Hunger Point

by Jillian Medoff

  The Waddler gets into the cab and waves goodbye. I lurch forward. “Hey, where did you go to school?” I ask, but it’s too late.

  He closes his door and leans forward. The cab speeds away. Through the window I can see the back of his head, but he doesn’t turn around to wave, which, now that we’ve bonded and all, sorta disappoints me.

  22

  Have you ever thought about how much an anxiety attack resembles an orgasm?” Charlie asks as I dig into my Cracker Jacks.

  “No, but I’ll remember that the next time my heart’s palpitating and I feel like I need to be rushed to a hospital.”

  I look at the field where the players are warming up. There’s no one in the bleachers yet because we got here two hours before game time. “I like to get here early,” Charlie told me. “I don’t like to miss anything.” I knew then I should have brought a book.

  By the time the teams assemble, I’ve had two giant beers, and I’m ready to go home. I look around at the women wearing tank tops and skimpy cutoffs and I feel hot and sweaty and really stupid in my linen shorts and little heels. Abby, as usual, was wrong. “Wear something cute,” she said. “Just because he doesn’t know proper dating protocol doesn’t mean you should suffer.”

  “Get up.” Charlie nudges me as the National Anthem starts. He takes a deep breath and slowly exhales. I can’t believe he’s going to sing. But as the music plays, Charlie doesn’t sing. He fucking bellows, wrenching every word from his gut in a soul-filled baritone, swaying with his eyes closed like he’s surrendering to Jesus. By the end, he’s screaming. “And the la-haand of the freeeee and the hooome of the …” He holds the final notes. “… bah-raa-ave.” He looks at the field in reverence, then yells, “LET’S PLAY BALL!!”

  A red-haired guy high-fives Charlie. “Great set of lungs!” he says, knuckling Charlie’s head. “Simply awesome. PLAY BALL ALREADY!”

  I watch Charlie staring at the field, his blue eyes glistening with the lunacy of a psychopath. I tug on his shirt. “So what are the odds here? What’s the spread?” He turns as if to say something, but quickly looks away. “Well don’t worry about me,” I mutter. “I’ll just sit here by myself. Would you look at that! A spaceship!”

  “Did you say something?” He glances at me sideways.

  “I just thought that this being our first date, we’d have a chance to talk.”

  He looks at the field. “We are talking. Frannie, baseball’s very important to me.”

  “Well, I never got into it. I mean I’ve been to a few games, and I dated a few ballplayers in school.” All right, so they weren’t exactly dates.

  “I think Jennifer and I broke up because she hated baseball.” He watches me out of the corner of his eye. “I’d say our differences about the sport cost us our relationship.”

  “Actually, baseball is quite compelling. It’s all in—”

  Suddenly Charlie jumps up, waving his fist. “Go, go, you moron,” he yells. “Go HOME. Go FUCKING home!”

  “You are so weird!” I stick my finger in my ear, positive he’s deafened me.

  Later, as I make my way up the long steps toward the bathroom, I hear a crack and watch a batter round the bases. When I look down at Charlie, he and the redhead are doing a victory jig, their arms thrown around each other’s shoulders, kicking their legs like can-can girls. Charlie spots me and waves. He looks so boyish and cute, I could eat him alive.

  “What did I miss?” he asks, returning from the men’s room.

  “A hairy guy hit a home run and another guy got smacked in the head with a bat.” I look up. “Nothing special.”

  “Thanks for the recap. Here, I bought you a present.” Charlie slips a cap on my head.

  “A Mets cap! Love it.” Shit. Hat hair. “You know, Charlie, it’s so cute, why don’t you wear it?”

  By the fourth inning, the game has calmed down. No one is scoring and everyone is striking out. Charlie has his head bent, gulping his beer in frustration. When I ask him what’s wrong, he points to the field. “They’re fucking up.”

  “And you take that personally?”

  “I try not to.” He squeezes my hand. “You know, I didn’t tell you how pretty you look.”

  “You don’t have to.” I smile coyly.

  “You already know?”

  “No.” I laugh. “I just meant that you don’t have to say that because there’s more to me than my being pretty. Not that I’m pretty, but I don’t want it to be the only reason you like me.” Having finished my third giant beer, I’m not quite sure what I’m trying to say.

  “I didn’t say I liked you, I said you were pretty. You want another beer?” He waves a concession guy over.

  “If I have another beer, I’ll be dancing in the aisle in my underwear.” I’m trying to pace myself. I can’t get out of hand; he’s practically family.

  He smiles. “I can think of worse things that could happen.” Gently, he lifts my hair off my forehead. His touch is soft and careful and I can’t stop smiling as we look at each other. His eyes are so blue. And his face is so handsome. I lean forward. He’s got a really nice smile. And he was on time and showered and God, I wish he’d kiss me. Maybe I should kiss him. He’s right there, and he looks like he wants me to. I lean in. “HOLY SHIT!” He blinks. Whips his head around. Damn.

  I hear a crack. Charlie jumps up. When the player reaches home plate, Charlie grabs me. His skin, warm from the sun, smells of musky cologne. He releases me, but I don’t want to go. When we sit back down, he asks how I’m doing.

  “Great.” I smooth my shorts. “Just dandy.”

  “You’re not having fun.”

  “As compared to what? Getting a cavity filled? Having a Pap smear? Now put me in a department store the day the Wonderbra is on sale, and I’ll show you fun.”

  He squeezes my hand. “You are so funny.” I flush. Yeah I am, aren’t I? A regular riot. But do you wish I was naked? I gulp my beer and glance at him over the rim of the cup. I could be, you know.

  “You have to go to the ladies’ room again?”

  “Yes, Charlie, again. It’s what we do.”

  At the concession stand, I spy a phone. “Abby, this guy is no Rat Boy. He’s totally hot.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “I don’t know if he’s attracted to me. He hasn’t kissed me and he’s had a lot of opportunities.”

  “Frannie, you’re still on the date. You don’t get to the kissing part until the date’s over. This isn’t college. You can’t expect him to just grab your tit. Besides, if he had kissed you, you’d be whining that he’s all over you already.”

  “But we’ve been together for five hours. This is like a whole relationship. I just want to know if he thinks about me in that way.”

  “So bring up something sexual. If he likes you, he’ll talk about it. If he doesn’t, he’ll change the subject. Jesus, Frannie, how do you function when I’m not around?”

  “This is called a squeeze play.” Charlie points to the field. “There’s a guy at third, no one’s at second. When the batter bunts, the guy on third goes home. They’ll tag the batter out at first, but … whoa, there he goes. Told you.”

  “To tell you the truth,” I say, “I think my favorite sport is football.” I squint at the field. “I love the uniforms. Most football players have really tight asses.”

  “Personally, I like the asses at baseball games.” Charlie is staring at a woman standing a few rows ahead of us wearing mini shorts cut so high, her cheeks hang out. “You’re not laughing,” he says.

  “I didn’t think it was funny.” I had to listen to Abby.

  “Oh? You can comment on men’s asses, but I can’t comment on a woman’s perfectly formed, heart-shaped behind that’s practically in my face? Isn’t that a double standard?” I don’t say anything. “You’re mad? Frannie, you can’t be mad. It’s not like I asked her to go out with me.” He looks again. “Although …”

  “It’s obvious that you’re not interested i
n dating her,” I snap. I try to laugh as if I’m joking, but my face is burning. We sit in silence.

  “Okay,” I finally concede. “She does have a perfect ass.”

  He smiles. “So do you. Is that okay? Can I comment on your ass?”

  “No, we can’t comment on anybody’s body parts. Besides, my ass is far from perfect.” He doesn’t say anything. “So you agree with me?” I ask. “About my ass?”

  He holds up his hand. “Truce, Frannie. Don’t drag me into this.”

  He leans to watch the game. I wonder if he thinks I’m psycho. And he still hasn’t kissed me yet. It’s probably because he thinks I have a fat ass.

  I spend the next two innings learning about baseball. Charlie teaches me strategies, rules, etiquette, player biographies; everything from their batting averages to their wives’ names.

  “So”—I point—“the batter is just out of rehab and his wife left him?” Charlie nods. “And the pitcher used to be his friend, but now they don’t speak because they were partners in a bar that went belly-up.” He nods again, and I settle back. “I can deal with this. It’s like Melrose.” The crowd boos and hisses. “That’s mean,” I say.

  “The guy’s an asshole. I bet he strikes out. He’s fucking dead out there.”

  “Charlie, I’ll bet you dinner this guy hits a home run.”

  “You’re on. The guy’s a loser.”

  Ten seconds later, I’m on my feet, yelling at the batter who smashes the pitch into left field. “GO, GO, RUN, you moron!” At first, it doesn’t look like the ball’s going to make it, but the outfielder slams against the wall, and the ball sails out of the park. “YES!” I dance around until I’m winded. I hug Charlie. “God, I LOVE this game!”

  “That was fun,” I tell Charlie a few hours later as he rummages in the kitchen.

  “Yeah, it was.” He hands me a Diet Coke and picks up the phone. “Chinese?”

  I nod. “Nothing too spicy.” Charlie sits down next to me and dials. After he orders, he makes another call. “Who are you calling now?”

  “Hey, Grandpa,” he says. “There’s someone here who wants to say hello.”

  “Hi, Freddie,” I say into the phone. “How are you?”

  “Frannie?” Then he yells, “Max! Max! Frannie and Charlie are on the vire!! So, darling,” he purrs, “are you havink a good time? Is Charlie behaving?”

  Charlie’s massaging my thigh. His fingers trail along my skin, which rises in goose bumps. “Charlie’s being a perfect gentleman.” Making slow soft circles, he draws on my leg with his fingertip, then leans forward and lightly kisses my neck. I lean back and sigh. “Here, Charlie, you talk,” I murmur. God, this is so great, this is finally like a real date.

  We eat from cartons on his living room floor and watch TV. Charlie tells me about going to Princeton on a wrestling scholarship. He shovels lo mein noodles into his mouth. He swallows without chewing, gulping his food as if breathing it. “Are you going to eat that?” He points to the chicken and broccoli next to me. I shake my head. “Then hand it over.” I pick it up. “Please,” I say.

  “Please,” he repeats, taking the carton.

  I bite into an eggroll. “You must be incredibly smart.” I lick my fingers.

  “I am. I’m also incredibly handsome and incredibly athletic and incredibly strong.”

  “And incredibly humble. People say that if you have an overly inflated opinion of yourself, you’re probably very insecure.”

  “They also say that if you have to analyze everyone, you’re probably very horny.” He cocks his head. “And of course, I don’t blame you.”

  “Well aren’t you glad you’re you?”

  “Truth is, Frannie,” he says suddenly, flipping through the channels. He’s immediately mesmerized by the set.

  “Truth is what?”

  He walks to the kitchen. Over his shoulder, he tells me he’s pretty nervous.

  What am I supposed to say to that? Shit, if he’s nervous, who’s driving this bus? “Please don’t be nervous,” I say shyly. “Knowing you’re nervous makes me really nervous.” He walks back with an eggroll in his hand. “Charlie, I’ve never seen anyone eat so much.”

  “You should have seen me in college. I’m 180 now but I wrestled at 135. To make weight, I ate nothing but applesauce and Ex-Lax. I was a skeleton, man, fucking ghoulish. Now I have to watch myself. I work out for an hour and a half five times a week.”

  Shelly was a skeleton. Shelly was fucking ghoulish. I imagine her cheekbones as her jaw clicks away. “That seems a bit excessive. To me, a solid workout is breaking out in a sweat going from my bed to the bathroom.” Suddenly anxious, I glance around for the door.

  “I get up at five-thirty. I work out from six to seven-thirty, I’m in the office by nine.”

  “Sounds like a full life. You know, it’s really hot in here. Don’t you have air conditioning?”

  “What’s wrong?” He flexes. “Aren’t you impressed by my discipline and massive girth?” He reaches for another eggroll, lifts it like a torch, and swallows it in two bites.

  “I just hate listening to people drone about weight and food and exercise. All I hear is ‘I really want this, but I shouldn’t’; that but ruins everything. I wish being fat was a good thing. I wish we were all fat cows.”

  “So you’re not impressed by my massive girth?” He smiles, but I look away.

  “I really gotta go.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Words gush out of me like vomit. “You’re making all these jokes and I’m trying to talk! I’m trying to talk, to talk and you’re not listening to me. My sister died. She is dead. She was anorexic. Her last meal was a bottle of Valium. And they could have saved her, but she was too skinny. Her lungs collapsed and she suffocated.” My throat burns. “OhmyGod. I can’t believe I just said that.” Shaking, I start to cry.

  Charlie stares at me. For a long time, neither of us moves. Finally, he puts down the carton. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I don’t know what to say.”

  I breathe deeply. “No, I’m sorry. I just got all uptight. God, I hate myself right now.”

  “It’s okay, Frannie. You’re right. I know you were trying to talk and I made it all fucked up.” He reaches for me and I lean against him. “But I know all about Shelly. My grandfather told me, but I thought you’d want to tell me yourself. Maybe that was stupid. I don’t know why I say stupid things, Frannie. I’m just not very good at this.” I squeeze my eyes closed so no more tears can slip out. Charlie hands me his Diet Coke. I take a sip and try to swallow but can’t get it down. For a while, the soda sits in my mouth. Charlie’s eyes glisten. “Max talks about Shelly, too.”

  “My grandfather? He hasn’t said one word to me about her.”

  “He doesn’t want to upset you. He talks about it a lot. I don’t think he can make sense of it.”

  “Charlie, none of us can. I’ve been through hell trying to figure it out.”

  “When my grandfather told me, I wanted to do something, send a card, I don’t know, something.”

  “But what could you have done?” I can’t stop crying. “You ­didn’t even know me. And it was obvious you hated me.”

  “What are you talking about? You wouldn’t give me the time of day. And I knew about Shelly, too. I just sat there like a fucking idiot, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. I should have acknowledged it—you, I mean, I should have acknowledged you. I wanted to meet you the first day I heard about you. You’ve been through so much and you have your shit together. From the first day, I had a crush on you. You seemed so sure of yourself.”

  “You think I have my shit together? I spent the last year in a major depression. Who are you talking about? I’m like the poster child for the American Psychiatric Society.”

  Charlie shakes his head. “Frannie, look at yourself. You’re smart and funny and compassionate. I could never have survived what you’ve been through. You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met. You have everything going
for you.”

  “I used to think that about Shelly.” I lay my head against the couch. “I thought she had everything. Look at her now.”

  “But you and she are different people, Frannie.”

  “Sometimes I’m not so sure. You don’t know me that well.”

  Charlie and I sit for a long time. As he strokes my face, I slowly relax. The room is lit by sunlight that eventually fades. We don’t speak; he just wraps his arms around me and in the dark, we listen to the sound of each other breathing. “Are you okay?” he asks after a while.

  I reach for his hand. “I’m embarrassed. It’s our first date and I yelled at you.”

  “I deserved it.”

  “Maybe I should go,” I say quietly. “It’s been a long day.” My voice comes out in a croak and I’m afraid I’m gonna start crying again. I start to get up, but Charlie tugs on my hand. “Look,” he says softly, “please don’t leave.” He clears his throat. “I don’t want you to go.” He pulls me into his lap. “I don’t know much about relationships. Believe me, I’ve fucked up every one I’ve ever had, but I’m happy right now. You were like a fantasy at first, but now that I’ve met you and spent time with you, you’re even better. You’re like my idol, you’re great with Max and he loves you so much and I know why.

  “I’m rambling, I know,” he continues, “but I haven’t been in love in a long time and I’m not saying I’m in love, but if there’s anything that can resemble love without actually being love—because you can’t be in love with someone you just met, I mean, you can be infatuated, but it’s not actual love. But if there’s anything that resembles love, then I’m in it. And I’m sorry about Shelly, I really am and I’ll do anything to make it better for you. Please don’t leave, Frannie. Not tonight. I can’t believe I’m saying all this. I feel like an idiot.” He stops short. “If you were me, what would you do now?”

  I answer by pressing my mouth against his.

  Later, in the dark, his voice covers me like mist. “I feel like I’ve known you my whole life.” We’re under the covers, but we’re both fully dressed.