Hunger Point

by Jillian Medoff

  “Stop taking every goddamn thing I say out of context,” I snap. I can’t believe that Chubby is letting all this go. I imagine Shelly in a new apartment in the city, entertaining all of Abby’s rock star and athlete clients while I’m stuck at home in my little twin bed. I should be happy for my sister, but I can’t be. I can’t. I just can’t. My selfishness disgusts me, but right now, I hate her so much, I want to smack the smug little smile off her fucking face.

  “I agree with Frannie,” my father says tentatively, watching Shelly. “I don’t know if moving into your own place is the best plan.”

  “Since when do you have any idea what is best for me?” Shelly says coldly. Jesus, she has been speaking to my mother. My dad slumps in his seat. “Nice way to talk to your father,” he mutters.

  “Shelly, honey, we’re all just trying to help out,” my mother tells her. “I think it’s exciting to think about getting out of here, but I don’t want you to rush into anything. I thought we’d decided to wait.”

  My sister shifts into her seat. I wish she’d throw a temper tantrum so Chubby can hustle her back upstairs and we can abort this stupid discussion about her leaving. “Mom,” Shelly whines. “Mom, we said that a month ago. My insurance runs out in three weeks. We talked about this. You act like that conversation didn’t even happen.”

  “I know we did, dear.” My mother glances at Chubby, who sits stone-faced like a Buddha. “I’m not telling you what to do one way or the other. I just want you to be sure, that’s all.”

  “I am sure for Christ’s sake.” Shelly looks at Chubby. “You know, I really wish everyone didn’t feel the need to tell me what is best for me. I’m not asking for your approval. I’m telling you what I’m doing. I consider it a gift.”

  My father clears his throat. “I think we need to respect Shelly’s decision.”

  “David, hold on,” my mother interrupts. “What about Shelly coming home for a few weeks to get her bearings?”

  “Hello, I’m here,” Shelly snaps. “And I’m not moving home.” She sits with her hands in her lap, totally relaxed. Her calmness freaks me out. I’m much more comfortable when she’s hysterical. When she’s so calm, she seems like a stranger. I remember her journal. Is that what a sister is? A sister. What’s a sister?

  “I’m only talking about a few weeks, Shelly,” my mother is saying. “Not a lifetime.”

  “She said no, Marsha,” my father says. My mother purses her lips and the two of them sit in a long, tense silence.

  “Listen,” I say finally. “I know we want to impress Marilyn with our harmonious family, but I think we’re going overboard here.”

  “Shut up, Frannie,” my father says and my mother agrees. “Yes, Frannie, please stop it.” There’s another long stretch until Shelly says, “Look, I love all of you, but I need to be on my own.”

  “We got that, okay?” I say sarcastically, breaking my vow of silence.

  “Shelly,” my father says, “we just want what’s best. Just know that your room is there if you want it.” I can’t figure out why my father is urging her to move home. Maybe he wants me to leave. Jesus, he’s always pushing me. I’ve only been there five months.

  “I would just like to hear that you support me, that’s all,” Shelly says. “But even if you don’t, I still have to do what I have to do.” There’s a chorus as we promise to support her. We talk for a while, then just stare at one another. “What I’m curious about…” I say. Everyone turns to look at me. “…is how Lonny’s gonna take the news that you’re bailing on him?”

  That night, I lie in bed, thinking of Bryan, when my phone rings.

  “Frannie?” Shelly asks. “Did I wake you?”

  “No. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she says. “I just wanted…look, I know you were upset tonight during our session and—”

  “I was not,” I cut in. “I’m happy for you.”

  “Thanks. I’m happy for me, too. I feel so much better about things. Anyway, I’ve been thinking. Why don’t we get a place together? You and me…roomies again?”

  “You don’t have to say that, Shelly. You’ve been talking to Mommy, haven’t you? I can’t believe she is using you to get me out of here.”

  “It has nothing to do with Mommy. I would like to live with you. I always wanted to hang out with you, but I never felt I could compete with Abby. You always had Abby. I never had anyone.”

  I consider that. “Shelly,” I say slowly, “Abby is your friend as much as she is mine. And I’d love to live with you, but right now, I don’t have a job.” I mull over the idea. “Mommy wants me to move out. Did she tell you that?” Shelly mutters something, so I know the answer’s yes. “Let me think about it, okay? I can continue temping, I guess. Temping’s good, right?” I think about gerbil man and sigh.

  “If it’s about money, don’t worry. I have some stashed away. Besides, I know something will come up. I believe in you. I just want us to be friends—like real sisters.”

  “We are real sisters, Shelly.” I wait a long beat. “Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask her quietly.

  “Because you’re letting me,” she replies.

  Despite my anxiety, it makes me happy she asked me to move in. In fact, I’m so inspired, I get an urgent desire to go somewhere. I tiptoe downstairs and get into her car. I try to start it, but the engine’s dead. I wrap my coat around my legs and sit for a while, watching my breath come out in foggy clouds. Before I get out, I blow a gust of air on the window and right smack in the center, I smudge my initials with the tip of my finger.

  10

  I spend hours fantasizing about Bryan. About him calling me. About our date. I won’t make plans because I have to stay free. I know it sounds crazy, but I think I’m in love with him. You can’t think about one person so much and not have it be love.

  I get a call from Avalon Advertising, one of the places I sent my résumé. On interview day, I empty a briefcase and fill it with a legal pad; some pens; Women Men Love, Women Men Leave; and a can of Diet Coke to give it some weight. I’m about to prance out when my father walks into the kitchen and immediately asks why I’m wearing my mother’s suit.

  “She loaned it to me.” I smooth the skirt. “For good luck on my interview.”

  He looks at the briefcase in my hands. “Dammit, Frannie, that’s mine.”

  “Please let me take it. Today’s important.” I hold out my arms and model my mother’s suit. “Well, what do you think?”

  “The skirt is too long. It’s not a good cut for you.”

  I walk into the den where my grandfather is lying down. “What do you think of my suit, Grandpa? I have a big interview today.”

  “Looks like a million bucks to me, kiddo,” he says from the couch.

  I go to a mirror. I roll the waistband of the skirt over a few times to shorten it. I consider stapling a hem, but the suit is too new. “James, get the car,” I say to my reflection. “I have a board meeting at four.” I smile at myself and feel a twinge of hope. You never know. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the big one. As I walk back into the kitchen, the skirt unrolls.

  My father is gathering the papers I dumped on the table. “Frannie, did it ever occur to you that I might have an important meeting of my own today?” He hovers over the briefcase. “At least put your résumé in a nice portfolio.” He walks out of the kitchen, but first stops at the pantry and grabs a plastic garbage bag.

  “Daddy, if you’re going to put your papers in that, I don’t have to take the briefcase. It’s no big deal.”

  “Forget it, Frannie,” he says, annoyed. I hear him pick up the phone. His salesman’s voice booms, “Hey, babe, what’s new?” Growing up, I marveled at my father. He always traveled to what seemed like very exotic places. He brought presents home for Shelly and me: plastic bubbles that made snow and pilot’s wings we pinned on our T-shirts. It wasn’t until years later, when he took me with him on a sales call, that I realized what his life was really like.

/>   At the time he was selling paper products and we trudged through hotel basements, setting up black display cases of miniature paper cups, paper plates, and multicolored napkins. We talked to supply managers who all had the same greasy hair, pitted faces, and dirty Earth shoes. They smelled of Lysol and dried sweat and looked at me with piggy eyes as I helped my father set up the displays. What I remember most is the inside of the displays; how you could see the black staples that fastened the plates and cups to the frayed red velvet. I don’t know if my father made any sales. I know he had to haggle and smile all day, even after we ate lunch in the car and he got terrible indigestion from a salami sandwich. I tried to make jokes on the way home, but I felt a pang of sorrow that still pains me every time I see my dad put on a coat and tie.

  He hands me a leather portfolio. “For your résumé,” he says.

  “That’s Mommy’s. You gave it to her for her birthday. I can’t take that.”

  “She hasn’t even taken it out of the box yet.” He holds it out and when I reach for it, snatches it away. “Think fast,” he says, laughing. He hands me his briefcase and the portfolio and walks me outside. “Are you driving the Subaru?”

  We both stare at Shelly’s car. Dead leaves cover the hood, and the windshield is streaked with dried pollen. “I tried to start it the other night, but I think the battery’s dead.”

  “I told you this would happen. The battery isn’t dead. You just have to pump it.” He gets into his car. “Knock ’em dead on your interview,” he calls out.

  “Oh Daddy, wait! I forgot to tell you Mommy called.” He rolls the car forward. “She sold a house today and Big Man Bennet is taking her to celebrate. You should surprise her with champagne.” Instead of agreeing, he hits the automatic window and drives away.

  I slide into Shelly’s car. It smells musty and damp. I turn the key, but the engine sputters. With my skirt hiked around my hips, I wait a few seconds, debating what to do. It dawns on me that my mother didn’t ask my father to celebrate with her. I bet that hurt his feelings. “Get the car, James,” I say aloud, “I have a board meeting at four.” Suddenly depressed, I see myself hunched in a hot office while a scrawny man with piggy eyes reviews my résumé. I wipe my hands on my skirt and count to ten. I try to start the car, but it won’t budge. This is an omen, I know it.

  A cab ride, a train ride, and two subway stops later, I’m in an elevator, traveling up to the thirty-third floor. If this was St. Mary’s, I’d be ascending into the world of schizophrenia. Truth be told, today I’d rather be there.

  If a man gets in on the fifth floor, I tell myself, then this interview will go well. But if a woman gets in on the eighth, then it’s going to suck. When the door opens on the fifth and a man gets in, I sigh with relief. I brace myself. We stop on the eighth and a woman steps on the elevator, but just as the doors are about to close, she gets off. Now I’m confused. She got in, but she didn’t stay. Does that count?

  “You must be Francine Hunter. Mizz Billings will be right with you.” I sit down and scratch myself like an orangutan. Someone should tell the fashion world that wool suits are itchy, that people would rather wear clothing made out of ten-year-old sheets like the ones on my bed. Perhaps I should consider a career in fashion consulting.

  “Mizz Billings is ready for you. She’s the last door on the right.”

  I clutch my father’s briefcase and tug on my mother’s suit as I walk down a long hallway. I peer into her office and watch Mizz Billings talk on the phone. Her head is too small for her body, which is cloaked in a boxy suit that looks two sizes too big. I want to ask her why she’s wearing a suit that doesn’t fit her—even I read Glamour Do’s and Don’ts—but seeing her lips purse in a thin, determined line and her long red nails tap her desk, I don’t think my fashion tips are going to win her over.

  She sees me and holds up a finger. I scratch my face. My skin’s peeling because I sat in the sun bed. My face was breaking out from the anxiety I have doing nothing all day so I treated myself. I wanted to appear tan and rested. Instead, I look like a victim of radiation poisoning.

  “Hello, Francine.” She motions for me to sit. “Sorry I couldn’t meet you in the lobby. I’m swamped. As I told you, my assistant deserted me to get married.”

  “You can call me Frannie. Francine makes me feel like a spinster.”

  “Oh?” She’s reading what looks like my résumé. “That’s too bad. I think it’s a lovely name.” She looks up. “It’s my mother’s.” I start to say something, but she cuts me off. “So you want to work in advertising sales?”

  I nod. “I was on the client side for a while, but I really want to work for an agency. I think the advertising industry is really gonna grow.”

  “You’re right. I have my own theories, but why do you think so?”

  Oh God, I don’t know. Can’t you just ask me to list my strengths and weaknesses? “I think,” I fumble. “I think the economy is going to turn around. People will spend more money on advertising.” I cock my head, awaiting her approval.

  “It’s too early to tell,” she says, “but—” The phone rings. “Excuse me.”

  She talks for a few seconds, laughing occasionally. I slide off a shoe and curl my toes. I never know what to do when someone is on the phone and I’m not supposed to listen. Do I laugh when she laughs? Pretend I don’t hear? There’s got to be etiquette rules for this sort of thing. Someone has to know where to sit in a therapist’s office, how to balance a plate of food and a drink at a cocktail party, and what to do when an interviewer calls you the wrong name.

  Finally, she hangs up. “As you can see, I’m very busy and I need someone organized and conscientious. You’re twenty-six, right?” She chuckles. “I don’t think I’m allowed to ask you that.”

  “Go ahead. You can ask me anything except how much I weigh.”

  This sends her into gales of laughter and I’m suddenly warmed to the idea of working for her. Mandy, doll, I too want to wear boxy suits and pointed shoes and talk about diminishing returns. I want to be just like you. Shit, I want to be you. And go ahead, knock yourself out. Call me Francine.

  “If I hire you,” she tells me, “I’ll work you to death. You’ll work overtime and weekends without pay, but you’ll learn so much about ad sales that in a year you’ll be able to do my job. Can you handle it?”

  I nod. “I’m very conscientious,” I say. “I’m always on time so you don’t have to worry. I don’t mind overtime, I can use a computer, and I’m great on the phone.” (Just you wait, I’ll man the lines like an AT&T operator.) “ I have a lot to offer, I promise.”

  She points to my résumé. “But Francine. You haven’t done anything yet.” Well, you are wearing a suit that doesn’t fit. “In fact, your job history isn’t very solid. Why did you stay with Jamaica Time Shares for only four months?”

  “I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do.”

  “And now you’re sure? This is a very big commitment. Avalon wants people who will grow with them. I’ve been here five years. I came on board right after business school.” Then it dawns on me. Mizz Miranda is only thirty years old. Oh God, I am such a loser.

  “Where did you get your MBA?” I ask meekly.

  “Wharton. I did my undergraduate work at Harvard.”

  “Huh,” I say. “My mother went to Harvard.” I clutch her portfolio.

  “Funny, so did mine. She went to Radcliffe. Are you a legacy too?”

  I guess that depends, Miranda, on what type of legacy you mean. If you’re referring to depressed, neurotic women looking for the right man to give their lives meaning, then yes, I am a legacy. Furthermore, if we’re discussing the mother-daughter bond here, I didn’t go to Harvard and neither did my mother. “No,” I tell her. “I went to Syracuse.”

  “Good school,” she says in the patronizing way that Ivy Leaguers always have.

  “I really want this job, Mizz Billings, I’m ready for a commitment.”

  “I sense that you do. What are you do
ing now?”

  Getting primed for Oprah and I’ll be late if we don’t speed this up. “I’m temping.”

  “Can I call for references?”

  God no. I’ll have to find someone other than Lonny to pretend he’s a reference. When we tried it, he said I was sweet and would be conscientious if they can get me off the phone. Billings is waiting so I nod.

  “Well then.” She extends her hand. “I’m seeing other people, but I have a good feeling about you. Do you have any questions?”

  “How much does it pay?” I blurt out.

  “It’s premature to discuss dollars, uh, Frannie, but we are very competitive.” Her phone rings and she ushers me out. I turn away, wishing I could take back my last question.

  As I walk out, I don’t know if I should feel good or not. She did call me Frannie—that’s a good sign, right? But panic strikes when I get on the elevator. She’s going to check where my mother went to school! I know—I’ll call her from the lobby and tell her that was only for a summer session and she won’t be in the yearbook. No no no, I’ll just tell her I lied so she’ll see how honest and forthright I am. I walk to the phone, but someone is on it, and I can’t wait because I have to make the two-thirty train to get home in time for Oprah. Face it, Francine. You’re doomed.

  “Hello, Miss Big Executive,” my grandfather says when I walk into the den where he’s sitting with my father. As I lean forward to kiss him, he whispers, “He keeps this place like an icebox. Could you ask him to turn the heat on?”

  “Why can’t you ask him yourself?” I whisper back, glancing at my dad. My grandfather rubs his arms. “I feel funny.”

  It’s rough having Grandpa Max here. My parents and I constantly bicker about who will sit with him. My father cleared out his office so they could make a bedroom for my grandfather, and now all my dad’s files are piled in the living room. He pretends that it’s not an inconvenience, but he hung a sheet in the doorway to seal off his space. When it’s dark out, and the desk lamp illuminates his body, he looks like the Wizard of Oz.