Hunger Point

by Jillian Medoff

  Pia, the waifish girl, walks up to me. “I’ve heard a lot about you. You’re really pretty.” She touches her eyes, and plays with her shorts. “I should put something on.”

  “You look fine,” Shelly interrupts. “Frannie, doesn’t Pia have gorgeous skin?” I nod as Shelly looks at Keisha, who is still standing in the doorway. “You can come in,” she tells her. Keisha inches forward. “All the way,” Shelly commands.

  Keisha moves some papers and sits on the edge of Shelly’s bed. I sit next to her, but she won’t look at me. Pia sits on her own bed. “Shelly’s helping me with my poetry,” Pia says. “She has a great ear.”

  “Shelly, what do you know about poetry other than ‘There Once Was a Man From Nantucket’?” I ask. Keisha snorts, but her hand flies to her mouth. It dawns on me that she doesn’t want to laugh out loud, as if afraid to call attention to herself. I’m hit with a sudden longing to cry.

  Shelly looks at her hands. “Why would you say that? How do you know?”

  “She’s very talented,” Pia says protectively. “She’s read almost everything.”

  “I was just teasing,” I mumble, red-faced. “I’m sure she has.” I turn to Keisha and ask her what she does.

  “I was a physical therapist until I got so big,” Keisha murmurs, wrinkling her nose. “And now I’m a…” She hesitates. “…a transportation executive.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “A bus driver,” Keisha says sheepishly, looking at Shelly. “It’s Shelly’s idea to say that.”

  “I think it’s a good idea, too,” I tell her, looking at Shelly, who ignores me and walks to the door. “It’s time for meds,” she says. Keisha and Pia follow her like she’s the Pied Piper. Finally she turns to me. “Frannie,” she sneers like my name is a dirty word, “you wait here.”

  I sit on the floor and flip through a notebook, debating if I should leave. My eye catches the name Frannie. I read for a while before realizing it’s Shelly’s journal.

  October 1—Katie asked me to write about my favorite memory. I was in the seventh grade and I wrote my first term paper. It took me four months. I remember exactly how I felt when I turned it in. I was so proud. Mr. Hoffman said, “Rochelle, you really are something else.” I remember how good it felt, not only to be something, but to be something else. I felt like a prodigy, like Galileo, like I could have discovered the meaning of life if I thought hard enough. I remember feeling like everything was ahead of me, I had a crystal-clear happiness. If I could have one day to relive again, it would be that one. When everything was neat and contained and I could rise above it and make it even better.

  October 3—Frannie was here. I’m getting used to her being here. Sometimes I feel like there’s a vast expanse of land between us. Other times, I feel like she’s all the way inside me. Is that what a sister is? Some girl who’s been around your whole life, who, in one split second, is a stranger, and a second later, is the most familiar person you’ve ever known? Sometimes I hate her so much I want to kill her. Other times I love her so much, I want to cry.

  October 4—Four nights without sleep. Please, God, please let me sleep. To sleep perchance to dream. To be or not to be. Maybe Shakespeare was anorexic [note to self: thesis topic, Eating Disorders of the Elizabethans—Bulimia With the Bard—maybe Ophelia wasn’t mad, maybe she was hungry].

  October 8—HARVARDHARVARDHARVARD Johnny Bennet’s nephew called (finally) and says I’m in like Flynn. Is that the expression? Or is it “in like Flynt”? If so, who’s Flynt (or Flynn for that matter?!). I’m in. I’m in. Yippee!!!!

  October 8-PM—I just spoke to my mother. She’s so excited about this Harvard thing. God, the whole FUCKING thing makes me sick. I don’t want to go there. I hate those people. They’re so snotty. It makes me hate myself for being like them. I can already hear my sniveling, whiny voice. Just like high school when I had no friends. “Hi, I’m Shelly and I’m sooo smart.” Some therapist in college told me I wore my intelligence on my sleeve. WELL FUCK YOU. There’s no way I’m going to Harvard. I’ll just end up like all the bitches in high school who thought they ruled. My mother can take HARVARD and SHOVE IT UP HER ASSHOLE. I am not going. Why can’t I just be normal? Please, God, let me be normal someday.

  I hear voices in the hallway. “Do you really think so, Shelly?” Pia is asking.

  “Pia, why would I lie? You’re an incredible writer. Really. Your work is beautiful.”

  As they get closer, my heart pounds. I’m dying to read more, but they’re getting closer. I hide the notebook under a T-shirt, but keep flipping through the papers, trying to find other things. I spy the Harvard application. Flip through it. And when I do, my breath catches. All the pages are blank.

  “She’s out,” Carol says when I call to tell my mother. “She’s showing houses with Daniel.”

  “I have something I need to talk to her about. Since when does she show houses?”

  “They decided to ride together for a week. Teach each other what they know. Yesterday, he took us all out for lunch. He’s such a nice man.” She pauses. “What did you want to tell your mother?”

  “Nothing,” I say, hanging up. “It’s not important.”

  The next morning, I wait for Abby at the gym. She called me, crying, begging me to meet her. “I can’t go to work today,” she said. “Everything’s all fucked up.”

  The walls are covered with mirrors, and every time I move, I’m startled by my multiple reflections. I pedal on the bike, trying not to look at all my selves.

  “Sorry I’m late.” Abby sniffles, walking toward me. “I was with Everett.” She stretches in front of me, so I talk to her ass. “And?” I ask. She sits on a bike next to me and pedals idly. “Well? What happened?”

  “I did it. I broke up with him.” Crying a little, Abby wipes her eyes, smudging her mascara. I don’t say anything because I don’t feel like dealing with her melodrama. “I just didn’t think it would bother me so much,” she continues. “You know, you can jump in at any time.”

  “What do you want from me, Abby? You know you’re better off. I know a lot of people who cheat on their wives, or husbands, rather.” I pause for her to ask me who, but she doesn’t. “You never see it from the other person’s point of view. I’d never do that to my husband.”

  “That’s very optimistic of you, Frannie.”

  “What? Being faithful?”

  “No. Being married.”

  “You don’t have to be a bitch. I’m trying to be supportive and I hated that Rat Man.”

  “I’m sorry. I just feel like shit.” Her face contorts. She buries her face in a display of sorrow, but I don’t believe for a second that she’s upset; deep-down, I think Everett disgusted her.

  “Abby, come on. We’ll go out Friday night. We’ll meet new guys. Better guys,” I add. “Then we can see Shelly on Saturday.”

  “How is Shelly?” she asks, changing the subject.

  “Up and down. Down more than up.” I start to tell Abby about the journal, but she’s not looking at me anymore. She’s staring at a jarhead lifting weights. Jarhead smiles at her and she smiles back. “I don’t think I could deal with having a sister,” Abby says absently, adjusting her bra top. “That’s why I love being an only child. Everyone loves you most.” She keeps staring at the guy.

  “Do you want to meet him, Abby?” I snap. “I’m trying to talk to you. You could at least act like you’re paying attention.”

  She glares at me. “I just broke up with my boyfriend. Would it kill you to be nice to me today?” We pedal in frustrated silence. “Frannie,” she says. “it’s obviously bothering you that that doctor didn’t call. But you didn’t give him your number. How is he supposed to find you? Jesus, if it’s making you this unhappy, just call him yourself.”

  “That’s what you think is bothering me? Thanks for your insight.”

  “What’s a best friend for?”

  I try not to look at Daniel as he scurries through the office. I told my mother I
didn’t want to come in, but she begged. “Carol’s out sick and a temp can’t make cold calls,” she told me. “Please? I know you need the money.” Apparently, she doesn’t mind flaunting her affair. Maybe she’s afraid I’ll tell my father if she’s not nice. She offered to pay me double, so for all I care, she can fuck the guy on her credenza.

  I spend the morning writing my name on a legal pad:

  Frannie Hunter Thompson. Mrs. Frannie Thompson.

  Dr. and Mrs. Bryan Thompson. Dr. and Dr. Thompson.

  I hear my mother talking to my grandfather. She speaks slowly, as if talking to a child. She tells him that she and Aunt Lillian are looking into moving him out of Florida, that he’ll eventually come live with her in New York. “Now just isn’t the best time, Daddy,” she says. “Frannie is home and there are a lot of people around…Yes, I told you that. Frannie moved home…About four months ago”—(It’s only been three, Mom, three and a half)—“What? No, she doesn’t have a boyfriend. No, it’s Rascals, not Hooligans. And it’s Houlihan’s. No, she’s not at Houlihan’s, she’s at Rascals. It’s like Hooligans—I mean Houlihan’s. Frannie!” she yells. “Pick up the phone. Grandpa wants to say hello.” I make believe I can’t hear her. “She must be busy, Daddy…Yes, Shelly is fine. Still at the law firm…That’s right, just like Perry Mason. I know that’s your favorite show…No, I like Murder, She Wrote.” She doesn’t speak for a second and I think she’s hung up, but then she says, “Yes, you will move up here. I promise I’ll talk to Lillian…I love you, too.”

  She walks over to my desk. “That was your grandfather. Honestly, I don’t know what to do. He calls me every ten minutes.”

  “So does Aunt Lillian,” I remind her, slipping my hand over the legal pad. I follow her into her office.

  “I just don’t think I can handle having Grandpa up here right now,” she says, “but I hate the thought of leaving him alone in that house with his eyes so bad. Now Tilly’s talking about moving in with her daughter in Tampa.” She stacks some papers. “Anyway, he’s becoming too much for Tilly to handle.”

  I try to appear nonchalant. “I think he should move in with us. You can’t put him in an institution, Mom. It’s so anonymous. I’ll take care of him during the day, at least until I find a job.” I can’t even believe I’m saying this. My grandfather will drive me into an institution.

  “He needs professional help, Frannie. I’ll check out a few places. Not every nursing home has been on 60 Minutes.” She looks up. “I thought the same thing about Shelly, remember? But now I realize the hospital is the best place for her. She sounds great! Said she finished her applications.”

  “She said that? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Frannie. Why are you making such a big deal about this?” She tries to catch my eye. “You can go to graduate school, too, honey.”

  I shrug, but the urge to tell my mother the truth about Shelly’s application is like a living force inside my head. “Shelly didn’t—” I start to say, but I stop myself. If I tell her I read the journal, she’ll just tell Shelly, and it will become a whole big thing. “Look, I just think you owe your father a decent place to live. I can’t imagine him in a nursing home.”

  “When you’re a grown woman with daughters and I’m aging against my will with nothing to do all day but call you, then we’ll talk about who owes what to whom.”

  “Fine. Do what you need to do.” The phone rings and I reach for it, forgetting I’m in her office. “Hi, Grandpa. No, I’m not sure what channel The Price Is Right is on. I didn’t even know it was still on TV. Oh look, my boyfriend is here. And he’s got flowers!!”

  Johnny Bennet calls me into his office. While he finishes up a phone call, I glance at a picture of him standing in front of a rambling Victorian house, shaking hands with the new owners. Beaming, Johnny rests his free hand on a bright yellow SOLD sign. He’s thinner in the picture than he is in real life, but looks just as dopey.

  “My biggest sale.” He gestures. “Four bills. That’s when I was on fire. I was thirty pounds lighter.” He pats his belly. “Then I got rich and fat. Not too bad a combination.”

  “Oh, you’re not so fat.” I wonder if this deflates the compliment he pays himself.

  “Mrs. Bennet is constantly monitoring my cholesterol. What she doesn’t know about are my after-hours martinis.” He laughs heartily. His grandiosity amazes me. “So that will be our little secret, Frannie?” He smiles conspiratorially. “You won’t tell the missus about my martinis?” I shake my head. I could give a shit about your martinis. I hear Daniel flitting around. I glance out and see him walking toward my mother’s office. As I hear her stupid laugh, I want to race out there.

  I realize Johnny is speaking. “The reason I called you in here is because I don’t think Carol wants to come back full-time. Your mother and I have discussed it and we—well, I, since she told me she isn’t sure if this is what you want to do—I was thinking that you might want to work here. Not permanently, but long enough so we can train someone. You could decide if you want to be an agent, maybe ride with Daniel.” He sits back. The chair squeaks from his weight. “Think about it.”

  I look over at the picture. The thin Johnny Bennet looks at me. I bet my mother put up a fight about this. “God, Mr. Bennet, I am so flattered, but my mom’s right. I am looking for something different. The more time I spend here, the less I have for my job search. But thank you.” I move toward the door. “It’s nice of you to even consider me.”

  I rush out of his office and turn to my mother’s. Daniel’s in there and her door is shut. It pisses me off that I didn’t hear them close it. I’m so mad, I could spit.

  After working at my mother’s office, I have to go to Rascals. I can’t believe I’m working two jobs. I don’t know which one I hate more. On the way to the restaurant, I stop off at home to take a shower. There’s a note on the kitchen counter.

  * * *

  David,

  Went to the gym. Will be home around 8:30. Eat without me.

  M.

  * * *

  The note is written in my mother’s looping, bold script. I study it for a few seconds. Before I leave, I grab a pen and scrawl I love you above my mother’s initial, jabbing the pen into the paper, not even caring that my writing looks nothing at all like hers.

  I don’t make it to work after all. I take a chance and drive to Dr. Bryan’s apartment. He’s not surprised to see me, in fact, he’s happy. We spend hours together, hours of sweaty, lusty, amazing sex. I lie in bed as he gets dressed. Slowly, I drop the sheet from my body. He crawls on the bed in his clothes and traces my nipple with his finger. “You are so awesome,” he murmurs, his breath warm. “I want to kiss your incredible mouth.”

  I stare at the phone in the break room at Rascals. Call him. Just call him. He doesn’t know where you live or where you work, thank God. How is he supposed to find you? It’s been a month, maybe he forgot. But as much as I want to call him, I can’t. I thumb through an old Manhattan phone book until I find:

  THOMPSON Bryan 204 E. 79…555–9998

  I write the number down on a blank check and put it in my wallet. Paulie sticks his head into the break room. “Frannie! Frannie, come on. You have food up.”

  “I’m coming. Jesus, you’d think I was late for a board meeting at General Motors.” But like Pavlov’s dog, I follow him out, gazing at the phone one last time.

  Hours later, the dinner rush over, I walk toward the kitchen with a tray of plates. Behind me, Artie pulls the strings of my apron, which slips with the weight of checks, loose change, pens, and bills. “Tie the fucking apron, Artie,” I say sharply. “My hands are full.”

  “Kiss me first,” he says, breathing in my ear. “I’ll do it if you kiss me.”

  “Artie, goddammit. This isn’t funny.” I jerk forward. Wine sloshes over the rims of the drinks. My apron and everything in it scatters all over the floor. As I bend over, Artie rubs my ass. “Stop it!” I hiss. “Just leave me alone.” For a second, I stand pa
ralyzed, not knowing if I should hit him or cry.

  I walk past the couple at my last table three times, trying to appear as if I’m not watching them. Once they cash out, I can go home to my little bed and fantasize about Bryan. The couple huddle together, deep in conversation. It looks like the woman is crying. “Can I get you anything else?” I ask, trying to hear what they are saying.

  They both look up quickly and shake their heads. The man is probably twenty years older than the woman and very distinguished. The woman is extremely pretty and talks rapidly, waving her hands in the air. For some reason, she strikes me as desperate. I notice the glint of a wedding band on the man’s hand. He seems annoyed by the woman. He even glances away a few times as if she bores him. It bothers me to watch, but I can’t help myself. I’m dying to know why the woman is suddenly sobbing so hard, and trying not to make any noise. When she holds up her hands to wipe her eyes, then rests them on his arm, it all makes sense: she’s not wearing any rings.

  I glance at Artie, who is counting bills in the waitress stand. I can feel his fingers in my hair, and a chill runs through me. The woman is still crying. I want to shake her, pull her away from that guy, scream that she should treat herself better. I inch up to the table. “Would you mind cashing out with me?” I try to sound sweet. The man looks up accusingly, like it’s my fault his date is crying. “You’re my last table. You can sit as long as you want.” I feel like a trailer-park slut asking for the money, even though it’s mine.

  “We haven’t finished yet. We’ll leave when we’re ready,” the man says sharply. The woman doesn’t say a thing, she just looks beaten.

  “You can stay as long as you want, but I can’t go until you pay me.”

  “I said we would pay you when we were ready to leave. You’re a waitress for Christ’s sake. Go get Paulie. I want to see him.”