She looked at him and he wiped her eyes and stared at her before turning and going back to the living room.

“Bring Mom’s picture back,” she said.

“Just go ahead and make the damn cake,” he said.

She did not answer. She creamed the butter, put in the eggs and flour, looked around the kitchen before turning on the oven. Then she went out to the living room.

He stood in the doorway of the living room, holding Mom’s photograph.

“I want to make the cake,” he said.

“Are you crazy?”

“No, but I want to make the cake for her. I can make good cakes.”

“You’re not touching this cake,” she said.

The buzzer in the kitchen signaled the oven was ready. He grabbed his blanket and put it over his head and began to cry and she pulled blanket from around his head.

“Oh, oh,” she said, looking at the cake

“Cook it in round pans.”

“No, there are too many of us...”

They moved toward the kitchen..

“For God’s sake!” he said.

She took a step back into the kitchen.

“I want the round pans.”

“Get out of here!”

She turned and tried to pour the cake batter into the long glass pan over in a corner by the stove.

But he came up. He reached across the stove and tightened his hands on the glass pan.

“Let go of it,” she said.

“You let go, you get away!” he cried.

They were both red-faced and screaming. In the scuffle they knocked down a flowerpot that hung behind the stove.

She, being bigger, crowded him into the wall then, trying to break his grip. He held on to the pan and pulled with all his weight.

“Let go of it,” she said.

“Don’t,” he said. “I want round pans,” he said.

“I’m not letting you cook,” she said.

The kitchen window gave no light. In the near-dark she worked on his fisted fingers with one hand and with the other hand she gripped the pan with the cake batter in it as hard as she could.

He felt her fingers being forced open. He felt the pan slipping from her.

“No!” He screamed just as his hands came loose.

He would have the pan, Mom’s cake. He grabbed for the edge of the pan. She caught the side slopping out some of the batter over the side and leaned back.

But he would not let go. She felt the pan slipping out of her hands and he pulled back very hard.

In this manner, the issue was decided.