“I think I’ll pass.”
Scotty raised his eyebrows. “How serious is this thing?” he asked. “She’s out of town, so that means you have to stay in?”
“It’s not like that.”
“When do I get to meet her, anyway?”
Jim shrugged. “When she gets back, I guess.”
Scotty gave him a long considering look, the pen still in his hands for a moment.
“I think you’ve got it bad, pal,” he said finally.
“I guess I do.”
“How does she feel about you?”
“I think she likes me,” Jim said.
Scotty set the pen back down on Jim’s desk.
“You’re a lucky stiff,” he said.
15
I’ve decided that the ghosts are simply hallucinations, brought on by my hunger. Never mind what Jilly or Christy would say. That’s all that makes sense. If anything makes sense anymore.
I’ve been on this diet for almost four weeks now. Popcorn and lettuce, lettuce and popcorn. A muffin on Wednesday, but I won’t let that happen again because I’m really losing weight and I don’t want to screw anything up. From a hundred and twenty-six to a hundred and four this morning.
Once I would have been delirious with joy to weigh only a hundred and four again, but when I look in the mirror I know it’s not enough. All I still see is fat. I can get rid of more. I don’t have to be a cow all my life.
I still haven’t had a cigarette either and it hasn’t added anything to my weight. It’s as bad as I thought it’d be—you never realize what a physical addiction it really is until you try to quit—but at least I’m not putting on the pounds, stuffing my face with food because I miss sticking a cigarette in my mouth.
I’m so cranky, though. I guess that’s to be expected. My whole body feels weird, like it doesn’t belong to me anymore. But I kind of like it. There’s a down side, like my clothes don’t fit right anymore, but I can deal with it. Since I can’t afford to buy new ones, I’ve been taking them in— skirts and jeans. My T-shirts and blouses are all getting really loose, but I don’t mind. I feel so good about the way I’m starting to look now I know that I can never let myself get fat again. I’m just going to lose a few more pounds and then I’m going to go on a bit of a more normal diet. I’m sick of popcorn and lettuce.
The diet’s probably making me cranky as well, but I know I’ll get past it, just like I’ll get past the constant need to have a cigarette. Already it’s easier. Now all I’ve got to do is deal with the financial mess I’m in. I don’t know how to handle it. I’m not spending any money at all—mine or the paper’s—but I’m in deep. My phone got cut off yesterday. I just didn’t have the money to pay the bill after covering my other expenses. I guess I should’ve told the bank manager about it when I went in for that loan, but I’d forgotten I was overdue and I don’t want to go back to his office.
What I really want to do is just go away for awhile—the way I’m pretending to Jim that I have. Before my phone got cut off, I was calling him from these “hotels” I’m supposed to be staying in and we’d have nice long talks. It’s the weirdest romance I’ve ever had. I can’t wait to see his face when he finally sees the new and improved me.
But I’m not ready yet. I want to trim the last of the fat away and put the no-smoking jitters aside first. I know I can do it. I’m feeling a lot more confident about everything now. I guess it really is possible to take charge of your life and make the necessary changes so that you’re happy with who you are. What I want now is some time to myself. Go away and come back as an entirely new person. Start my life over again.
Last night one of the ghosts gave me a really good idea.
16
Wendy slouched in the window seat of Jilly’s studio while Jilly stood at her easel, painting. She had her notebook open on her lap, but she hadn’t written a word in it. She alternated between watching Jilly work, which was fairly boring, and taking in the clutter of the studio. Paintings were piled up against one another along the walls. Everywhere she looked there were stacks of paper and reference books, jars and tins full of brushes, tubes of paint and messy palettes for all the different media Jilly worked in. The walls were hung with her own work and that of her friends.
One of the weirdest things in the room was a fabric mâché self-portrait that Jilly had done. The life-size sculpture stood in a corner, dressed in Jilly’s clothes, paint brush in hand and wearing a Walkman. No matter how often Wendy came over, it still made her start.
“You’re being awfully quiet,” Jilly said, stepping back from her canvass.
“I was thinking about Brenda.”
Jilly leaned forward to add a daub of paint, then stepped back again.
“I haven’t seen much of her myself,” she said. “Of course I’ve been spending twenty-six hours a day trying to get this art done for this album cover.”
“Do they still make albums?”
Jilly shrugged. “CD, then. Or whatever. Why are you thinking about Brenda?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I just haven’t seen her for ages. We used to go down to the Dutchman’s Bakery for strudels every Saturday morning, but she’s begged off for the last three weeks.”
“That’s because she’s on a diet,” Jilly said.
“How do you know?”
Jilly stuck her brush behind her ear and used the edge of her smock to rub at something oh the canvass.
“I ran into her on the way to the art store the other day,” she said as she fussed with the painting. “She looked so thin that she’s got to be on another diet—one that’s working, for a change.”
“I don’t know why she’s so fixated on her weight,” Wendy said. “She thinks she’s humongous, and she’s really not.”
Jilly shrugged. “I’ve given up trying to tell her. She’s like your friend Andy in some ways.”
“Andy’s a hypochondriac,” Wendy said.
“I know. He’s always talking about what’s wrong with him, right?”
“So?”
“So Brenda’s a little like that. Did you ever know her to not have a problem?”
“That’s not really being fair,” Wendy said.
. Jilly looked up from her painting and shook her head. “It might not be a nice thing to say,” she said, “but it is fair.”
“Things just don’t work out for her,” Wendy protested.
“And half of the reason is because she won’t let them,” Jilly said. “I think she lives for extremes.”
Putting her palette and brush down on the wooden orange crate that stood beside her easel for that purpose, she dragged another orange crate over to the window and sat down.
“Take the way she is with men,” Jilly said. “Either nobody’s interested in her, or she’s utterly convinced some guy’s crazy about her. She never gives a relationship a chance to grow. It’s got to be all or nothing, right off the bat.”
“Yeah, but—”
“And it’s not just guys. It’s everything. She either has to be able to buy the best quality new blouse or dress, or she won’t buy it at all. She either has to eat five desserts, or not have dinner at all.”
Wendy found herself reluctantly nodding in agreement. There were times when Brenda could just drive her crazy, too.
“So does it bug you?” she asked.
“Of course it bugs me,” Jilly said. “But you have to put up with your friends’ shortcomings—just like you hope they’ll put up with yours. Under all her anxieties and compulsive behavior has got to be one of the nicest, warmest people I know. What’s saddest, I suppose, is that she doesn’t know it.”
“So what should we do?”
“Just like we always do—be there for her when she needs us.”
“I suppose,” Wendy said. “You know, I hate to say this, but I think what she really needs is a man in her life—a good, solid, dependable man who cares about her. I think that’d straighten up half the problems in her life.”
�
��I think she’s got one,” Jilly said. “That is, unless she screws this one up by going to the other extreme and suddenly playing too hard to get.”
“What do you mean?”
Jilly leaned forward. “You know the guy she met at the bus stop?”
“Jim?”
“Uh-huh. Well, it turns out he works at the Newford School of Art.” “He’s an artist?”
Jilly shook her head. “No, he works in admin. I dropped by to see how the registration was coming along for that drawing class I’m going to be teaching next semester, and he started talking to me about Brenda.”
“How’d he know you knew her?”
“She’d talked to him about us, I suppose. Anyway, he was wondering if I knew when she’d get back and I almost blew it by saying I’d just run into her on Yoors Street that week, but I caught myself in time. Turns out, he thinks she’s out of town on business. She calls him every few days— supposedly from this hotel where she’s staying—but she’s been very evasive about when she’s due back.”
“That is so not like Brenda,” Wendy said.
“Ignoring a nice guy who’s showing some interest in her?”
“That, too. But I meant lying.” -
“I thought so, too, but who knows what’s going on with her sometimes. Did you know she quit smoking?”
“Go on.”
“Really. And that last time at the restaurant—before you showed up—she was telling me how she was finally taking your advice to heart and wasn’t going to throw herself all over some guy anymore.”
“Yeah, but she always says that,” Wendy said. She swung her legs down to the floor and hopped down from the window seat. “I’m going to give her a call,” she added.
Jilly watched her dial, wait a moment with the receiver to her ear, then frown and hang up.
“She didn’t leave her answering machine on?” she asked as Wendy slowly walked back to the window seat.
“The number’s not in service anymore,” Wendy said slowly. “Her phone must be disconnected.”
“Really?”
Wendy nodded. “I guess she didn’t pay her phone bill. You know how she’s always juggling her finances.”
“I don’t get it,” Jilly said. “If she was that short of cash, why didn’t she just come to one of us? We’re not rich, but we could’ve helped out.”
“Has she ever asked you for a loan?”
Jilly shook her head.
“Me, neither. I think she’d die before she did that.”
Wendy packed her notebook away in her knapsack. Turning from the window, she added, “I think I’m going to go by her apartment to see how she’s doing.”
“Let me clean my brushes,” Jilly said, “and I’ll come with you.”
17
Well, I didn’t have to ask Rob if I could get a leave of absence from the paper for a couple of weeks. After I left work last night, it came out how I’d been using In the City’s Visa card. Rob confronted me with it this morning, and since I couldn’t tell him when, or even if, I’d be able to pay it back, he gave me my pink slip.
“You’ve been impossible to work with,” he told me. “I realize you’ve just quit smoking—”
I hadn’t told anybody, wanting to do it on my own without the pressure of feeling as though I were living in a fish-bowl, but I suppose it was obvious.
“—and I can certainly empathize with you. I went through the same thing last year. But I’ve had complaints from everyone and this business with the Visa is just the final straw.”
“No one said anything to me.”
“Nobody felt like getting their head bitten off.”
“I’m sorry—about everything. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
“It’s not just about money,” Rob said. “It’s about trust.”
“I know.”
“If you needed a loan, why didn’t you come talk to me about it?” he asked. “We could’ve worked something out.”
“It… it just happened,” I said. “Things have been getting out of control in my life lately.”
He gave me a long, considering look. “Do you have a problem with drugs?” he asked.
“No!” That was one of the few areas of my life where I hadn’t screwed up. “God, how could you even think that?”
“Because frankly, Brenda, you’re starting to look like a junkie.”
“I’m on a diet, that’s all.”
The concern in his eyes seemed to say that he genuinely cared. The next thing he said killed that idea dead in the water.
“Brenda, you need help.”
Yeah, like he cared. If firing me was his idea of compassion, I’d hate to see what happened if he really started to be helpful. But I was smart this time and just kept my mouth shut.
“I’m sorry,” was all I said. “I’ll pay you back. It’s just going to take some time.”
I got up and left then. He called after me, but I pretended I didn’t hear him. I was afraid of what I might say if he kept pushing at me.
I was lucky, I guess. He could have pressed charges— misappropriation of the paper’s funds—but he didn’t. I should have felt grateful. But I didn’t walk out of there thinking how lucky I’d been. I felt like dirt. I’d never been so embarrassed in all my life.
That was Friday. I’m trying to put it behind me and not think about it. That’s easier said than done. I’ve been only partially successful, but by this morning I don’t feel as bad as I did yesterday. I’m still a little light-headed, but I’m down another couple of pounds and I still haven’t had a cigarette. Day twenty-nine into my new life and counting.
I’ve moved into The Wishing Well, in unit number twelve—that’s the last one on the north wing. I didn’t bring much with me—just a few necessities. A few changes of clothing. Some toiletries. A sleeping bag and pillow. A kazillion packages of popcorn, a couple of heads of lettuce and some bottled water. A box of miscellaneous herb teas and a Coleman stove to boil water on. A handful of books.
I also brought along my trusty old manual typewriter that I used all through college, because I think I might try to do some writing again—creative writing like I used to do before I got my first job on the paper. I would’ve brought my computer, but there’s no electricity here, which is also why I’ve got a flashlight and an oil lamp, though I wasn’t sure I could use either until I checked if they could be seen from the highway at night. It turns out all I had to do was replace a couple of boards on the window facing the parking lot.
And of course I brought along my bathroom scale, so I can monitor my weight. This diet’s proving to be one of the few successes of my life.
I’ve hidden my car by driving it across the overgrown lawn and parking it between the pool and my unit. After I got it there, I went back and did what I could with the grass and weeds the wheels had crushed to try and make it look as though no one had driven over them. A frontier woman I’m not, but I didn’t do that bad a job, I doubted anybody would notice unless they really stopped to study the area.
Once I had the car stashed, I worked on cleaning up the unit. I had to keep resting because I didn’t seem to have much stamina—I still don’t—but by nine o’clock last night, I had my little hideaway all fixed up. It still has a musty smell, but either it’s airing out, or I’m getting used to it by now. The trash is swept out and bagged in the unit next to mine, along with the mattress and a bundle of towels I found rotting in the bathroom. The plumbing doesn’t work, so I’m going to have to figure out where I can get water to mop the floors—not to mention keep myself clean. I found an old ping-pong table in what must have been the motel’s communal game room, and I laid that on top of the bed with my sleeping bag unrolled on top of it. It’ll be hard, but at least it’s off the floor.
I finally made myself a cup of tea, boiling the water on my Coleman stove, and settled down to do a little reading before I went to bed. That’s when things got a little weird.
Now usually I’m asleep when the well�
�s ghosts come visiting, but last night… last night…
I’m not really sure what she is, if you want to know the truth.
I was rereading my old journal—the one I kept when I was still a reporter—kind of enjoying all the little asides and notes I’d made to myself in between the cataloguing of a day’s events, when the door to my unit opened. One of the reasons I’d chosen number twelve was because it had a working door; I just never expected anybody else to use it.
I almost died at the sound of the door. The fit’s a little stiff, and the wood seemed to screech as it opened. The journal fell from my hands and I jumped to my feet, ready to do I don’t know what. Run out the front door into the parking lot. Pick up something to defend myself with. Freeze on the spot and not be able to move.
I picked the latter—through no choice of my own, it just happened—and in walked this woman. The first thought that came to mind was that she was some old hillbilly, drawn down from the hills after seeing the fight that spilled out of the window on the pool side of the room. When I was cleaning up the unit, I took the boards off that window and, miracle of miracles, the glass panes were still intact. I never did bother to tack the boards back up when night fell.
She had to be in her seventies at least. She looked wiry and tough, face as wrinkled as an unironed handkerchief, hair more white than grey and standing up from around her head in a wild tangle. Her eyes were her strongest feature—a pale blue, slightly protruding and bird-bright. She was wearing a faded red flannel shirt and baggy blue jeans, scuffed work boots on her feet, with a ratty-looking grey cardigan sweater draped over her shoulders, the sleeves hanging down across the front of her shirt.
She looked vaguely familiar—the way someone you might have gone to school with looks familiar: The features have changed, but not enough so as to render them unrecognizable. I couldn’t place her, though. When I was a reporter I met more new people in a month than I could ever hope to remember, so my head’s a jumble of people I can only vaguely recognize. Most of them were involved in the arts, mind you, and she didn’t look the type. I could more easily picture her sitting on a rocking chair outside some hillbilly cabin, smoking a corncob pipe.
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