Hunger Point

by Jillian Medoff

  “Do you think he cares who he gets? It’s two in the morning.”

  “Forget it, okay?” I rest my foot on the ledge of the bar so my leg will look as thin as possible. Abby leaves me to go to the ladies’ room—translation: to check out the talent in the rear—and I shake my hair, lick the rim of my glass, and gather my confidence by counting my blessings.

  Blessing 1: I don’t have to pay rent, electric, or phone bills.

  Counter-argument: I am a grown woman living with my parents and I spend so much money on drinks and going-out clothes, I couldn’t pay rent even if I wanted to.

  Blessing 2: I sleep as late as I want and I don’t have to wear pantyhose every day.

  Counter-argument: I walk around my “office” wearing an apron with an embroidered duck on the bib. My biggest mental challenge is making change out of $50 for a $17.89 bill, and my biggest ethical debate is whether to give the old woman on table eleven caffeinated coffee when there’s no decaf at the waitress station.

  Blessing 3: I talk to my sister every day. We’re really getting to know each other.

  Counter-argument: Shelly lives in an insane asylum.

  Blessing 4: I have a best friend who would never ever leave me. Counter-argument: Abby is prettier, richer, and has always had more boyfriends than me. But (sub-blessing) she always pays for things. Unfortunately, she only does this because she’s afraid of losing me. She never got over the terrible time she had in the tenth grade when I was the only person who liked her. But I digress.

  Blessing 5: Even if I met a guy, I don’t have to worry about rushing into anything sexual, ultimately dooming the relationship, because I don’t have a bed big enough to have sex in.

  Counter-argument: I can’t meet a guy to save my life. I am going to end up a shriveled spinster who brews tea and lives with cats. I will die alone in a pool of my own urine.

  “Oh my God!” Abby clutches me. “It’s Melanie Henderson. The Troll lives. Look at her. She’s huge!”

  “She was at Rascals tonight. We’ve already caught up. Where were you?”

  “I met some guy in front of the bathroom. He told me some bullshit story about being a record producer. He asked me to audition for his next video.”

  “I forgot. You’re Audrey Hepburn.” I wonder: (a) if the guy said that, (b) if he was great-looking, (c) if there was a guy, and (d) if she went to the bathroom. I spot a pay phone. No guy. No video. She was checking her machine to see if Everett called.

  “Shit, here comes Melanie. Hide me!” The time in the tenth grade when no one liked Abby was because Melanie caught her in a lie. Melanie was dating some guy Abby liked, so Abby told everyone Melanie had crabs, but I don’t think she expected the entire cheerleading squad to turn against her. For weeks they made phonies and egged her house. And of course, I stood by her.

  “Abby, you’re twenty-six. Don’t you think Melanie may have gotten over the crab thing?”

  We watch Melanie shuffle to the bathroom, dangling her shoes in her fingers. Her blouse hangs over her skirt and her red jacket is tied around her waist like a sweatshirt. “Go, Lindsey!” Abby yells and Melanie turns briefly, but resumes her loping gait, one hand clutching her shoes, the other her stomach.

  “What were you saying about crabs?” Abby asks.

  “You told me that you lied about Melanie having crabs. In the tenth grade.”

  “I didn’t say crabs. I said gonorrhea. Hey, I decided to sleep at my parents’ tonight. We can get up and go right to Shelly. So stop calling me selfish.”

  “What about Everett?”

  “I fucked up. Breakfast was Sunday…Hey, Barguy! Two margaritas, please.”

  I enjoy a brief moment of satisfaction, knowing she did call her machine. “Listen,” I tell her, “next time you see The Troll, make sure you say I’m going to law school. Tell her I’m going to Harvard. Oh yeah, you just made partner.”

  “You told her that?”

  I shrug. “She put me on the spot. She was with Angela Whitehead.”

  “Her name’s Blackhead, although now it’s Avery. Did she look pregnant? I heard she’s pregnant.”

  “Is she going to keep it?”

  “Frannie, she’s married. She can even tell her parents.” Someone says something and Abby whips around, prepared to assess and conquer.

  “Everyone else’s lives are so much better than mine,” I mutter. I’m slurring, but not too badly; not enough so I won’t drive. I don’t mind being drunk and driving, but I do mind being drunk and depressed, which is where I’m headed.

  Abby hands me another drink. A tall guy wearing a suit lifts his glass in greeting. Abby raises her own drink and grins. “That guy is hot.”

  “So go over there.” I have caught the eye of a guy who isn’t wearing a suit, but who is really big, like a football player. “It’s not like Everett would care,” I continue. “God, that guy is cute.”

  “Of course he’d care, Frannie. Everett loves me.” She giggles. Abby is pretty drunk, too, although unlike me, she’s a happy drunk. I watch as my frat boy gets up and leaves. Feeling rejected, I suddenly wish I were home in my bed. Suit guy keeps staring at Abby. Occasionally she looks up and bites her lip.

  “You’re on my fucking foot, Abby!” I blurt out.

  “Sorry.” She giggles again. “I’m sorry. Can you drive?” she slurs, her elbow slipping off the bar. “Or should I?” She points at me. “Friends don’t let friends drive drunk.”

  “I can drive fine.” I look at her face, but it blurs. “I just want to go home.” A tear slips out of my eye.

  “Come on, Frannie. Just stay.” She drapes an arm across my shoulder. “You’re my best friend in the whole world and I have to tell you that that guy is so handsome, I’d fuck him on the pool table right now, balls and all.” She laughs hysterically.

  I see Melanie swaying next to the jukebox, although the music has stopped. “So go.” I push her. “Go get him. Or else The Troll will.” I take out my keys. “I’m leaving.”

  She squints at Melanie. “I’m just kidding, Frannie. I would never cheat on Everett.”

  Hit with a wave of nausea, I feel the room spin. No more bars. No more no more. Why can’t I meet someone who loves me? In movies, girls always have two guys to choose between. I can’t even find a drunk guy to throw myself at. I hate my life. I hate every fucking thing about it. I wish I were dead. Wiping my eyes, I growl at Abby, who is completely unaware that I am openly crying. “Give me a break, Abby. You know you’re gonna cheat on Everett eventually.”

  “Yeah, when monkeys fly out of my butt.” Abby howls. As suit guy walks toward us, she shakes her hair and runs her tongue along her lips.

  I watch her, my eyes burning from mascara. “Monkeys,” I mutter, “start your engines.”

  6

  I hold ice against my head and suck on a cube to make the rancid taste of margarita go away. My father slurps his coffee, making loud sucking noises like he’s on a respirator. “Daddy, please. Can’t you just sip it? Where’s Mommy?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t check in with me.” His tone is clipped. I wonder if he found out about Daniel.

  “So how is Mommy?” I ask slyly. He grunts. My stomach gurgles and I swallow hard. I shouldn’t have had that third drink last night. Or the Valium. Or the sausage biscuit. “Daddy, are you mad at me?”

  “I would appreciate it, Frannie,” he says, putting down a toast square, “if you didn’t smoke in my car. I use that car for business. Do I eat in your bed?” He says this as if I use my bed for business which, to some extent, is true.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy. But just so you know, it wasn’t me. It was Abby. I’m sorry on her behalf.” My head throbs. I wonder if I gave myself brain damage. “Hey, Daddy, come with me to see Shelly.” He gets up and moves into the den. I follow him in. He flicks on the TV, balancing the clicker in his palm like an extension of his hand. “Daddy?”

  He leans forward. “I’m planning to go this week.”

  “Well I r
eally want to see Shelly today. She sounds terrible.”

  “So what do you want from me? Take the Subaru. It’s been sitting in the driveway for months. Do I have to remind you again that it won’t start if you don’t drive it?”

  “It doesn’t have any air conditioning,” I say sheepishly. “And Abby had to loan her car to her mom. Please can I have yours? I’ll take it to the car wash.” I feel rage toward him building in my head, but suck in air to calm myself. Frannie, I say silently, don’t get mad. Don’t do it. Don’t. “Please? I promise Abby won’t smoke.”

  “Move out of the way. I can’t see.” He waves, but I don’t budge. Behind me, I hear Julia Child’s shrill voice, and the sound of her hand slapping a chicken. “Come on, Frannie. This is my favorite show.”

  “You come on. I just want to see Shelly. Something you haven’t done yet,” I add casually.

  My father starts to say something but instead tosses me his keys. Then he zones in on Julia again. “As soon as I get a job, Dad, I’ll get a car. No joke.” I continue to block his view. My father stares at the set as though he can see through me. “They invented microwaves so you don’t have to cook.” He turns up the volume. What did I do? I apologized, my room is clean. What more does he want? “Your wife is fucking around,” I whisper, wishing I could scream. “I bet you didn’t know. But I do. And soon, you’ll find out, too.”

  “Frannie, stop mumbling.” He picks up a pen. “Don’t you have to go already?” He doesn’t take his eyes off the set but scratches notes on the TV Guide. “And no smoking. I’m serious. Let Abby smoke her stinking cigarettes in her own damn car.”

  “No smoking,” I mutter. Then I race out feeling, for a second, not so sorry for him after all.

  “Frannie, Frannie, Frannie. How have you been?” As much as I love her, Mavis Friedman can be unsettling. She calls Abby ten times a day, sends over her cleaning lady once a week, and tries to set her up with every Jewish boy she comes in contact with. The fact that her daughter is sleeping with a married man doesn’t stop her from inviting Jonathan Lieberman over for drinks on the deck and not telling Abby until she walks out and sees a frizzy-haired guy wearing pointed cowboy boots and a pink Oxford button-down.

  I let her set me up once. Abby and I refer to it as the Afta Disasta. “Marcus Afta,” the guy had said, pumping my hand. “Afta Carpeting. Nice to meetcha.” He seemed nice and very friendly. How was I supposed to know that four hours later, he’d wrestle me against the woolly carpet rolls in the back of his father’s mini van? He came all over his linen pants, one hand on my breast, the other on his penis. “This is a disasta!” he cried, trying to squeeze out the come with his manicured fingers. “A fuckin’ disasta!”

  I take a Diet Coke from the refrigerator and walk into the living room. Mavis always plays music, which is comforting in a sad sort of way. “Do you like this?” Mavis points to the ceiling. At first, I think she’s referring to the tiling, but then I realize she means the music. I cock my head like her and listen. “It’s Yanni. Lonny and I love it. It does make a mood.” She hums to herself and flits into the kitchen. I should suggest piping music into Shelly’s ward. As I sip my soda, I marvel at my ingenuity. Maybe I should be a hospital consultant.

  Abby flies down the stairs wearing a skinny leotard and leggings. “Wait a second, Abby. You can’t go like that.” I point to her chest.

  “Fine.” She pulls on a T-shirt. The shirt has no neck so her breasts hang out like rounded mounds of dough. “Jesus, Frannie, life with Mr. and Mrs. Cheerful is starting to show.”

  “I just don’t want anyone to feel badly when they look at you.”

  “Why would they feel badly?” Abby grins. She turns toward the mirror. “Everett says he loves my breasts. He said they are two of his favorite things about me.”

  “Which shows you just how deep Everett is.” I don’t like Everett and it’s not just because he’s a stupid man with graying facial hair and no neck. He also has a wife and two kids, and despite what he moans to Abby in bed, he has no plans to leave them.

  “Bye, Mom,” Abby calls to Mavis, who sits, flipping through a magazine.

  “Send my love to Shelly,” she says without looking up.

  When I was younger, I would come here just to see Mavis. I’d tell her about my mother and she would put her arms around me, dance me through the kitchen, and tell me that everything will work out, that mothers and daughters just have it rough sometimes. She always smelled good, a mixture of Poison perfume and Aqua Net hair spray.

  She looks up from a magazine. “You never come around anymore, Frannie.”

  “I’ve been busy trying to find a job or a husband, whichever comes first.”

  “Don’t rush yourself, honey. You practically just left school. In fact, Henrietta Baskin’s son is moving back from Rome. I can introduce—”

  “That’s okay,” I say quickly. But maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s not so bad to be me. She always makes me feel better. As we leave, I consider asking Mavis if I can move into Abby’s room for a little while.

  “Why does my mother like you more than me?” Abby asks in the car.

  “I don’t know. Probably for the same reason my mother likes you more than me.”

  “Your mother doesn’t like anyone.”

  I shrug. I want to tell Abby that’s not true these days. “She’s not so bad.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since she’s still my mother, Abby. Shut up.”

  “Well, you don’t have to get all defensive.” Abby takes out a cigarette, but I point to the frog sign. “David says no smoking.”

  She lights up, blows the smoke at me. “Tell him I made you. Peer pressure.”

  We drive in silence. I look out. I wish people didn’t go so fast. Doesn’t anyone realize that all it takes is a flick of the wrist and it’s doomsday out here? I slow down, let someone pass.

  “Everett says he’s leaving his wife,” Abby says finally.

  I signal, wave, and change lanes. Questions race: (a) did Everett really say that? (b) if so, was it in passing? (c) is his wife Sharrice the one leaving? and (d) are Everett and Abby still together?

  “Did you hear me? I said Everett’s getting divorced.” Indignant, Abby holds up a bracelet. “He gave me this.”

  “He gave you a diamond bracelet?”

  She shrugs and strokes the bracelet as if it’s a live animal. “He says he doesn’t love Sharrice anymore.” She frowns. “Now he wants to be with me all the time.”

  “So what’s wrong?” I ask, so jealous I can barely breathe.

  “I don’t know. It seemed like a good idea when we met but now I feel so pressured.”

  “Give me a fucking break, Abby. This was what you wanted.” She pales. “Abby?”

  “Wait a second,” she snaps. “I’m thinking.” She pauses. “I don’t want to talk about it.” She wraps the bracelet around her fingers. Cut in the shape of tears, the diamonds sparkle as they catch the light. Abby bites down on it. “How much do you think it’s worth?”

  “Depends on if it’s real or not.”

  “Everett wouldn’t buy me a fake bracelet. Just because he’s unfaithful to a woman he doesn’t love, doesn’t mean that he’d lie to me.”

  I snort. “Right. If you married him, Abby, he’d do the same thing to you.”

  “I never agreed to marry the guy.”

  I think about my mother on the phone, giggling like an idiot girl, and my father, ignorant and alone in the dark, taking notes from a cooking show. Rage rises in my chest like vomit. “I can’t believe you! That is so WRONG. You don’t do that to people. He has a FAMILY!” I smack the steering wheel and start to cry.

  Wide-eyed, Abby stares at me. “Jesus, Frannie, what’s the matter?” I try to choke out words, but can’t. “Did I say something? What did I say? Pull over, let me drive.”

  “I’m…fine.” I slow down, blinded by tears. “Don’t worry,” I say, gasping, “I’m…okay.” After a few minutes, I’m finally able
to catch my breath.

  I make my way to 75th Street. The city is empty on a summer Saturday, and I find a spot, shut off the motor, and wipe my nose. Outside the car, the hospital looms like a bad dream.

  I whimper while Abby rummages through her purse. “Are you okay?” she asks. Sniffling, I nod. “Promise it’s not me.”

  “It’s not,” I promise her. There’s something not right with me, I want to say. I keep snapping like this. “It’s hard to be at home. I always imagined that by the time I turned twenty-six, I’d live in a cute house and drive a nice car.”

  “But you do live in a nice house.” She waves. “And this is a great car.”

  “I meant of my own, Abby.”

  “Frannie, I’m trying to add some levity.” Two doctors pass by. “Hey, maybe we could meet some cute guys here. Now that would be great.”

  “Yeah, great,” I echo hollowly. My eye catches the bracelet, which has fallen between the seats. If you ask me, the diamonds look like cubic zirconium.

  Abby hugs me. “You sure you’re okay?” she asks again and I nod. “I’ll tell you what. I’m going to break up with Everett. I think it’s time to move on, anyway. And don’t you worry.” She squeezes my hand. “I’ll even give the bracelet back.”

  The first time Abby visited St. Mary’s, she said it looked creepy. “It’s a mental hospital,” I had snapped at her, “not a health spa.” Today, she rolls through the lobby without a word. Her silence bothers me. I don’t want anyone too comfortable with Shelly being here. I want my sister to get better so things can return to the way they were when I could barely dress myself and Shelly was on the road to becoming a Supreme Court justice. One fuck-up in the family is embarrassing. Two fuck-ups is a made-for-TV movie.

  “This place must cost a wad,” Abby says. “Who pays for this? The Cheerfuls?”

  “Shelly’s insurance pays for six months, but she won’t be in here that long.”

  When we get into the elevator, Abby nudges me. Standing with us is a tall, dark-haired guy. He’s handsome and well-built, wearing a lab coat and a beeper, and holding a yellow folder. I stare at him, wondering if I’ve gotten too old to go to medical school.