“I can’t stop him . . . he’s descended into this fat, hairy blob watching TV and wiping food on his shirt.”
“Wasn’t that the plan?”
“No!” I scream. “The plan was to make him a little less attractive, not to turn him into this.”
“So he’s a bit chunkier than you wanted. Big deal.”
“It’s not just how he looks; he acts like a different person, like some—”
“Fat person? Some unhappy fat person? You should know about that.”
“It’s different; he behaves like a child. He needs help. It’s invasion of the body snatchers.”
“I warned you not do this.”
“Thanks, telling me ‘I told you so’ is really helpful.”
“You guys should come over for dinner. Get him out of the house, be around some grown-ups. He’ll snap back.”
Maybe Janice is right. He has spent most of his life as an Adonis and only weeks as a sloth; surely this is tem- porary.
After making filo dough all morning with Janice, I return home to find the television blaring from the bedroom. Not a good sign. Please, tell me he left it on by accident when he went out to do something. It’s Saturday; he should be out and about. I enter the bedroom and discover Ben not only still in bed but still in his pajamas.
“You know what’s amazing about Law & Order? It’s the only show where the cast changes every season and it doesn’t matter. You still watch.”
Ben doesn’t bother to take his eyes off the TV as I enter the room.
“Have you been watching Law & Order all day?” I ask, not even bothering to hide my disappointment.
“They’re having a ‘remembering Lennie’ marathon.”
“Who’s Lennie?”
“He was the master of the zingers. I miss him.”
“Ben, I can’t help but notice you watch more TV than usual.”
“TiVo has changed my life.”
“It’s a beautiful, sunny day, and you’re cooped up inside watching TV. The beauty of TiVo is that you can watch it at any time. Why don’t we make TV a nighttime-only activity?”
“Anna, this is doctor’s orders. He said to relax. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the more time I spend chilling at home, the faster my hair grows back.”
Ha! That’s because I threw out the contaminated shampoo.
“The doctor said to relax, not to be on bed rest.”
Ben ignores me as I walk around the bedroom, picking up his fast food trash.
“Do you have to be so loud? I can’t hear the show!”
“Ben, I’m picking up your trash. This room is disgusting.”
“Get out of my room!”
“This is our room!”
“Why can’t you leave me alone?”
“Fine!”
Scientists believe the chemicals in processed foods cause the premature onset of puberty. I have learned that they also cause a regression of the mature back to puberty.
By Tuesday night, I have come to hate Law & Order, especially that weird bell they ring between each scene. Even as we sit silently in the back of a yellow cab en route to Janice and Gary’s for dinner, I can still hear that bell ringing in my head.
I lean forward and tap the partition, signaling the driver to stop.
“Why are we stopping here? They live another block away,” Ben whines.
“I thought it would be nice for us to walk a block. Stretch our legs before dinner.”
“Are you crazy? It’s freezing!” Ben turns to the cab driver and insists, “Keep going.”
“I don’t remember you being afraid of the cold.”
“I am not afraid, Anna. I am practical. We could get sick. My jacket isn’t even lined.”
“I told you to take the other coat!” I shriek with frustration.
“The other coat doesn’t . . . fit me, okay? I had no choice in the matter.”
“Why don’t you buy a new one?”
“I’m on a diet. I’m not going to buy new clothes now.”
“You had cheese fries and a Coke two hours ago. Must be one hell of a diet.”
“I can’t believe you said that.”
“Please stop at the corner,” I tell the cab driver with a look that conveys my deep mortification about the conversation he’s overheard.
Ben exits the cab after me, then loudly slams the door. Standing on Horatio Street in the West Village, I silently debate whether my comment was justified or unnecessarily bitchy. This frustration is familiar— the sensation of wanting to lose weight while feeling incapable of sticking to a diet. The only difference is now I watch the frustration as opposed to experiencing it.
“If you think I’m fat, you should just come out and say it.” Ben sneers at me.
“Ben, I don’t think you’re fat. I’m sorry I said that thing about the cheese fries.”
Regardless of what I think, we are forty-five seconds away from walking into Janice and Gary’s, and I do not have time to engage in a fight. I knock on the door as Ben does his best “let it go” smile. I kiss him on the cheek to speed things along. Seconds after I pull my lips from Ben’s hairy cheek, Gary and Janice open the door and say hello in unison.
I hate happy people.
“Hi!” I exclaim a little too loudly as I reach for Janice and Gary, giving them each a kiss on the cheek.
“Hello,” Janice says as Gary extends his hand to Ben.
“Ben, how are you?”
“Um, I’m okay, Gary. How are you?” Ben says in a stilted voice. I narrow my eyes at him to convey the importance of acting normal.
“Great, come in, guys,” Gary says warmly. “Anna, you look fantastic.”
“Oh, thank you,” I say sweetly while looking over at Ben, who seems annoyed I’ve received a compliment. I tug at Ben’s arm and make a face. He pulls his arm away and pretends to ignore me.
French music wafts from the tasteful living room, which Janice has decorated with her signature solid fabrics in gray, black, beige, and white.
“Gary, will you take their coats? I’m going to grab the wine.”
Gary grabs our coats, holding one in each hand.
“Anna, is this cashmere?” Gary asks.
“Yeah, Janice got it for me as a gift.”
“Nice. Not quite as nice as Ben’s windbreaker,” Gary says sarcastically as he exits.
Well, that certainly did little to ease the tension in the room.
Alone in the living room, neither one of us initiates conversation; instead, we listen to the music and avoid all eye contact. Loosely translated, I believe the lyrics of this song to be “This is going to be the worst, most awkward dinner of your life . . . dadadada . . . dadadada . . . la vie en rose.” The CD case sits on the edge of the coffee table; it’s Pottery Barn’s Vive la France. Janice enters with a tray of wine and glasses. She places it next to her artfully crafted hors d’oeuvre plate. Gary returns taking the seat closest to Ben.
“What’s the latest, Ben? You defending any Enrons whose stock I should be dumping?” Gary asks.
“We’re transactional lawyers, not litigators,” Ben responds disdainfully. He can’t stand when people can’t distinguish among different types of lawyers. He won’t believe me when I explain that no one really cares to.
“More paper pushers than interrogators?” Gary says, further annoying Ben.
“We negotiate corporate mergers. If you consider that a paper pusher, sure.”
“He’s only teasing, Ben,” Janice says. “Aren’t you, Gary?”
“Of course,” Gary says casually. “I’m more of a right-brain kind of guy: languages, arts, not very good with numbers.”
“It’s true, Gary couldn’t figure out what to tip a waiter to save his life, but we spent a month in Paris, and he came back fluent.”
“I’ve always wanted to learn French,” I fib, desperate to ease the tension. “Ben, do you speak French?” I lamely ask my own boyfriend.
“No, I took Spanish in high school,” B
en responds.
“Español es mi favorito de todos las lenguas romances,” Gary says with an over-the-top accent.
“It’s been fifteen years since high school.”
“And?”
“And I have no idea what you’re saying.”
“Not everyone has an ear for languages; I guess you could say I’m lucky that way.”
The room goes silent. Janice sips her wine. Ben wipes his forehead and stares off into space. Gary, being Gary, sings along to the French music playing. I cannot fathom how someone as intelligent as Janice is married to such a pretentious ass.
“I love this CD. Janice, remember we bought this at that store on the Left Bank?”
Before Janice can answer, Ben interjects, “I didn’t know they had Pottery Barn in Paris.”
“They don’t. Have you ever been to Paris, Ben?” Gary asks with a heavy drop of condescension.
“Yes, four or five times. I only ask because I noticed the CD cover.”
I just fell in love with my boyfriend all over again. I want to sit on his lap, smother him with kisses, and apologize for the cheese fries comment. I, of all people, should know the dangerous side effects of commenting on eating habits.
“That’s not the CD that’s playing, Ben,” Gary says angrily.
“Let’s eat,” Janice announces.
Seated at the table, Ben and I barely look at each other while Gary engages him in a strange staring contest. Janice and I do our absolute best to pretend everything is normal.
“Ben, how are your parents?” Janice asks sweetly.
“Good. They are getting ready to go to St. Maarten for a week.”
“What? You didn’t tell me that,” I say in a voice that cannot hide my surprise.
“I didn’t know you cared. I can, however, get you an itemized menu from their trip since I know how much you love to know what people eat.”
“Of course she does; she’s a caterer!” Janice says lightly.
“You guys don’t talk much, do you?” Gary says, gazing at Ben.
“No, mostly we sit around by candlelight, listening to music in languages we don’t understand. Then we feed each other fondue. Homemade, of course,” Ben shoots back.
“Would anyone care for more wine?” Janice asks uncomfortably.
“I would! And I love these Szechuan green beans. Ben, don’t you like them?”
“Yes, delicious,” Ben mumbles.
“You like them, Ben? Hmm. I took you more for the Snickers and potato chips type. Maybe an ice cream sundae?” Gary asks.
“Yes, I like those, too,” Ben says, clearly stung by another weight barb.
I want to kill Gary with my bare hands.
“I like ice cream,” I say with a reassuring glance at Ben.
“You scream, I scream, we all scream for ice cream,” Janice says clumsily.
“Excuse me; I am going to the bathroom.”
Ben stands and heads down the hallway. The three of us eat green beans in silence.
“Do you hear that?” Gary inquires.
Ben is talking or mumbling to himself in the other room.
“Excuse me just a second.”
Walking quickly down the hall, I attempt to decipher what Ben is saying, but his voice is too muffled. I enter the bathroom behind him and listen to him whine, “Mom, he’s being so mean to me.”
Oh my God. My boyfriend called his mom. I grab the phone.
“What are you doing, Anna?” Ben asks.
“What are you doing, Ben? Calling your mom to tell on someone? I didn’t know they gave law degrees straight out of preschool these days!”
I realize the phone is still on, and Milly has heard my comments.
“Milly, I apologize, but I can handle it from here. I will have him call you later.”
“I want to go home. Gary’s being mean to me.”
“You haven’t exactly been nice either. The Pottery Barn comment?”
“I can’t believe you’re taking his side.”
“I’m on your side. But this is my boss’s husband. Can you at least try?”
“Fine.”
“And if you need to call your mom, do it outside so no one hears you.”
Back at the table, I pretend that the entire phone call to Milly did not occur and struggle to think of a neutral topic of conversation.
Just as I clear my throat to speak, Gary breaks in with, “You know who likes Pottery Barn? My mom. Ben, does your mom like Pottery Barn?”
Gary heard. Ben turns to me with the pleading eyes of a child.
“I don’t feel well. I want to go home,” Ben groans.
The setting may appear to be a sophisticated dining room in the West Village, but it’s actually a schoolyard during recess. Ben is the nerd and Gary is the bully. If dinner continues any longer, Gary may pants Ben. And I am positive that Ben will cry. And it will be all my fault.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Due to a suffocating wave of guilt, I couldn’t sleep at all. The horrors of the evening replayed until 7:30 a.m., when I called Janice and begged for the day off. Secretly, I think she was relieved not to have to discuss the horrendous evening we had shared. I return to bed and feel as if my head just hit the pillow when the doorbell rings. I glance at the clock; it’s only 10:30. I’ve barely gotten three hours sleep. I stumble out of bed as the doorbell rings again. Annoyed, I peek through the peephole.
No! This must be a terrible nightmare.
Mother and Barney appear to be standing at my door. There is no way they would arrive unannounced, right? I open the door, half expecting to find that they were a figment of my imagination. Perhaps it’s my conscience punishing me with cruel hallucinations for what I’ve done to Ben.
I open the door. Mother and Barney are still there. Someone kill me.
“What are you doing here? Why do you have suitcases?” I explode.
“I told you we were coming to visit,” Mother says cheerily.
“I told you not to come. I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave.”
“Anna, your brother and I are extremely fatigued from the train; we need to rest.”
“Mother, Barney, I am on the verge of a mental breakdown and having you in a hundred-mile radius may push me over the edge. Go back to the station, get on the train to Philly, and visit Aunt Hazel. Okay? Good, see you at Christmas,” I say, trying to shut the door in their faces.
“I burned down your philandering father’s massage parlor and opium shack,” Mother informs me with her usual pep.
“She means his garage,” Barney translates.
“What are you talking about? Did I not just say that I am on the verge of a breakdown? You think this is going to help?”
“It sounds like someone needs their mother,” Mother says firmly, pushing past me.
“Hey, I thought you said this guy was a lawyer.”
“He is, Barney.”
“Must not be a very good one judging by the size of this place.”
“Barney, you may not know this since you live at home with Mother, but New York is outrageously expensive. This is a big apartment.”
“Great, then you won’t mind us staying with you,” Barney says with a wink.
“Absolutely not.”
“Anna, if my house in Ohio was an apartment in New York, how much would I get for it?” Mother asks.
“I don’t understand.”
“If I had an apartment in New York the size of my house, how much would it be worth?”
“Mother, I don’t know.”
“An estimate. Please.”
“Fine. A lot.”
“That’s what I thought. I knew the house was a good deal.”
This is one of Mother’s imaginary fact-proving exercises. She creates bogus reasons to validate random aspects of her life. Today’s topic is real estate.
“It was a good deal because you and dad bought it for seventy-five hundred in 1960.”
“Your so-called dad is cheap.”
“Real dads don’t make Bastard Won Tons.”
“So dad’s ch-cheap?” I stutter, anxious to stay away from the Bastard Won Ton conversation. “Is that why you burned down the garage?”
“It was an accident. I suspect he has some napkin rings of mine. My lawyer refuses to file the necessary paperwork, so I had to take measures into my own hands. And my research led me to—”
“Dad’s garage?” I interrupt.
“Where else would he hide something he stole from me?”
“You know what? I don’t care about the napkin rings; just explain how the garage caught fire.”
“Apparently, I put my cigarette out in paint thinner. It’s not my fault; they should have a warning on the label.”
“They have one. It says ‘flammable.’ ”
“Well, it’s not much use if it doesn’t glow in the dark. I think I’ll write them a letter.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“No, but your father insisted on calling the police, so Barney and I came to see you.”
Barney builds a fort out of couch pillows while I stand in front of Mother in a paralyzed state of horror.
“I need to lie down,” I say, walking toward the bedroom. Please, let them be gone when I wake up. I can’t handle them. I can barely handle me.
A deep and phony voice awakens me. It’s the QVC announcer effusing over the beauty of a lab-grown diamond. I make my way to the living room, hoping they won’t be there by some miracle. Oh, dear Lord, it’s worse than I thought. Barney and Ben are both in the fort. How long have I been asleep?
“Ben, what are you doing?” I inquire.
“Don’t answer her, Ben. We can’t hear them when we are in the fort.”
“Shut up, Barney!” I snap.
“Babe, Barney’s right. The fort is soundproof, so I will have to talk to you later.”
“Ben, I insist that you leave the fort and speak to me in the kitchen.”
“Jeez, no reason to get mad,” Ben mutters under his breath as he follows me into the kitchen.
“Why are you acting like a child?” I demand.
“What are you talking about?”
“The fort. Ben, you think that is normal adult behavior?”
“Why are you freaking out? I’m relating to your brother, who by the way you didn’t even tell me was coming. Stop being so uptight.”
The Makedown Page 19