One Fat Summer

by Robert Lipsyte

  “C’mon,” I said, “one slice of salami isn’t going to hurt, one spoonful of chocolate pudding.”

  “Since when,” said Commander Marks, “have you ever stopped at just one of anything?”

  “You eat when you feel bad,” said Big Bob Marks, “and you eat when you feel good.”

  “Why don’t you guys dry up and blow away,” I said.

  They all laughed.

  “Listen,” I said, “you guys are figments of my imagination. You know what that means?”

  “It means you’re stuck with us,” said the Commander. “Now close the refrigerator.”

  I closed it.

  “Keep up the good work, sir.” The captain threw me a salute, and they all dried up and blew away. I went into my room to listen to the radio until dinner.

  17

  On Saturday Mom and I drove into the city to buy me clothes for school and bring Dad back for his two weeks’ vacation. Michelle was supposed to come along, but she put up a stink; yelling, stamping her feet. It was her day off and she needed the rest, she said. She hated the city in the summertime. She wasn’t going to buy any clothes till she started college and saw what the other girls were wearing. She didn’t want to spend two hours each way in a hot car. Everything she said made sense to me, but from the way she carried on, even Mom must have figured out that she had something else on her mind. A big date with Pete, Sometimes Michelle isn’t the world’s coolest.

  Mom started trying to pump me as soon as we were out of the driveway.

  “I’ve never seen Michelle so agitated,” she said.

  “It is pretty hot in the car.”

  “Open your window. As soon as we’re on the highway you’ll get a breeze. Don’t you think she knows that?”

  We passed Marino’s Beach. It was already crowded with families up for the weekend. Pete was on the highboard, of course. Mom nearly went off the road looking at him.

  “Michelle’s a very emotional person,” she said. “Sometimes I think she takes after Dad more, and you take after me. We don’t get so emotional about things. We kind of plug along, keep things to ourselves. Don’t you think that’s true?”

  I didn’t really mink it was true, but then I hadn’t ever thought about it before. So I just said, “Maybe.” My mother is tricky, and I could tell she was leading up to something. I was on my guard.

  “Emotional people have their ups and downs. Sometimes they do or say things they don’t really mean. People like us, who really care for them, have to help them sometimes.”

  I wanted to say something like “Okay, Mom, lay your cards on the table,” but I just said “Uh-huh.”

  “Bobby.” She gave me a sharp glance. “You’re not doing Michelle any favor by playing dumb. We’re not going to be able to help her unless we’re honest with each other.”

  “About what?”

  “About what’s going on.”

  “What’s going on?”

  She shook her head and didn’t say another word until we were on the highway headed south toward the city. There was a breeze all right, but it was a warm breeze, and it got warmer with every mile farther from Rumson Lake.

  “Maybe we should be talking about you, Bobby.”

  “What about me?”

  “I don’t like the way you’ve been looking. Overtired. Loss of appetite. Not your usual robust self.”

  “I’m getting thinner.”

  “That’s not always a good sign. Maybe you’re working too hard.”

  I heard warning bells in my brain, but I was trapped.

  “What did you say?”

  “I didn’t say anything,” I said.

  “I’m not sure I like you hanging around Marino’s Beach. It’s a rough crowd.”

  “Mostly families.” I picked my words very carefully.

  “And he’s taking advantage of you, not paying you.”

  “He’s okay.” I could tell she didn’t even want to say Pete’s name.

  “Do you like him?”

  “Sure.”

  “How much does Michelle like him?”

  “Why don’t you ask her?”

  “Look, Bobby, this is ridiculous.” Her voice was sharp. “I won’t stand for lying. I want straight answers. How long has Michelle been wearing that ankle chain with the heart on it?”

  “I didn’t even know she had one.” That was true. Who looks at his sister’s legs?

  “What time has she been coming home at night?”

  “Am I my sister’s keeper?”

  “I won’t stand for that, Bobby.” She gripped the wheel very tightly and stared straight ahead. “I’ll call up Dr. Kahn and tell him you can’t work for him anymore.”

  I suddenly felt as if someone had flushed my insides with ice water. I felt as if I had to go to the bathroom.

  “You didn’t think I knew?” she asked.

  “I would’ve told you.”

  “Michelle told me.” Her voice softened. “Michelle cares about you, Bobby. Obviously she cares about you more than you care about her. She wanted me to know what was happening with you so I could be in a position to help you.”

  I was all mixed up. My mind was a mud puddle. Why had Michelle told her about my job? Why hadn’t she told me she told her? We had a deal. She wasn’t to be trusted. Or had Mom found out some other way and was trying to trick me?

  “The two nights I was in the city, Bobby. Was Michelle out late?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was she home before you went to sleep?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You can hear a door opening or closing, can’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well?”

  This is what it must be like to be cross-examined by Perry Mason. “I didn’t hear anything at all.”

  “So she wasn’t home when you went to sleep or you would have heard her in the house. What about when you woke up? Was she there?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t look.”

  “Well, were her breakfast dishes in the sink?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “The night I called, Sunday night. Did you really try to wake her up? Or was she out? Now you better tell me the truth, because sooner or later I’ll find out for myself, and if you’ve lied…” Just letting it hang like that really scared me.

  “She wasn’t there.”

  “The night of the storm. What time did she come back?”

  “Well…”

  “The truth.”

  I blurted, “She was out all night, but it wasn’t her fault. Pete’s truck got stuck in the mud and then…”

  “That’s all I wanted to know.”

  Mom didn’t start talking again until we crossed the bridge into the city. Her voice was more cheerful. Why not, she got what she wanted. I felt miserable.

  “Why don’t we get some ice cream before we start shopping?”

  “I don’t want any,” I said.

  “It’ll pick up your spirits.”

  “I feel fine.”

  “Don’t feel badly. You’ll see. You’ve done Michelle a big favor.”

  We met my father at the clothing store. He looked hot and tired and happy to see us.

  “Let’s get this over fast,” he said, “this place gives me a headache. I’ve never seen it so crowded.”

  We went straight to a special department in the basement called Huskytown. That was just a polite way of saying Fat Boys’ Shop. I always hated it. It was filled with fat boys and seeing them reminded me I was fat, too. We had to wait a long time for a saleman.

  “Hello, hello.” The salesman whipped a tape measure off his neck and wrapped it around my waist. “We got some very nice slacks, flannels, sharkskin that wears forever. Follow me.”

  They did have some sharp pants, a beige pair with brown saddle stitching up the sides, and charcoal-red flannel pants the color of glowing embers. I could wear them with either checked shirts or solid-color button-down shirts. And I’d be able to wear
the shirts inside my pants now.

  “I like ’em,” said my father.

  “Look at the price, Marty.”

  “He’ll get at least a year out of them, maybe more. Now that he’s lost some weight, he should have some nice-looking pants.”

  “He might not stay at this weight,” said my mother. “He might shoot up as soon as school starts and he’s not getting as much exercise.”

  “I’m not going to gain weight,” I said.

  “Nice clothes might be an incentive for him to keep his weight down,” said my father.

  “You could always let them out,” said the salesman.

  “That’s right, Lenore, worse comes to worsted.” I didn’t think my father’s joke was too funny, but I laughed because he was on my side for a change.

  “But you don’t have to do the sewing, Marty.” She turned to the salesman. “Can you show us some corduroys? Brown, or any dark color that won’t show dirt? And chinos?”

  My father gave up. “Anything you say, Lenore.”

  I didn’t pay any more attention. I just let them push me around Huskytown, picking out underwear and shirts and socks and another pair of pants, nodding yes; anything to get out of this place in a hurry, as usual.

  But I’d have money of my own this year, and when school starts I’ll buy a pair of pants and a button-down shirt myself.

  “Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” said my mother as we finally left. “I’m starved. How about a nice dinner before we head back?”

  “Head back?” My father looked surprised. “I thought we were staying over in the city tonight.”

  “I want to go back. And you can have a full day on the lake tomorrow.”

  “Fine with me,” said my father. “We’ll have to stop at the apartment to get my bags. We won’t get up to Rumson Lake much before midnight. So let’s eat dinner on the road, take less time.”

  My mother agreed too easily. She hated highway restaurants. But she really wanted to get up there tonight. I wondered about Michelle. She thought we were coming back on Sunday. If she stayed out tonight I hoped she was smart enough to fix it up with a girlfriend who would say she slept over at her house.

  I dozed in the backseat with the packages on the ride up. My parents talked low. I caught snatches of their conversation.

  “I’m willing to give it a try,” said my father. “But I have a right to my opinion.”

  “Not if you’re going to throw up obstacles.”

  “Name one.”

  “That business with Bobby’s pants. I’m the one who has to keep them clean, and keep letting them out. If I’m working I’ll have less time for things like that.”

  “Then maybe you should think twice about working.”

  “Let’s let it drop,” she said.

  We stopped for dinner at Belle’s Diner. When he pulled into the parking lot, my mother asked, “Why here?”

  He pointed at a line of parked trucks. “Drivers know good food.”

  “Probably just a pretty waitress,” she said.

  The food wasn’t so hot, and none of the waitresses looked pretty to me. The truck drivers all sat in a row at the counter. I wondered if they sat in the same order as their trucks were parked outside. They smoked and kidded around a lot, and slapped each other’s shoulders. Big, tough men. Would I ever be as cool as they are?

  “Would you like a piece of cake?”

  Before I could answer my mother, my father said, “Don’t tempt him, Lenore. He’s doing very nicely.”

  “He’s been such a good boy all day, a little piece of cake won’t hurt him.”

  “You’ve been pushing food into him for years, now leave him alone.”

  “Don’t take it out on him,” my mother said.

  “Don’t take what out?”

  “Any anger at me.”

  “I can see this is going to be some vacation.” My father got up and went to pay the check.

  He drove faster than usual the rest of the way up to Rumson Lake, cutting in front of other cars, sometimes swearing at drivers who yelled at him. Once, my mother told him to take it easy.

  “Bunch of road hogs out tonight,” he said.

  “You don’t have to get us killed over a piece of cake,” she said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Slow down, Marty. You’re upset about what happened in the diner.”

  “I’m just sick and tired of all this talk, talk, talk. Do what you want. Go to work, make the kid three hundred pounds. Just leave me out of it.”

  “He’s your son, too.”

  “I can’t even buy him a pair of pants.”

  “That’s different. If you’re willing to take over the care of his clothes, you can dress him any way you want.”

  “Let’s just drop it,” he said.

  I tried, but I really couldn’t follow the argument very well. I could see my mother’s point; she really did do all the washing and ironing and sewing. But my father was willing to take a chance on getting me really nice pants for a change. He had confidence in me. And I really didn’t want to eat that piece of cake. I didn’t want to do anything that would make me have to go back to Huskytown.

  I wondered if the argument was less about me than about my mother going to work. Sometimes grown-ups fight about one thing, when they’re really thinking about something else.

  It was after midnight when we got to Rumson Lake. The town was shut up except for the bars. The lake was silent and calm. There were a few cookout fires along the shore, and I could see dots of light, flashlights maybe, or campfires, on the island. I wondered if Michelle was on the island with Pete.

  We turned up our hill. In the moonlight, I caught a glimpse of a white pickup truck parked among some bushes off a side road. It looked like the Marino Express. Why would Pete hide his truck near our house?

  I got an answer to that pretty quick. There was a car in our driveway, its headlights blazing. Mr. Marino’s maroon Cadillac. There were three figures spotlighted in the beams like actors on a stage. Mr. Marino was shaking his finger at Pete and Michelle. They were listening with their heads down.

  “What the hell is this?” said my father. He was out of the car almost before he came to a full stop.

  “Marty…” called my mother, but it was too late. He charged around the car. We followed right behind him.

  “What’s going on here?” my father shouted.

  Mr. Marino whirled. “That’s a good question, but a little late. Some father you are.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Taking my son home.”

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “Ask that trampy daughter of yours.”

  My father went right for Mr. Marino’s throat, arms out, his hands like claws. They were about the same height, but Mr. Marino was much heavier. He swung at my father. His punch missed, but his arm knocked my father’s arm away. Both of them stumbled, then collided with a thud and grabbed each other’s shoulders. They began wrestling against the side of the Cadillac.

  Michelle was screaming and Pete was frozen stiff, a statue like me. It was my mother who moved first. She flew at Dad and Mr. Marino, pulled at their clothes, somehow got between them and pushed them apart.

  “Michelle! Into the house!” shouted my mother. “Bobby! Into the house!”

  I followed Michelle up the gravel path. She stopped at the front steps to bury her face in her hands and sob. I wanted to put my arm around her shoulder, she seemed so shrunken up, but I had never done it before and I didn’t know how. I patted her arm, and she reached out and hugged me and cried on my shoulder. It was a strange feeling, but not bad.

  After a while, we went inside and looked out the window. We couldn’t hear what they were saying in the driveway, but from the way Mr. Marino smacked his fist into his palm and my father leaned toward him like a cobra about to strike, I figured it wasn’t friendly. Pete was sitting in the front seat of his father’s car. My mother was talking to him throug
h the open passenger window, but he didn’t seem to be talking back, just nodding or shaking his head or shrugging.

  “I thought you were coming back tomorrow,” said Michelle. She had stopped crying, but she kept wiping her nose.

  “Mom changed her mind. What happened?”

  “He caught us here. Pete’s father.” She started crying again. I gave her a piece of Kleenex I found in my pocket.

  “You should have gone to the island,” I said.

  “Pete wouldn’t go. He doesn’t think it’s…right.”

  The argument in the driveway didn’t seem to end so much as just run down, like a windup toy. After a while, Mr. Marino wasn’t pounding his fist so often, and my father’s body relaxed, and their mouths weren’t moving so fast. They began waving at each other, as if they were brushing away flies, and I could imagine them saying things like “Don’t give me that,” or “Get off it,” or “Why don’t you just dry up and blow away.”

  Finally, Mr. Marino got into his car and raced the motor until my father got into his car and pulled out of the driveway so Mr. Marino could back out.

  “They’re coming in now,” I told Michelle.

  “All of them?”

  “Just Mom and Dad.”

  “Stay with me?”

  “You betchum, Red Ryder.” I felt very protective toward her. It was a good feeling, it made me feel older and stronger, but it only lasted a couple of minutes. The first thing Dad said when he got into the house was “Robert. To bed. This instant.”

  Mom took Michelle in her arms, and Dad stood there glaring at them, tapping his foot. That was the end of the show for me. I kept my ear at the open crack of my door, but I didn’t hear another word that night.

  18

  I made myself invisible for a while. Like The Shadow. An old trick I picked up as a kid. Adults just want to know you’re alive and healthy. So if you go about your business quietly, eat your meals, smile and always look like you’ve got something to do that will keep you out of trouble, nobody notices you much. I stayed out of everybody’s way, didn’t spend too much time on the toilet, and hardly ever spoke unless Mom or Dad spoke first. And they were so busy with themselves and with Michelle, they hardly talked to me for three or four days, and then mostly to remind me to wash my hands for dinner.