The father barreled in and grabbed his shirt collar. “Get out of here, Forbes, you stupid
drunken sot! Get back to where you belo ng! Boy killer! Man who kills his own damn son!”
He jerked Forbes’ body away from the table. He hooked his arm around his elbow and
led him through the now glaring and hateful people who were plotting to avenge the boy.
But before they could act, the boy’ s face, near tears, suddenly changed to delight. He
jumped off the picnic table screaming at the top of his lungs, “It rained! It rained! It rained! It
rained on my cake!”
Forbes was walking awkwardly down the road, joints glued thinly together, feeling his
stump, evidence of the greed which had taken his life from him, proof that he could now do
only harm to himself and to the people. But was it possible, somewhere deep inside, that he
had he meant something else with the punch?
Charles ran to Forbes and took his hand and pulled him back through the astonished
community, back to the table. “It rained, Momma! It rained!”
“Charles,” she said, stroking his burlap colored hair. “Honey, it didn’t rain; it was the
pu —”
“Shhh, Clara,” said the father.
“Cut the cake!” cried Charles. “It rained!”
The cameraman, grinning, snapped pictures at a feverish rate.
The mother picked up the knife but held it loosely. Her eyes went from Charles to the
cake to the candles to Forbes, and none of it went together. Finally the grandmother pulled the
knife out of her hand and cut up the now sopping wet peanut butter cake. She handed the first
slice to Forbes.
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