by Gelb, Jeff
Mark's nostrils flared. "Sure! Go ahead!" he yelled. "You probably made her dump me in the first place. You never liked me anyway." Again he stopped for a deep breath. "Call the fuckin' cops!" he howled. "You don't give a shit about me." He stomped maddeningly around the room mumbling to himself, banging a knee hard against the coffee table without even reacting to the pain.
Mr. Arvin backed away, his eyes reflecting horror. Hyperventilating, Mark ripped several pages from the open photo album, rolled them up, and stuffed them into his dirty pocket, the photo of Beth and her husband slipping free and falling to the floor. Mark leaned over to pick it up. "I hate this son of a bitch," he growled through gritted teeth. "She wouldn't leave him, so I took her the only way I knew how."
Mrs. Arvin squeezed against her husband's side.
Stop it, Mark. That hurts!
"It was no accident, you know," he admitted, the fear in their faces spurring him on. "I ran her off the road. There wasn't any traffic. Not a single car came by." His eyes widened; his cheeks tightened. "The son of a bitch shouldn't have built a house so far out in the woods."
"Oh, my God," Mr. Arvin moaned, a shudder in his voice. He clutched his chest and dropped to his knees as his wife cried hysterically at his side. The fear and revulsion in their faces reminded Mark of Beth's expression as she died, encouraging him to continue.
Don't, Mark. I'm hurt. I'm bleeding.
"Even after her car hit the tree, she was still alive," he boasted. "I fucked her right there. For old times' sake, just like I used to do when she was bleeding for different reasons." His eyes were as big as walnuts, and he hardly blinked. "She was hurting too bad to resist. Hell, what did it matter?"
Despite increasingly trembling hands, Mark managed to light a cigarette. Mesmerized by the glow of the lighter's flame, he took a deep draw, then exhaled a plume of smoke. "I used a rubber, though. She always made me use a rubber. When we were through, she wouldn't stop screaming. She wasn't hurt bad enough to die, so I smashed her face into the steering wheel as hard as I could." He stopped for another draw that filtered through his teeth. "I had to save her from that asshole husband of hers. I had to spare her from any more misery." He stopped suddenly, cocking his head to one side as if straining to hear a voice.
Mr. Arvin fell forward, bracing himself against the floor with his hands and knees. Mrs. Arvin trembled.
Mark flashed a sickening grin. "It took years, but I finally got her back," he said. "We're together again." He dropped his cigarette butt and ground it into the carpet. "She's waiting in the car. Would you like to see her before we leave?"
Mrs. Arvin bolted for the kitchen, where a telephone hung on the wall. "Go ahead. Call the fuckin' cops," Mark yelled at her. Then he turned his attention to Mr. Arvin on the floor, smiling as the grieving man gasped for air. "That expression on your face. It looks so painful. Beth looked just like that before she died."
Finally Mark stood and stretched, gazing out a window at a shovel visible in the back of his Jeep. With the brilliance of lightning Beth's face reappeared and he imagined her sizzling touch. "I know you're waiting for me," he said to her. "I'll be right there." With a deep breath and a high-pitched maniacal whine he dug into his soiled pocket in search of his keys. "I enjoyed our visit. It's been a blast."
At the sound of movement from behind, Mark turned to stare down the wavering barrel of a shotgun.
The wrinkled, tear-streaked face of Mrs. Arvin stared from the other end of the unsteady barrel, her finger poised at the trigger. "We're still having a blast," she mumbled.
With an explosive roar and a blinding flash, memories of Beth, as well as half of Mark's brain, were gone.
OVEREATERS OMINOUS
Stephen R. George
Agatha's mouth watered as the waitress wheeled up the dessert tray. A slice of Black Forest torte in the center of the spread caught her eye. Dark chocolate, rich cream, ripe cherries. She licked her lips.
"Get it out of your head," Nick said.
Agatha glared at him and blushed. Nick grinned up at the waitress, a slim, dark-haired girl, whose narrow face was made-up too heavily, just the way he liked it. He looked like he wanted to make love to her.
Agatha looked quickly away. Make love? Nick didn't make love anymore. At least, not to her. Sex between them had degenerated into a biweekly suck 'n' fuck. That's what Nick called it. Hey, Aggie, time for some suck 'n' fuck! They hadn't made love, real love, in years. They'd been married six, and the love had ended after two. After the miscarriage, after the depression, after the eating, after the weight. Love had turned into suck 'n' fuck.
"I'll have that one," Nick said, pointing to the torte.
The waitress picked up the plate with fingers tipped in long, pink, press-on nails, and slid it in front of Nick, then turned to Agatha with a questioning look.
"Does she look like she needs anything?" Nick said. "I don't think so."
The waitress smiled nervously. Agatha could not speak. She couldn't even breathe. Her flush intensified. She felt as if her face were on fire.
"You give her something off that tray, she'll never get out of her chair, right, Aggie?"
Agatha shook her head slowly, mortified, trying to avoid the waitress's eyes. What was the girl waiting for? Why didn't she leave? Agatha turned away and saw in horror that diners at neighboring tables had turned to look. Nick's voice was loud and carried well. A middle-aged woman to Agatha's left smiled at her and shook her head, then leaned toward the man beside her and whispered something. The man, who looked so much like Agatha's father it hurt, smiled, nodded. Nearby, two slim, attractive women, both spooning luxurious-looking desserts into their mouths, looked over at Agatha with frowns.
"Are you sure?" the waitress said to Agatha.
"Doesn't she look sure?" Nick said. "She eats anything else, she won't even fit in the damned car."
Now the waitress chuckled. Agatha found her voice.
"I'll just have coffee, please."
"And make it black," Nick said. "She's sweet enough as it is. Isn't that right, honey?"
"Black is fine."
Nick forked a piece of torte into his mouth. Cream and cherry sauce caught at the corners of his lips. The tip of his tongue darted out to catch the stray cream. Agatha's mouth watered.
"What's wrong with you?" he said, swallowing.
"You humiliated me."
"Look at you. I can't humiliate you any more than you humiliate yourself."
"I want to go home."
"I'm not finished with my dessert, or my coffee."
"Everybody is staring at me. I want to go. Please, Nick."
"Staring at you?" He raised his voice, as if astonished, and looked around. "What the hell would anybody stare at? You're not all that much bigger than a bus."
Agatha lowered her face, fighting back tears. Nick sighed. He pushed away the remains of the torte. Half of it was still on the plate. He nudged it towards her.
"Go on, eat it."
"I don't want it."
"One more pound isn't going to make a difference, is it?"
Agatha lifted her face and glared at the torte. She could not help herself. Don't touch it, she said to herself. Don't demean yourself. Please, God, don't humiliate yourself further.
"I know you want it. What's stopping you?"
"Nick, don't."
"Jesus Christ. Take it!"
Heads turned again. Agatha's world shrank to the size of the plate in front of her.
"I hate you," she said softly, and did not know if she meant Nick or the torte.
"How many calories does hate burn?" Nick sneered.
"Don't, Nick."
"There should be a law. A guy should get to see what his wife is going to look like after six years. Save a lot of grief that way. I have to whiz. I'll be back in a minute. If you're going to eat that thing, do it while I'm gone. Watching you shovel it down would make me sick."
Nick stood and walked away. Agatha lowered her head, stared at the ta
ble, blushing so hard, it felt as if her skin were peeling. Everybody in the restaurant was staring at her. She could feel it.
"How are you doing?"
Agatha looked up, startled. One of the two slim, beautiful women who had been looking at her earlier was standing by the table. Her long blond hair was impeccably styled, hanging to her shoulders like a waterfall of gold. Her makeup, too, was perfect. Full lips, wide eyes, high cheekbones. Agatha felt gigantic, slothful.
"Pardon me?"
"Your husband was a bit of a brute."
Agatha blushed, tried to smile as if it had meant nothing.
"May I sit for a moment?"
Agatha wanted to say no, to make the woman leave, but something about her manner, the tone of her voice, breached her defenses and she nodded.
"Your name is Agatha? My name is Helen. Agatha, I'd like to give you something."
From her purse she removed an envelope and handed it to Agatha. Agatha took the envelope, looked up at Helen's eyes.
"What is it?"
"Open it."
Frowning, Agatha slipped her finger under the lip of the envelope and pulled it open. Inside she found a photograph. She took it out and looked at it. It was of a very large woman, larger even than Agatha herself, sitting on a sofa, smoking, arms bulging like gigantic sausages, neck a pale roll of fat, cheeks hanging in jowls. Something about the eyes was familiar.
"That's you," Agatha said in a small voice.
"Yes."
Agatha looked up at Helen. There could be no doubt that the person in the photograph was the person beside her. The eyes were identical. And yet, it couldn't be the same person.
"That was six months ago."
"No."
"Yes, Agatha."
Agatha's heart pounded. When Helen put her long-nailed hand on her arm, Agatha jumped, looked up into her eyes.
"The same thing can happen for you, if you want."
"How?"
Helen handed her a business card. On it was an address on Fourth Street South. One word. OVEREATERS.
"Diets don't work for me."
"This one will. Guaranteed, permanent results. Permanent. No cost to you unless it does."
Agatha shook her head.
"You want to lose the weight, don't you, Agatha?"
"Yes."
"Think of how you'll look. Think of how your husband will react. Think of what other men will think."
Other men.
"Tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. We can help you."
Agatha could only nod, mouth locked shut.
Helen stood. "See you tomorrow, then."
As she walked away she winked at Agatha and smiled warmly. Agatha felt a flutter in her stomach and looked down at her hands.
Nick came back, adjusting his belt.
"Guess you didn't want this," he said, pulling the torte towards him. "Too bad. It's delicious."
There were six women in the meeting room on the third floor, sitting in a circle around a glass table. On the table was a lump of what looked like fat. The women were staring at it, concentrating. Positive thinking, Agatha thought. They're making themselves hate the fat. The women, each and every one, were strikingly slim and beautiful. Agatha's legs felt weak as she came through the door. A mistake, she thought. A big, big mistake.
Worse than the women in the room were the pictures on the walls. Huge pictures, poster-sized, of gigantic, obese women. Bulges and rippling flesh filled every open space, eyes squeezed to slits by pockets of fat, ankles flowing like melted butter over sensible, ugly shoes, chins falling in cascades like fleshy necklaces.
Helen left the circle and came to the door. She took Agatha's hand.
"I'm so glad you could come," Helen said.
"I feel so ... out of place."
"You won't for long. I promise you that."
Helen led Agatha down a narrow hallway to a small office. In the office, Helen sat behind the desk. Agatha took the seat by the door. Helen put her hands under her chin and studied Agatha speculatively.
"This is always the hardest part," she said.
Agatha smiled nervously.
"How badly do you want to lose weight?"
"I do want to, but I haven't had much luck."
"We don't depend on luck here, Agatha. Our program works. It has never failed."
Agatha stared at her. "Those pictures on the walls in the other room ..."
"Us. Yes. Before the program."
Agatha shook her head.
"Do you want the same thing, Agatha?"
"Yes."
"What will you give for it?"
"Give?"
"Everything has a price, Agatha."
"What do you want?"
"Nick."
"Nick?"
"He's not much of a husband, is he?"
"He's my husband."
"When was the last time the two of you made love?"
Agatha started to answer, then closed her mouth. Their last suck 'n' fuck had been two weeks ago. They were due for another tonight. Nick had a biological clock that never failed. Two weeks, suck 'n' fuck. Two weeks, suck 'n' fuck. Exceptions made for his birthday, and their anniversary. Suck 'n' fuck bonuses, he called them. Two weeks . . .
"You deserve better," Helen said, as if Agatha's thoughts were obvious.
"You want him?"
"We need him. So do you."
"I don't understand."
"I'm asking you to give up Nick. That's all."
"What if Nick doesn't want to be given up?"
"I'm not asking Nick. I'm asking you."
Agatha thought of the pictures in the other room. She thought of the women sitting in the circle. God, to be one of them.
"Last night, you said you hated him," Helen said. "I heard you, Agatha. Did you mean it?"
Hate him? Her husband? Suck 'n' fuck Nick Galas? The man who humiliated her every chance he got? The man whose eyes judged and condemned her every night, every morning, every hour? The man who made her wish that she had never been born?
"Yes," she said softly.
"All right. Will you give him up?"
"Yes."
"I'm glad. I knew we could help you."
"What do I have to do?"
"Something very easy. Something you like to do. Just eat."
"Eat?"
"Whatever you want. In whatever quantity you want. No restrictions. There's only one requirement. One mandatory meal. Something for you and Nick to share."
Helen opened her desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. On it was a photocopied recipe. Two additional ingredients had been penciled in.
"Oh, God," Agatha said as she read the recipe.
"Our program works, Agatha. Guaranteed."
Agatha could not speak. She crumpled the recipe and shoved it into her purse.
"We have another meeting next week. Will you be here?"
Agatha could not find her voice. Her stomach rolled and contracted. With a hand over her mouth she stood and fled the office.
* * *
Agatha was in the kitchen with a glass of wine when Nick got home. It was after 9:00 P.M. Late at the office, he said, but he stank of cigarette smoke and perfume. Agatha's stomach knotted. She tried to smile.
Nick went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself three fingers of Johnny Walker Red Label. He drank half of it in one swallow, and eyed her contemptuously. He took a deep breath.
"Suck 'n' fuck night," he said, as if he found the thought distasteful.
"I'm having my period."
"So what? Use your mouth." He finished his scotch. "I'll be in the bedroom."
He left her alone in the kitchen. She could hear him in the bedroom, whistling as he undressed. Tonight she'd do all the sucking. He avoided her vagina when she was having her period. He said the smell made him sick. Still, he wouldn't let that interrupt his schedule. Two weeks, suck 'n' fuck. Clockwork, baby.
She finished her wine. The alcohol made her throat contract. Her tongue felt thick. S
he wiped her mouth.
Standing at the mirror in the hallway, she applied lipstick. A lot of it. Ripe Plum, the label said. Dark and rich, the way Suck 'n' Fuck Nick Galas liked it.
He was lying on the bed, naked. His penis lay across his left thigh, a soft, thick rolling pin. He was the only man she had ever had, but she knew from pictures in magazines that he was well endowed.
She sat on the end of the bed and leaned over him. His eyes were closed. He never looked at her when they had sex, and she had long ago stopped wondering whom he was thinking about.
"Ease it in, baby," he said hoarsely. "Let me feel that tongue. Now, tighter. Yeah."
She worked him the way he liked it, the way he had taught her. His flesh thickened in her mouth, flattening her tongue. He slid to the back of her throat, crushing her uvula. She did not gag. He had taught her how to control the reflex. She made the motions of swallowing and his legs kicked beneath her.
"Yeah," he said. "Slowly, baby."
He tasted funny tonight. It took her a minute to figure out what it was. His skin had the sour, salty taste of vaginal secretion. He'd been with another woman.
She closed her eyes, fought back tears. It hurt. It still hurt. She made the tears stay inside. She'd given him up. He wasn't hers anymore.
When he climaxed, he withdrew so that only the smooth, throbbing head of his penis was in her mouth. His semen exploded across her tongue, around her teeth. She pushed it to the pockets of her cheeks, sucked until he was finished.
He groaned, pulled away, laughed softly.
"Better not swallow, baby," he said without looking at her. "Old Nicky's come is loaded with calories."
Before she was off the bed, he had rolled over and was settling himself comfortably. She went back to the kitchen, took a bowl from the cupboard, and spat his semen into it. The viscous expulsion, mixed with her saliva, pooled at the center of the bowl. She stared at it and shook her head.
Her mouth still tasted of another woman's sex. Even through Nick's semen.
He's not yours, she told herself. You gave him up. And the longer she waited, the harder this was going to get.
She squatted and pulled down her panties. The panty liner was thick with menstrual blood, some of it coagulated into strings of glistening mucous, so dark it was almost black. She unfastened the liner and put it on the counter by the bowl.