My Fat Dad

by Dawn Lerman

  1⁄4 cup flour

  1⁄2 cup chopped walnuts (optional)

  Fresh berries or powdered sugar, for garnish (optional)

  Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease an 8-inch-square baking dish.

  In a double boiler, melt the chocolate. Then add the butter, melt, and stir to blend. Remove from heat and pour into a mixing bowl. Stir in the sugar, eggs, and vanilla and mix well.

  Add the flour. Mix well, until very smooth. Add the chopped walnuts (if desired). Pour the batter into the greased baking pan. Bake for 35 minutes, or until set and barely firm in the middle. Allow to cool on a rack before removing from pan. Garnish with berries, or powdered sugar, or both, if desired.

  Note: These brownies are more like fudge than cake and contain a fraction of the flour found in traditional brownie recipes.

  The Fudge That Says “I Do”

  Yield: 16 pieces

  2 cups semisweet chocolate chips

  1 cup butterscotch chips

  1 (14-ounce) can sweetened condensed milk

  1 teaspoon salt

  2 tablespoons unsalted butter

  11⁄2 teaspoons vanilla

  1 tablespoon marshmallow cream

  3⁄4 cup chopped walnuts

  Parchment paper to line the baking dish

  Line an 8-inch square Pyrex baking dish with parchment, making sure the paper covers the bottom and overhangs the sides. Melt the chips in a small saucepan on low heat with the milk, salt, and butter, stirring briskly. When the mixture has melted, remove from heat. Whip hard and fast, then add the vanilla and marshmallow cream and combine well before adding the nuts. Pour the mixture into the baking dish. Place in refrigerator for a couple of hours. When thoroughly chilled, cut into squares and enjoy.

  17

  Visiting My Sister on Tour

  Banana Bread, Beauty’s Savory Meatloaf Cupcakes with Mashed Potato Frosting, Carrot Muffins

  April’s contract was renewed, and she and my mom were going to spend the summer in Washinton, D.C. I was going to visit them for three weeks after spending a month at Hillcrest Camp for the Arts in Connecticut with my friend Marley.

  Hillcrest was a performing arts camp where kids were allowed the freedom to arrange their own schedules. The activities ranged from glassblowing, to silk screening, to acting, to stained glass making, to, most important, free choice—which translated into hanging out with cute, artsy boys. Marley was my best friend from Little Red. We spoke daily, even though we’d both left the school after sixth grade. She taught me how to inhale a cigarette, how to line my eyes on the inside ring, and the art of applying black nail polish to look edgy. She had already been to the sleepaway camp for the past three summers and was instrumental in convincing my mom to allow me to go. She said the experience was life changing, and she’d really found her voice as an artist in the printmaking shop. My mom thought I was getting too serious with Hank after I told her I loved him, so she signed me up immediately, even though she found the cost to be outrageous.

  My mom equated every experience, every meal, and every activity with cost. She talked about money incessantly, not in the normal way, like other parents did: “We need to save up, we can’t afford it, let’s wait till it goes on sale, maybe next year.” It seemed to have nothing to do with if we could afford it, but everything to do with the fact she thought she was always being gypped, unless it was a super-sale. Any normal purchase—food, clothes, toiletries—seemed to bring her physical pain, and enraged her, causing her to lash out. I was usually on the receiving end of these outbursts, swallowing her rage and internalizing the message that I was not worthy of normal comforts.

  If we went to a restaurant, no matter what I picked to order, she would say it was too expensive. And she would never order anything for herself, mostly opting for the free bread dipped in ketchup; or she would help herself to other people’s food using her bare hands to grab piles of French fries or onion rings, or cut hunks of meat without even asking. She wanted to make sure there was no confusion when we were out with friends that the check would be split into equal parts.

  “Your father spends all the money on himself, so whatever little allowance he gives me to run the house needs to be saved for a rainy day. You always live in the moment! You never think about what will happen tomorrow,” was my mother’s familiar chant.

  My mother felt no shame about screaming or humiliating me in public. Beauty once told me, “When your mom was three years old, she hit her head while crawling under the table to get a napkin. At the time, I thought it was tomato sauce; but maybe it was blood, and I did not treat it as an injury. Maybe, that’s why your mother gets a little meshugganah. You shouldn’t take it to heart; just do your best not to antagonize her.”

  I knew Beauty’s advice was sound, but it was difficult not to antagonize my mom—even if I didn’t do it intentionally. She constantly hounded me, particularly when she was on the road with April, about how much I was spending on groceries. And when she was home, she would go through my shopping bags or my purse to look for receipts. “Twenty-five cents for a pear? I can buy one down the street for a nickel. Why would you buy chicken breasts when you could buy a whole package of legs for half the price? Your expensive eating habits will land you in the poorhouse.”

  I never really did anything wrong, but somehow I could never do anything right, and my mother constantly used words and tones that were so harsh that I was in a constant state of turmoil. The fact that I preferred fresh seafood and vegetables to soggy SpaghettiOs for dinner somehow irked her, making her feel unappreciated and enraged. I was not your typical kid, and my parents were not your typical parents, and the combination of our unique quirks and habits was extremely toxic and unsettling. So the thought of going to sleepaway camp, where I wouldn’t have to worry what diet my dad was on, or if I would have enough money for food for the week, or what I was going to cook each night for dinner, was a welcome relief.

  Marley had been to other camps before that had terrible food, but she said I would be overjoyed when I saw the quality and amounts of food at Hillcrest. She knew that if I were still a little hesitant about leaving Hank and cutting my summer short with April, the way to sell me was getting me to crave the food.

  “For dinners, they always have charcoal-broiled meats. You can smell the hamburgers and barbecued chicken all the way at the lake. And there is a salad bar almost as long as a New York City block with cucumbers, chopped eggs, bacon bits, sliced avocadoes, artichoke hearts, and garbanzo beans. Breakfast is the best. They have the Hillcrest Slammer, which is like one of those Lumber Jack Specials that we have at the coffee shop with your dad. Just imagine scrambled eggs, French toast, grilled sausage, and the biggest bowl of fruit you have ever seen every morning.” I was convinced.

  Arriving at camp, I was assigned to bunk number 11 with Naomi Weinstein and the two Jills, both with last names starting with S. Jill Simon cried every night because she missed her parents and the comforts of home. Jill Schaffer was from Long Island and had a thick island accent and over-plucked eyebrows. She spent hours perfecting her hair with a curling iron, which she plugged into the single outlet in our bunk’s musty doorless bathroom—while the rest of us waited for our turn to use the shower. Naomi Weinstein was a quirky girl with more mosquito bites than I had ever seen, but the two of us became inseparable. She was super–boy crazy and super-chatty, keeping us up all night with every detail of her rotating daily crushes, determined this was the summer she was going to have a boyfriend with big muscles to get past first base with. She was not going to let a little calamine lotion, which she dotted all over her face to soothe the itching, get in her way.

  Marley, who had convinced me to take a break from Hank to spend the summer with her, was on a different side of the camp. Even though we were both fifteen, she was a CIT (counselor in training) instead of a camper because of her experience from years past in the crafts studios, so
it was often hard to see her. Her days were overrun by her many responsibilities, or her new boyfriend Eric, who was not a camper, but had a real job at the camp, cleaning the mess hall and disposing of the garbage.

  Naomi and I would sometimes sneak out in the middle of the night and go to Marley’s cabin, where all the junior staff would congregate and drink coffee with Kahlúa in water canteens after lights-out. For one of the first times in my life, I had the luxury of not having to care for anyone, not even myself. I could drift through my day with ease and even rebel without guilt. Naomi, my new best friend, was right there with me as her mother had just gotten remarried and sent her to camp while she was on her honeymoon.

  While there was a designated time for rising, sleeping, eating, swimming, and socializing, the camp believed in free choice; you could choose to attend or not attend whatever activities you wanted. The setting was very tranquil with kids strumming on their guitars, batik-making in tents, and many other crafting experiences to choose from. I spent most of my days either in the tie-dye tent, where I made multicolored purple tank tops to wear to the weekly dance, or in painting class, where I learned how to re-create the lush greenery of the camp by using dots instead of brushstrokes.

  At night, my bunkmates and I would dress up to sit on our porch and make bracelets and headbands out of daisies and play jacks by moonlight. Each bunk contained four campers with two bunk beds and no live-in chaperone. The cabins were arranged boy girl, boy girl—the girls living in the odd-numbered cabins, and the boys living in the even-numbered ones. The cabins were all in a row, and there was one counselor for a block of ten cabins.

  Ethan Clark was next door in bunk number 10. He had a bad reputation from years prior, and Naomi had heard from Sally, who heard from Katie in bunk number 15, to stay away from him. But after everyone was asleep, he would throw rocks at my window trying to get me to come outside and sit behind the bunk with him. He laughed when I told him I was not interested, and that I had a very serious boyfriend that I would someday marry. It took him about a week and a batch of chocolate cupcakes made with imported chocolate to convince me to sneak down by the lake with him. I remember the sounds of the crickets and the eerie feeling sitting in the pitch-dark eating the cupcakes.

  I was so impressed that Ethan had made them himself and transported them all the way to camp from Manhattan. He said he had been saving them for a special night, and he would not share his cupcakes—his own special recipe—with just anyone. I was so moved by his gesture. I did not know any boys who baked, and certainly no boy had ever baked for me. Perhaps Ethan was thinking of becoming a chef. I had so many questions for him. Did he have a girlfriend at home? Why did he choose this camp? Was he an aspiring artist? Where did he live in the city? How did he get his curls to hang so perfectly, framing his face while not covering his beautiful brown eyes with the little flecks of green? I began firing a list of questions at him, trying to remember as he stroked my cheek and ran his hands down my back, that I had a boyfriend—a serious boyfriend who loved me and had given me a thin silver-knot promise ring, which he had purchased at a street fair the night before I left, to remember him by.

  But suddenly, I couldn’t remember anything. Everything was fuzzy, I was slurring my words, and Ethan was making fun of me. “Wow, those treats really hit you,” he laughed. I had no idea what he meant. I was shivering and sick to my stomach. I told him I thought the hamburger from dinner was undercooked and that I might have food poisoning. I felt strange and wanted to go to the infirmary to get my temperature checked. He just kept looking at me and laughing, telling me I would feel good in a minute, tilting my head back and pushing my body into the mushy, wet mud. I begged for him to let me up and take me back to my bunk. He kept shushing me. “If you stay quiet, this will be the best night of your life.”

  When the morning bugle sounded for breakfast, I found myself in my bed. Naomi was standing over me with a cold washcloth. Ethan was nowhere in sight. I didn’t know how I’d gotten back to my bunk and had a hard time piecing together the events of the previous evening. I just remembered Ethan’s curls and his firm embrace. Naomi explained that what Ethan had given me was no ordinary cupcake. She said he was dangerous, and she made me swear never to see him again. I promised, but I betrayed her and Hank and continued to sneak out with Ethan, night after night. Until one night, he didn’t come to my window to pick me up. I made Naomi sneak out of bed to help me look for him. When we found him, he was with a younger camper. Naomi simply said, “I told you so,” when we found him in the exact same spot he always took me. He looked unapologetic as Naomi shined the flashlight on him, then the girl.

  “He’s not worth it . . . none of them are,” Naomi said.

  I didn’t know if she was talking about Ethan, the boys who didn’t notice her, her father who’d abandoned her, or her mom’s new husband. I didn’t ask, absorbed by my own embarrassment and despair. We clung to each other silently, trying to find the path back to our bunk. The night was damp, and a chilly feeling of disbelief and sickness washed over me, worse than when I ate Ethan’s special cupcake. I tried not to obsess about what I had witnessed—knowing it was my own fault, knowing it was only a couple of weeks till I would be reunited with Hank.

  The last weeks of camp I took advantage of all the different workshops and tried to tap into my creativity as a diversion from my emotions. I found it pretty easy not only to get lost in all the artistic endeavors but to bond with other boys at the camp as well as my bunkmates. The month had gone fast, and I was truly sorry that I hadn’t committed to attend the second session like Marley. On the last day, both of the Jills’ parents came to pick them up. Jill Schaffer’s parents drove from Long Island in a nondescript faded blue station wagon; Jill Simon’s parents drove from Manhattan in a beautiful, shiny white Mercedes with brown leather seats. No one came for Naomi or me.

  Jill Simon’s parents insisted that we drive back to Manhattan with their family instead of taking the camp bus. They even made reservations at the fabulous Maxwell’s Plum for an end-of-summer celebratory supper, where no one talked about the cost of what we ordered. They thanked Naomi and me for encouraging Jill to make it through the four weeks—even though it was just as painful for them as for her to be separated. Jill was a change-of-life baby whose mother was so astounded by her good fortune that she kept Jill as close as possible most of the time. Nothing was too extravagant for Jill and her friends. They even encouraged me to order the most expensive items on the menu.

  Even though my parents were not there, I heard their voices echoing in my ear as I ordered. “Only a stupid person would waste all that money on a meal.” “I wonder how many calories this meal will set me back.” But my parents’ voices faded as I feasted on escargot with herbs, Rock Cornish Hens a l’Orange, and chestnut cake with a side of strawberries. It was a fabulous dinner, and I was grateful both for the meal and to be included in their family dinner.

  Outside the restaurant Naomi, Jill, and I exchanged numbers before we parted ways, swearing we would make sure to call one another every night. Jill’s dad hailed taxis for me and Naomi and even paid the cab drivers in advance to cover our fares. I gave the driver Hank’s address, anxious to see him.

  “Good luck with lover boy,” Naomi and Jill screamed out as my taxi pulled away.

  I nervously rang Hank’s doorbell. We hadn’t seen each other in a full month, and guilt about what happened with Ethan weighed heavily on me. Hank seemed genuinely happy to see me, despite the big hickey on his neck that he tried to conceal with his puka bead necklace. Not knowing how to react, confused and guilt-ridden myself, I shouted, “I never want to see you again!”

  I raced down his long hallway, dragging my camp duffel bag behind me. I hoped he would follow me and get down on his hands and knees and beg for my forgiveness, sobbing, “Dawn, Dawn, forgive me!” as passionately as Stanley Kowalski called for Stella in A Streetcar Named Desire. I imagined I would melt into
his arms like soft butter and we would be inseparable forever. But he never came after me.

  I exited his building into the hot summer night and plopped myself on my favorite stoop. I felt lost, hot, and dirty. I didn’t want to go home; my dad wouldn’t be there, and I couldn’t bear the thought of sitting in that dark, oppressive brownstone all alone. The train I was scheduled to take to Washington did not leave till mid-morning, so I spent the night at the twenty-four-hour Hamburger Heaven on Sixty-Second Street. I passed the time drinking iced coffee with skim milk and smoking unfiltered cigarettes—a habit that I’d acquired at camp.

  I was exhausted and disheveled by the time I arrived at the Sheridan Hotel in Washington with my army jacket and my long peacock-feather earring that I’d made in the camp jewelry workshop. The hotel was really nice, with a pool, a kids’ game room, and a coffee shop where all the orphans and their moms would congregate for a buffet breakfast since it was included in the price of the room. April had told me awful stories about some of the hotels they had stayed in on the tour. She said the hotel in Detroit had bloodstains on the rug, and the one in Florida had giant water bugs. Some of the other families always stayed in luxury hotels, and the parents spent their children’s salaries freely. Not my mom. My mother saved every cent my sister earned—and rather than letting April squander it on frivolous things like toys and new dresses—she invested it. But this time, she had bonus points from her credit card that would expire, so she was able to redeem her points for a two-room suite.

  As soon as April opened the door, she inspected me, searching my pockets and bags for presents. “Where are you hiding my packages? I know you have banana bread somewhere in that bag of yours, maybe even those muffins that you think are so healthy with the carrot pieces. What about that new recipe you said Beauty just sent you for meatloaf cupcakes with mashed potato frosting? I have been dying to try those. Beauty was pretty convinced that you were going to bring me a dozen. Come on, where are they? I’m really, really hungry.”