Hunger Point

by Jillian Medoff

  “Frannie, why are you answering the phones?” It’s Abby. This makes call number five.

  “Sue needed me to fill in. I’m a team player. What’s up?”

  “I’m still hung about whether I should have broken up with Randy. Did I do the right thing?”

  “You weren’t ready to make a commitment. You saved him a lot of heartache. I mean, you didn’t have to do it on the plane back from Bermuda, but … hold on, incoming.” I switch lines. “Good afternoon. Cuisine America.”

  “Vicky Tayborn, please.”

  “She’s out of town this week. Would you like to go into her voice mail?”

  I click back to Abby. “Okay, continue.”

  “But I like him. And he’s very smart. And handsome. I mean, for a guy who’s so short. But he constantly talks about himself. It’s like a psychosis. I don’t think he realizes he does it. Like anyone really gives a shit about his stupid life. I mean—”

  “Hold on again, Abby. I’m sorry.”

  “Jesus, what are you doing that is so import—”

  “Good afternoon, Cuisine America.”

  “May I speak to Frannie Hunter?” At first I can’t place the voice, but then it hits me. My heartbeat quickens. Oh God. Kill me now. Let me die. It’s him. It’s Charlie. “She’s not in,” I say in a falsetto voice. “Would you like to speak to her personal secretary?”

  “I’ll just call back later.”

  “But I’m sure she wants to talk to you. In fact, I’m positive. Why don’t you leave your name and I’ll have her call you?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll just try back.”

  “Okay.” I try not to sound disappointed. “Well bye, I guess.”

  “Bye, Madonna,” he says and hangs up. The click sounds like a burst of laughter.

  My father avoids me for two days. I avoid him, too, figuring he’s embarrassed about his outburst. Finally, he walks into the kitchen to tell me that a guy named Charlie called.

  My heart flutters. “What did he say?” I follow my dad into his office. “Okay, Daddy. Take it from the top. Phone rings. BBRRING! ‘Hello?’ you said. And he said, ‘Is Frannie there?’ and then what? Try to remember, Daddy. Please?”

  “Frannie, get a hold of yourself.” He rummages through his desk. “I’m not your Girl Friday.” He holds up a Post-It note. “Here. This should make you happy.”

  “It does. Thanks.” Before I leave, I turn to him. “Look, Dad. You don’t have to be embarrassed … you know … about Sunday.”

  He looks at me blankly. “I’m not. Why would I be?”

  “I don’t know. Call me crazy, but some people get embarrassed when they have an emotional outburst like that. I mean … everyone, you know … understands. Losing Shelly was probably one of the worst things that ever happened to you. I totally understand.”

  “Personally, Frannie, I think you’re the one who is embarrassed.” He hunches over his desk and starts scribbling on a piece of paper.

  “Why would you say that? I am not embarrassed. You’re my father! I’m perfectly comfortable with your emotions. You can feel any way you want.”

  “Well thank you. That’s very big of you. But maybe it’s not my feelings you’re uncomfortable with.” He turns to look at me. “Maybe it’s your own.”

  The phone rings. Please be Charlie. Please please. “Hello?” I say, holding my breath.

  “Hi, Frannie. It’s Bryan. Bryan Thompson. Sorry I haven’t called, but I’ve been really busy. I’ve been thinking about you, though.”

  “What have you been thinking?”

  He lowers his voice. “I can’t get our date”—he snickers—“out of my mind. I’d like to do it again.”

  “Huh.” I pause. I start to tingle a little at the thought of him kissing me, his sexy black eyes, but a thought strikes. What about me? You didn’t say anything about me. “Actually, Bryan,” I tell him, “I’m busy. So no, I don’t want to do it again. NO.” I roll the word in my mouth as if it is a salty nut.

  “Well okay,” Bryan stutters. “But if you want to, you know, if you want—”

  “I’ll call you, okay?” And I hang up on him. “Hey, Shelly,” I sing. “Didja see that?”

  I’m so invigorated, I call Charlie. “Hi,” I say. “It’s Madonna.”

  “You sure this is Madonna, and not her personal secretary?”

  “Okay, cut it out. You got me.” I pause. “How are you?”

  “Fine. I was calling to see if you could fit me into your busy schedule.”

  “If you wait a second, I’ll check my book. Oh look at that! I’m totally free.”

  “So how about the Mets game on Saturday? They’re playing the Phillies.”

  “A baseball game?” I’m quiet.

  “You don’t like baseball, do you? I thought it would be fun to do something different.”

  “I love baseball. I go to games all the time.” God, I hate activity dates. Especially ones that involve sitting outside and sweating. “Sounds fun.”

  “Great, so I’ll pick you up about nine?”

  “In the morning?”

  Charlie laughs. “This should be fun. See you Saturday, Madonna.”

  The next evening, my father walks into my room. “It’s from your mother,” he says, handing me a postcard. “It came yesterday. Sorry I forgot to give it to you.”

  “Thanks,” I tell him. I look at the postcard. There’s an Arizona sunset on the front and her big, looping handwriting on the back.

  Dear Frannie:

  Been here two weeks and I hate to leave. The weather is beautiful every day. Aunt Lillian and I went shopping and I bought you a new outfit which I hope will fit. If it doesn’t, we can send it to Lillian and she can take it back. Beth is doing better and Uncle Monte sends his love. He wants you to come out as soon as you can. I can’t wait to see you. Miss you tons.

  Love ya,

  Mom

  P.S. We went to the Grand Canyon and I rode a donkey. It was really fun.

  P.P.S. I lied about the weather. I hate this damn heat. I’ve got a rash.

  I turn the postcard over a few times, studying it for clues. Love ya. It’s weird to see that. Love ya, Mom. It’s the kind of thing that girls at camp write to each other. Sealed With a Kiss, UR2Sweet 2B4Gotten, Love ya like a sis, XOXOX.

  I imagine her riding a donkey down the Grand Canyon. She tries to hold the reins without losing her hat. “Look at me, Lily,” she screeches. “I’m riding a donkey!” I look at myself in the mirror. I’m wearing a navy suit, pantyhose, and high heels. I don’t see a girl anymore. I see a woman who goes to work while her mother rides a donkey.

  I look at the picture of her in Italy that I put in a frame on my dresser. I stare at her long hair being lifted in the wind and hear her squealing in delight. I tell her to be careful, that sometimes she behaves foolishly, that you never let go of the reins when you’re on such a steep hill. Exhilarated, she laughs at me and tells me to lighten up, that I shouldn’t worry so much. But I would. I’d watch her donkey from behind, its fat ass waddling down the hill, and I’d flush with anxiety until she had her feet on the ground.

  I look at myself again. My mother is suddenly me, a girl on a donkey with her hands in the air. And I’m her, a woman in a suit who worries too much. She’s coming home soon. We’re having dinner together and I’m sleeping over at her apartment. I suddenly can’t wait to see her. It feels like she’s been gone a very long time.

  21

  There’s a corner office on my floor that has panoramic windows, a huge couch, and a conference table that seats eight. It houses the Grand Poobah, Mr. Henry F. Waddel, AKA the Waddler, executive vice president of Cuisine America. He’s Vicky’s boss, which makes him my boss once-removed. When I see him walk briskly through the halls, I avert my eyes, trying to award him the dignity that is his due. Usually he ignores me, too, but just last week, he cracked a half-smile, which indicated that he’s either warming up to me or had terrible indigestion.

  His office suite i
s partitioned by two sliding doors made of tinted glass through which you can see silhouettes. When he has people in for informal meetings, he shuts the doors and sits next to them on the couch. When I look through the glass, it’s like watching a cocktail party. People sit with pads balanced on their laps like plates, their heads bobbing in agreement. Sometimes, I can’t help but feel that they’re talking about me. “She was late again today,” I imagine the Waddler saying to Vicky, who bleats like a sheep to defend me. “And get her off the phone, Victoria. I have no time for slackers.”

  I stand outside the Waddler’s office, trying to hear because Vicky’s inside, having a couch conference with him. When she comes out, she smiles at me, but then looks away, as if she’s hiding something.

  Back at my secretary’s desk, I call Abby. “I think I’m in trouble,” I whisper.

  “For what?” Abby’s distracted. She told me Randy’s begging her to get back together. She doesn’t want to talk about anything else. “Did you do something?”

  “No. I just feel it. Well, I did leave early last Friday to get my hair cut. And then there’s the limo.” I gnaw a cuticle. “I called a car to take me home and they just sent out a memo about cutting expenses. They couldn’t have seen the voucher already, could they?”

  “Since when did you start taking cars home to Long Island?”

  I dangle my headset. “Since I became such a big executive.”

  “Look, are we going to the beach on Saturday or not?”

  “Can’t. I’m going to a Mets game with that guy. Charlie.”

  “I can’t believe he’s taking you to a baseball game on a first date. What is wrong with him? That’s so involved. Why can’t he just get you drunk and jump you like everyone else? Then you can fuck him and hate yourself when he doesn’t call. Jesus, men these days. Listen, Frannie, go stand by the fax machine. I want you to read a letter I wrote to Randy.”

  “I thought you weren’t going to call him.”

  “I’m not calling him, I’m writing him. There’s a difference.”

  The limo couldn’t have been that much, I reassure myself as I lurk outside Vicky’s office. There’s no point in even thinking about it. Vicky motions for me to enter. I fold my hands in my lap like a lady. I’m calm. I’m in control. The second she hangs up, I blurt, “I’m sorry about the limo.”

  “What limo?” The phone rings. She picks it up and says she’s in a meeting.

  “I took a car home. I was afraid Mr. Waddel, I mean Henry, was mad.”

  “At you? Frannie, he barely knows I exist.” She waves. “Forget it. Just don’t make a habit of it.” She looks down at some papers.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “I’m worried about next quarter’s sales. Two stores closed in Maryland and they’re reducing our budget.” She drones on about all the programs we have to pull.

  I listen for a while, then I drift, trying to decide what to wear on my date. It’s the end of the summer and it’s hot as hell, but shorts are so unflattering. Shelly used to have a dress that would be perfect. It was a black linen wraparound dress that tied in the back. It was sleeveless with a deep V in the front, not too revealing to be slutty, but just enough to show you had promise. The last time Shelly wore it must have been three years ago when we went for dinner and to see Cats with my parents.

  The phone rings again. Vicky picks it up. “Sorry, Frannie, but I have to take this.”

  I smile and nod as if I care but understand, and lose myself in the memory of Shelly’s black dress. She was just beginning to get thin, but was far from emaciated. In fact, my mother asked if I noticed how good Shelly looked. “Don’t you think, Frannie? I didn’t realize what a pretty bone structure she had.” She turned to Shelly. “Your cheekbones are a gift from Grandma,” she continued. “And from me, of course.” Then she laughed. “One day, you’ll almost be as pretty as I am.”

  Shelly shrugged. “I don’t care so much about what I look like.”

  “You should care,” my mother told her. “When you’re a big-shot lawyer and your picture’s on the front page of the New York Times, you’ll want to look nice.”

  “I think it’s more important to be a good person.” Shelly smiled at me, but I had looked away, stewing about how my mother wouldn’t stop bringing up Shelly’s plans for law school. Law school law school law school. Between her and Abby, I wanted to scream.

  “Well,” my mother smirked, “it’s nice to be nice, but if I had a choice, I’d rather be rich. Then you can afford to be nice.”

  Shelly picked at her fish. “Sometimes I think I’m going to die young,” she said suddenly.

  “What kind of thing is that to say?” my mother snapped.

  “I don’t know, it’s just what I think.” She put down her fork and went to the ladies’ room. When she returned, her eyes were red and puffy. My mother asked her if she was all right. “I think I have food poisoning,” Shelly told her. “I just threw up.”

  My mother looked at me. It was a long glance. Then she looked at Shelly. “Do you want to go home?”

  Shelly shook her head. “I’ll be okay.” She became very boisterous after that. She told dirty jokes that made my mother blush and my father roll his eyes. I remember thinking it was weird she got sick; that it was the exact same thing that happened on her prom night when she and I had gone to a show and I got sick. In fact, I was marveling about the coincidence so intently, that it was fish both times, I don’t think it even crossed my mind that she made herself vomit. But now, looking back, I realize that the glance my mother gave me was one of knowing, and I guess I knew it too on some level. I wonder if my mother remembers that night. I wonder if, when she thinks about it, she feels as guilty as I do that nothing was said, that for some reason we tried to protect Shelly. But maybe it was all of us, the family, that needed the protection. Jesus, I think, was it our fault? If we had said something, could we have saved her? And then another thought strikes me: maybe she died because she was trying to save us.

  Vicky’s voice interrupts my reverie. “That was Henry,” she says. “He wants us to check out a new advertising agency. They’re cheaper, but supposedly just as good. They want to meet you and me for dinner tomorrow night. Are you okay with this?”

  “A free feed? I wouldn’t miss it.” I try to get back to Shelly, but I lost my thought. Vicky asks me another question and before I know it, I’m back at work.

  Abby calls me while I’m lying in bed. “What did you think about the fax?” she asks.

  “What fax?” I’m groggy, lost in that murky place right before sleep.

  “The fax I told you I was sending. Shit, Frannie, you don’t want it free-floating!!”

  I sit up. “What did it say?”

  “Don’t ask. I just hope whoever finds it has a sense of humor.”

  At seven the next morning, I flip through stacks of paper. I check the floor, the garbage cans, and all the in-boxes. I could kill Abby. When Sue arrives, I ask her if I got a fax yesterday, but she says no. “It was busy in the afternoon,” she tells me. “Mr. Waddel’s personal fax jammed, so Adrienne used ours. In fact, we ran out of paper just as a twenty-page document came through.” She shrugs. “Maybe they sent it when we ran out of paper. Why don’t you just ask whoever sent it to refax it?”

  “Good idea, Sue. I’ll call them.” Hello, Sue. Maybe I’ve thought of that. I’m only panting like a dog here. “Is Mr. Waddel’s fax machine still broken?”

  “The guy came and fixed it last night.” She smiles. “Really, Frannie. I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure if it came through, you’d have it by now.”

  If it was anyone else, Sue, I’d agree, but you don’t know my luck.

  By one-thirty, the fax still hasn’t shown up. I call Abby who tells me that she went through the garbage and couldn’t find the confirmation receipt, so it probably didn’t go through. “You want me to send it again?” she asks.

  “No way. Just wait until this weekend and I’ll read it in person.”
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br />   “But by then, my feelings may have changed.”

  “I’ll risk it.”

  Vicky calls me into her office at three. “Frannie, I want to see your ideas for the Philadelphia promotion.” She glances up at me. “Nice suit. I talked to Henry. He thinks these guys are going to come on strong, so be friendly, but don’t say too much.”

  “I wasn’t planning on saying anything.”

  “You can talk.” She laughs. “But don’t offer any information about our current projects. Henry will do most of the talking, I’m sure, but if they direct questions to you, remember that the less they know, the better.”

  When I leave, I immediately call Abby. “What if I say something I shouldn’t?”

  “Just talk about how much you like your job and how good your salmon is. Don’t get too technical or too personal. Besides, if you’re at a loss for conversation, you can always bring up a topic that’s funny, titillating, and relevant to everyone.”

  “Which is?”

  “Me.”

  I sort through my in-box, looking for the pad that had my ideas for the Philadelphia deal. With one hand, I open my mail. With the other, I dial my grandfather. I have three messages—all from him.

  He picks up on the eleventh ring. “HELLO?”

  “Grandpa? It’s Frannie. I’m calling to say hello. How are you feeling?”

  “HELLO? Who is this? Hold the wire. Freddie, listen, can you hear?”

  “Freddie? It’s Frannie. I’m calling to say hello.”

  “Vell vhy the hell didn’t you say so? Max, it’s Frannie.”

  My grandfather and I speak often, but lately he’s been out of control. One day last week, he called me seven times. He’s as bad as Abby. If I had any sense, I’d give him her number so they could talk to each other all day.

  “Grandpa, hi, it’s Frannie. How are you?”

  “Not so good. No bowel movements and I had a terrible breakfast. My eggs were all wet. I think they’re out to get me. They tell me I talk too much.”