Chapter 23: Empty Cradles

The note on the carton was in the bakery woman's round handwriting, on the back of a receipt.

On the house. Mr. MacIntosh, the tall one, called Friday. He asked for the cradles only. He said the lady would fill them herself.

I carried it inside and set it on the kitchen table.

Inside lay five empty paper cradles, folded flat, and a tube of white icing with a fine tip.

Emmett was drying a pan at the sink.

He did not turn around.

"You did this," I said.

"I don't know what you mean."

"There's a bakery receipt that says you did."

"Then it's a very honest receipt." He put the pan on its hook. "I thought you might want to bake your own box this year."

I picked up one of the cradles and turned it over in my hand.

It weighed nothing.

I had stood in my other kitchen with a carton just like it, and counted four.

I looked at him across the room.

He had flour on his forearm from the morning's loaf, and a smear of it near his jaw.

I went over and wiped it off with my thumb.

He held very still while I did it.

"Thank you," I said.

"You haven't baked yet."

"I will."

I pulled my mother's recipe cards out of the drawer where I had tied them in a bundle.

The handwriting on the top one was round and slanted and faded to brown.

Butter, sugar, the nutmeg she grated by hand.

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