Nothing To Lose (A fat girl novel) (18 page)

The following day, after work, she stopped on the main floor to see how her closeout ad for men’s shirts had pulled. She would have liked to have seen an empty counter with a sign: All Gone. The headline she’d written had made the men’s shirt buyer grudgingly content. Hush, hush! We’ve left just a smidgen of the label to give you a clue to the famous maker!

The shirts were by Hathaway and the body copy, while not mentioning the name, was nauseatingly studded with cute clues: We pirated these shirts from their famous maker at this tiny price. Nobody hath a way with shirts like he does. Sizes and colors aren’t patchy either. There’s a full selection – even difficult-to-find sizes in one hundred percent pima cotton. Remember cotton? Remember the Queen Mary? Remember luxury? Hurry in!

Harald had always worn cotton shirts. He had said that synthetics gave him a headache. She had been only too glad to scour the city and find them at a time when manufacturers seemed wedded to blends. She had also found a tailor who tapered them to fit as if custom-made. Harald told her she had solved a problem that had plagued him all of his adult life – the shirts that fit his arms and neck were voluminous around his chest and waist. She had become obsessive about it – as if finding the scarce shirts would prove her resourcefulness, even make her a little magical.

The counter before her was piled high with shirts that would have made Harald very happy. Blues, oatmeal, pencil stripes. A wretched, hollow loneliness manifested itself between her ribs. She began to forage in the pile looking for his size.

“What size are you looking for, maybe we can help each other?” Don Loren was at her side. “I’m looking for 15-1/2, 33. What’s yours?”

“16, 35.”

Don raised an eyebrow. “A big man,” he said respectfully.

“He’s not that big…not very big.” She was defensive. “Just had long arms.”

“Touchy,” Don muttered under his breath and began flipping through the stacks. “Here.” He handed her a button-down with thin raspberry stripes against off-white. “It’ll go beautifully with gray flannel. Does he own a gray flannel?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, he does.” Harald had two gray flannel suits. A good five years’ investment, he had told her. The suits typified his success, his love of order and his optimism for the future.

“You’re not looking for my size.”

“You’re right.” She busied herself in the pile but there were no size 15-1/2, 33’s. “There aren’t any. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll take these anyway.” He picked up a medium blue oxford cloth and a brown with a white collar. “They’re a little big but I’ll taper them myself. Everything’s made for the big American gut. Ooooops….sorry.”

She looked down at her hands. He took his shirts to a cash register and she followed. When he paid, he turned to look for her. “Aren’t you going to take your shirt?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not? It’s a great shirt.”

“It is. It’s beautiful. But…well…he doesn’t exist anymore.”

“He’s dead? Oh, no. I can’t take it.”

“He’s not dead. We’re divorced.” It was the first time she had said that. It sounded strange and a little glamorous.

Don surveyed the length of the main floor. A long, empty gaze. “You’re pretending to buy shirts for a guy you divorced?” He saw that, she too, was distressed by her behavior. “Don’t worry,” said Don, “I’ve heard of much sicker things than that. I knew a woman once who wore her husband’s clothes after he died. Jockey shorts, neckties, pajamas, everything.” Her expression didn’t change. “Why don’t you come and have a drink with my friend and me? Have dinner. Have my friend, ha, ha. Come on. If we hurry, we can catch the Metroliner instead of that smelly shuttle. Newark!” He grunted in disgust as if April’s regrets had touched off a few of his own. “How the hell did I end up in Newark? I used to be with Oleg Cassini, for godsakes.”

They didn’t get the Metroliner but an Amcoach called The Patriot that rocked wildly from side to side as if it would fall of the tracks.

When she saw where Don lived, she knew why he was so resentful of working in Newark. His apartment – a floor through on the ground floor of a wide brownstone on East 18th street – was as smooth and comforting as Newark was scarred and unsettling. He hustled her through the rooms to a small bricked garden with a wide border of plantings now barely in bloom. He insisted on naming everything.

‘That’s impatiens…see how plump and dense.” He put up his arms like a conductor. “Thrive, you gaudy things! I can’t stand the color fuchsia. They all came out fuchsia. Over there…painted daisies. Parsley, of course. Arugula – tres chic…tres bitter. I won’t waste space on that again. Basil for pesto but I’m you’re you’ve heard that before. Mention basil without yelling pesto and people think you’re just in from Teaneck. I’m going to get away from that. I’m definitely going to get away from that.” He passed a hand over his brow.

The room inside was as neat as its owner. Two plump love seats and two armless sectionals made a pleasant square inside of which was a square, bleached oak coffee table. On it were four magazines – The Nation, Architectural Digest, Window Design Digest and The Nation’s Baker – as well as the New York Times. A copper bowl held a pot of pink begonias. A deep blue paper with tiny white flowers covered the walls to the wainscoting, which was painted white.

She thought a long time before commenting. “It’s like walking into a small country cottage in Provence. But it doesn’t look premeditated or false.” She had never been in Provence but it seemed like a tasteful thing to say.

“What do you mean by premeditated or false?”

“Well, you know how people sometimes fix up their basements to look like a fishing village?”

“Oh, yeah. I see what you mean.”

“Well, this doesn’t look like that.”

“Good.”

Pierre emerged from the kitchen with a carafe of wine and three glasses. He was a fragile, smiling, thirtyish man with sparse reddish ringlets framing a bony white face. He was unperturbed by her sudden appearance. “Hallo. Ees cooler inside, no?”

“Pierre this is April.
Avril
to you.
Avril
is the cruelest month. Anyway, she needs a drink.”

“
Moi aussi
.” He put the tray on the table and his hands to his temples. “I, too. The kitchen was terrible.”

“Pierre is the pastry chef at
Le Canard D’Or
.”

“I saw a documentary film called The Kitchen,” said April. “It showed what went on during a busy lunch hour. The chefs were lunatics. They threatened each other with carving knives. After they served lunch, they all calmed down and went home.”

“
Authentique.
Ees true.” Pierre turned to Don and patted him on the back. “
Alors, j’ai faime.
You want
Chinoise
? I order and we stay here, okay?”

“Fine with me,” said April.

“Anything,” said Don, tickling Pierre in the ribs playfully. “Chinese, Hungarian, Mandarin, Korean, who cares.”

“I do,” said Pierre seriously. “And April, too, no?”

“Yes,” said April, “and tell them not to put MSG in it, please.”

“Oh, sure,” said Don. “Then they’ll urinate in the soup. They just love all that holistic crapola.”

“What is urinate?” asked Pierre.

“Pee pee.”

“Ees true?” He turned to April for corroboration. “Pee pee in zee soup? Pigs.”

“Asians can be very hostile,” said Don, pouring himself a glass of wine. “Scratch the gorgeous poreless skin and you’ll find some of the most hostile people on earth.”

“You cannot make ziss blanket statement.”

Don winked at April. “Pierre also believes in G-O-D.”

“
Mon dieu
!”

“You see?”

“No, no. About ziss you cannot be comic.”

Pierre meant business and a look of anxiety appeared on Don’s face. “All right, all right.” He picked at the slub of his linen pants. “I take it back.” Pierre was on the other side of the room looking out of the window. “Come on, Pierre, I won’t do it anymore. Don’t be mad.”

April looked for a place to sit and walked to a small armless side chair. It had a petit point seat with the likeness of a lion. “Don’t sit on that,” shrieked Don from across the room. She jumped away. “It’s not strong enough.”

A look of misery invaded Pierre’s face. “You have no thought for her feelings?
Sauvage
.”

“She’d feel a lot worse if she sat on it and it broke,” said Don with renewed spirit.

“Don,” Pierre came and stood next to April, “I am insulted for her. Please, apologize.”

“I’m sorry. I really am.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for.” There’s plenty to apologize for. “At least you’re not asking me why I’m so fat.” It was just the opening Don, the demonic truth seeker, would love.

“Would it be so bad to ask you why you’re so fat?” he said immediately.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t talk about it.”

“Oh.”

Pierre disappeared to phone for the food and returned with a generous wedge of Brie and a strange lump of bread. “Ziss bread ees wizzout flour,” he said proudly. “I bake it for Don because he ees allergic to zee flour.” She was impressed. It tasted okay and looked only slightly misshapen.

Don, who had left to change, returned in creased jeans and a knit shirt. She looked at her jumper and twisted it around where it had shifted. Don took his wine and sat on the couch with a heavy sign. He opened the New York Times that was lying on the coffee table.

“Look,” he said after a while, “only Jews got married today. Here are three announcements right on the television page: Carolyn Schwartz, a stockbroker, married David Gribbin, a dental student at NYU. They’ll reside in San Francisco. Anita Diamont, a graduate student at Columbia, married Alan Green, a systems analyst – what’s a systems analyst?” April and Pierre shrugged. “And,” Don continued, “Dorothea Smulovitz – I’m not making this up, it’s really Smulovitz – married…oh, no, she went from Smulovitz to Smuck. She married Steven Smuck, president of ABC Rentals. They must all be very happy. They have their announcements right on the television page where everyone is sure to see them. You see how life works out, you never know.” He said this as if life had not yet worked out for April and Pierre.

“Eet says they are Jewish?” asked Pierre. He pronounced it djewish. “Prejudice, no? In France, we don’t do ziss.”

“Pierre calm down. It doesn’t say they’re Jewish.” Don pulled him on to the couch to show him the paper. “But the ceremonies were performed by a rabbi, except for the Smucks, who were married by a judge, but what else could they be? Smuck-Smulovitz, it’s gotta be Jewish, right?”

April listened to this back and forth totally absorbed. Pierre really approved of Don. He hung on the words. With a sigh, he rose and set the table with beautiful china, white scalloped plates with a delicate border of freesia. He made a small bouquet from a few clippings of ivy. The food came.

“So how long are you going to mourn your divorce?” asked Don casually while helping himself to Moo Goo Gai Pan. “Uh, I don’t want to be indelicate but were you f-a-t when you were married to shirt size 16, 35?”

She froze. She couldn’t get used to people mentioning her weight. It made her anxious and unfocused. Don was so casual; it should have made it easier. “No.”

“You were thin?”

“No.”

“You were medium to heavy?”

“Yes.”

“All the time?”

“Until the end.” She finished what was in her mouth. “Then I shot up to my worst. I stayed in bed all day and ate. I ate cold food that should have been hot. I ate packaged food. Take-out food. Canned food. Frozen food. I was crazy. Really crazy. I was disoriented. I had lost the best thing that had ever been in my life. I thought it was my own fault. That I should have been cannier. Sophisticated. Knowing. Bitchy. I really don’t know what.” She was surprised at her own sudden chattiness. She felt dispassionate, as if she was discussing a movie.

“What happened?” asked Pierre.

“A woman came to our house and stole his heart. Really. A woman we had never met before just showed up at our door.” She told them the story of Judge Tierney and the Montini children and the beautiful Melissa. Even Don shut up. “It had the ingredients of great drama: injustice, irony, sex and a certain startling reversal. The man, who was smart, acted in a dumb way. And the woman, who was dumb, acted in a smart way.”

“
Mon Dieu
! Ees like movie, no?”

“Yes. Like movie. When the story hit the papers – and it did – a man from Warner Communications asked if we were interested in selling the movie rights.”

“
Quel Savage
.”

The evening chez Don was a big success. She felt as if she were at the very center of the modern world. They became slightly drunk and kissed all around when she left. She crossed Lexington Avenue to take the northbound bus, then decided to walk, hoping to find an open grocery. The Chinese food hadn’t filled her and now, out in the fresh air, she felt hungry. She stopped at a deli on 24th street and picked up a loaf of French bread, choosing the darkest one.

When she got home, she took her time, opened a can of tuna, chopped some green pepper and celery into it and smoothed in plenty of mayonnaise to bind it together. She slit the bread lengthwise to make a flap, scooped out some of the soft middle and packed in the tuna mixture. She closed the loaf and cut it crosswise at two-inch intervals. It made a pretty pattern of lusty colorful salad amidst the innocent halo of white bread. There were seven two-inch portions.