by Joan Hess
“How’s your new clerk doing on her program?”
“Very well. As of yesterday, Maribeth’s lost sixteen pounds, between the diet and the exercise classes. Her behavior is sort of peculiar, though, and I’m worried. I am not jealous.”
“Why would you be jealous?” Peter said, leaning over the counter with a grin. “Are you worried that I might cast you aside when I catch a glimpse of this svelte, sweaty person?”
“Don’t be absurd; you’re much too old for her.” I turned my back on him to gather up a pile of catalogues, then started for my office. “However, she ought to be here any minute, and she might find the bumper sticker so amusing that she swoons into your arms like a dying swan in a white tutu.”
I took the catalogues to my office, dumped them on top of a stack of last season’s catalogues, vowed that this would be the year I cleaned up the unholy mess, and went back to the front of the store in time to see Maribeth collapse into Peter’s arms. “What’d you say to her?” I yelled as I ran toward them.
“Nothing. Help me lower her down gently, then get a cup of water and a damp washcloth.”
I did as ordered, and within a minute Maribeth’s eyes opened. “Where am I?” she asked, giving me a frantic look.
“On the floor of the Book Depot. You fainted,” I said. I draped the washcloth on her forehead and helped her take a sip of water. “Stay here until you feel capable of walking, and then we’ll take you back to the office to rest. When you’re ready, we’ll figure out how to get you and your car home.”
“I’m better. Really.” She pushed the cloth aside and sat up, her face puckered with anxiety and her hands fluttering in the air. “I would like to sit in the office, but just for a minute, and then I’ll start work.” She gave Peter a quizzical look. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before? Are you one of Gerald’s colleagues?”
“Gerald’s her husband,” I explained. “He teaches at the law school.”
“I’m Peter Rosen. I don’t have any connections with the law school, and I don’t remember meeting either you or your husband. Are you feeling steadier? Let Claire and me help you to the office.”
As we guided her down the aisle, I said, “What happened, Maribeth? Did you feel dizzy?”
She stopped to think, then put her hands on her face and mumbled, “Yes, I felt a little dizzy. That’s all. I’ll be fine in a few minutes. Please don’t make a fuss over this, Claire—and please don’t say anything to Joanie. She’ll go screeching to the Ultima staff, and they’ll refund my money and throw me out of the program. Jody’ll be scared to allow me to participate in the aerobics class. This was my fault. I’m required to take potassium caplets three times a day, but yesterday was hectic and I missed a couple of doses. If you and Mr. Rosen agree not to tell anyone about this stupid dizzy spell, I’ll swear I’ll never miss another one.”
She was most likely correct in her predictions of what Joanie, the Ultima owners, and Jody would do if they suspected there was any chance that Maribeth was unfit and therefore posed a threat both to their reputations and their liability premiums. I gazed at Peter. “If you’re certain that a potassium deficiency is responsible—and if you swear you won’t miss another dose—I won’t mention this,” I said sternly.
“It’s my only chance to break out of this horrid body,” she said to Peter, clutching his arm desperately enough to endanger the Italian silk. “It’s my last chance.”
After we’d let her sink down in the chair behind the desk, he continued to look soberly at her. “I don’t know any of the people, so I’m not in a position to speak to any of them,” he told her. “I do think you ought to be checked by your private physician to make sure you’re in shape for this diet and exercise class.” When I nodded in support, he added, “Why don’t you tell us his or her name, and Claire can make an appointment right now?”
“I don’t have a doctor in Farberville, unless it’s Dr. Winder. When I lived here as a child, my pediatrician was old enough to have written a chapter of the Bible. He’s either retired to Florida or is in the cemetery by now, and in any case, I’d feel foolish sitting in a waiting room filled with comic books, little cars, and spotty babies. I haven’t had any reason to use another doctor since we returned.”
It made sense, but it came out in such a tumble that I didn’t quite believe her, although I wasn’t sure which bit of the story seemed iffy. “You’re a little old for a pediatrician,” I murmured, “but you do need an examination. How about my doctor?”
“I’m fine now! Just leave me alone!” she said belligerently, then hid her face with her hands and began to cry.
“We’re going, we’re going,” Peter said. He took my arm and led me out of the office. When we were in the front of the store, and presumably out of earshot, he said, “Could she be on drugs?”
“Vitamins, potassium, calcium, that sort of thing. She’s examined daily by a registered nurse, who monitors a urine sample and watches for bizarre behavior. If Maribeth were taking some unauthorized drug, wouldn’t it show up in a urinalysis?”
“It depends,” he said, frowning over my shoulder.
“What happened? Did she take a look at your moderately handsome face and pass out in ecstasy?”
“If she did, it’s a first for all of us.” He seemed to realize he was still frowning, and gave me a smile that went a full half-centimeter deep. “I said hello and showed her the bumper sticker. She stopped in midstep and goggled at me as if I were showing her a piece of underwear I’d lifted from her lingerie drawer, put her hand on her chest, and crumpled down for the count. I didn’t think the bumper sticker was all that funny, but we both know I’ve got lousy taste.”
We both knew he didn’t, especially in his choice of women. We discussed the scene for a while, and I agreed to try once again to persuade Maribeth to consult my physician, who happened to be an ob-gyn. Better than a pediatrician. At least the waiting room had back issues of Cosmopolitan and Newsweek, and the only babies present were in utero.
“Is it possible,” I said as Peter started to leave, “that you could run a check on Sheldon and Candice Winder? Background, medical training, whatever. I’d feel more comfortable if I knew they were both what they claim to be.”
“As in bogus credentials?”
“Dr. Winder recites diet jargon quite glibly, but he didn’t seem to be the least bit concerned with Maribeth’s symptoms and agreed to talk to me only when I mentioned a possible lawsuit. Then again, maybe I’m as flaky as Maribeth,” I said, shrugging.
“But you wear it so well. I’ll tell Jorgeson to see what he can find out, but it may take a few days.” He gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek and left.
A few minutes later Maribeth came out of the office, still wan but determined to work, and although I wanted to send her home, I left her to clean out the drawers below the cash register. She was, after all, nearly thirty years old and heir to a large fortune. She was entitled to swoon, rage, and contemplate an illicit affair with her aerobics instructor, all without my solicitous intervention. On the other hand, I told myself as I shoved aside the stack of catalogues, I might attend the family support group that afternoon, convince Candice that my motives were pure, and find out why the hell Maribeth was behaving as erratically as a punch-drunk boxer with oatmeal for brains.
Maribeth and I were doing an inventory of the science fiction paperbacks when Joanie came into the store. She studied Maribeth. “How are you today, dear?” she asked.
“I’m fine, and I wish everyone would stay off my case and stop clucking over me. I’m the one who’s chosen to be on this program, and I’m more than capable of taking care of myself.”
“Of course you are,” Joanie said soothingly. After an uncomfortable moment of silence, she said, “Isn’t this news about the football player distressing? According to the news on the radio, the athletic department’s in quite an uproar—as well it should be. The poor boy was twenty years old. Such a waste.”
“Are you talking about
the football player who had a heart attack several weeks ago?” I asked as I jotted a note to myself about the fantasies, which were moving like salted slugs. Rack space being at a premium, we needed more carnivorous aliens and fewer dwarfs and cute little fairies.
Caron and Inez burst in before Joanie could continue. Caron pointed her finger at me and said, “We’ve finally found the perfect diet, and it’s one we’ll be able to stick to for weeks and weeks. It’s based on eating fiber in order to make yourself feel full, so you’re able to resist temptations.”
Inez nodded. “It’s very easy to follow, Mrs. Malloy.”
“What’s it called?” I asked, resigned to look pleased with whatever I heard.
“The popcorn and grapefruit juice diet,” Caron said. “That’s all you have, but you can have all you want of those two things.”
I fought back a wince. “It doesn’t sound very appetizing. Are you sure you can stick to it, Caron? You don’t like grapefruit juice. In fact, I seem to remember that you detest it.”
“That’s the beauty of the diet. I like popcorn, and I loathe grapefruit juice, so I won’t be tempted to drink too much of it. According to Rhonda, I can lose as much as ten pounds a week.”
“Rhonda’s now an authority on nutrition?”
Inez blinked solemnly. “No, but her cousin in St. Louis went on this diet and lost twelve pounds practically overnight. Rhonda said it was like a miracle or something, and her cousin wasn’t ever hungry.”
At least it was less expensive than tuna packed in water or the dreaded seaweed regime. I chewed my lip. “You two might discuss diets with Maribeth,” I told them. “She’s lost sixteen pounds, and she’s done so while eating fairly normally.”
“Seventeen and one-quarter,” Maribeth said cheerfully. “By this afternoon, maybe eighteen.”
Caron and Inez exchanged enigmatic looks. Caron folded her arms and said, “Which one are you on?”
“It’s basically well-balanced low-calorie meals with vitamin and protein supplements. I also go to aerobics classes and work out on the toning machines, but that’s the fun part, and I look forward to my classes.”
Joanie beamed at her. “And I must say that I’m terribly, terribly proud of you, Maribeth. I wrote a letter to my daughter to tell her what progress you’ve made.”
Caron and Inez again exchanged looks, but enigma was replaced with wariness.
“How long have you been on this?” Caron asked in a challenging voice.
“Almost three weeks,” Maribeth answered uneasily, clearly taken aback by Caron’s demeanor.
Caron snorted. “I figured as much. This popcorn and grapefruit diet is much faster, and it doesn’t involve any exercise. Why, in three weeks we could lose as much as thirty pounds, although naturally I’ll only need one week and Inez …” She stopped and coolly appraised her cohort. “No more than two weeks, max.”
“I don’t need to lose twenty pounds!” Inez said, allowing a rare tinge of outrage to creep into her usually monotonal pronouncements.
“It couldn’t hurt.”
“You’re the one they refer to as Miss Thunder Thighs.”
“It’s not my fault you have gym class third period, Pudgy-Wudgy. If moronic Louis Wilderberry had seen you thudding under the volleyball net like a hippopotamus—well, who knows what he might have thought.”
“Louis Wilderberry can’t tie his shoes without reading the directions.”
To everyone else’s relief, the two departed, the sound of their bickering wafting after them like a mist of acid rain. Once they’d cleared the portico, I sighed and said, “Please forgive them, Maribeth. After all their miracle diets, they’ve put on pounds. I heard Caron telling one of her friends on the telephone that she couldn’t find any new jeans in her size that weren’t too tight. If you think I suggested a bigger size, you seriously underestimate my will to live.”
“I hope they don’t resort to any diet pills,” Joanie said. She gazed sternly at Maribeth. “And I assume you wouldn’t even consider them. They’re addictive and dangerous.”
Maribeth stared at her, the blotches on her face beginning to throb angrily. Before she could sputter a response, I said, “We’re done with this rack, Maribeth. Will you please use the calculator in my office to add up all the columns? I’m planning to call in an order tomorrow morning and I need the totals.”
“All right,” she said. She snatched the clipboard from my hand and stalked toward the office.
“I simply don’t know what’s happening to her,” Joanie said, scowling at me as if I’d throbbed and sputtered and snatched and stalked. “Maybe we should speak to Dr. Winder or Candice.”
“There’s a family support meeting today at five,” I said helpfully.
“What a pity. I’m having dinner with a girl from my pottery class, and then we’re going to a lecture on Japanese firing techniques at the school. The lecture’s at seven, so there’s no way I can make it to this meeting. Poor Maribeth seems to be degenerating at an alarming rate; by next week she may be in serious trouble and beyond any help we might give her.” Her sharp look made it clear who would be responsible should that happen.
“You started this,” I protested. “You’re the one who’s the producer and director of the show, but every time someone needs to do something, you conveniently remember a previous engagement.”
“Just look at the time! If I don’t get the chicken in the oven, Violet and I will be late for the lecture. Tashimo Kokata is one of the best Japanese potters of the decade.”
I realized I was outmanuevered once again and ungraciously wished her rubbery chicken for dinner and terminal tedium at the lecture. After she left, I picked up the newspaper and sat down behind the counter to see what the local citizenry had done for my amusement. I recalled Joanie’s remarks concerning the dead athlete and turned to the sports page—a first in my present lifetime.
It was well worth the adventure into the unknown. The football player, Greg Smollenski, a sophomore from some small town in Kentucky and a brilliant linebacker (whatever that was) had indeed died from an acute myocardial infarction, better known as a heart attack. An autopsy, however, had indicated the boy had been using—or more accurately, abusing—anabolic steroids and corticosterioids for several months. The former I’d read about and knew were taken to increase muscle mass and strength, frequently resulting in heart problems and other unpleasant complications. The latter, according to the article, were used to increase aggression and mask pain and fatigue while busily causing gland dysfunctions that led to kidney problems. Neither was legal. Both were common.
The NCAA was not happy with the deceased player or with the Farber College Athletic Department, which was required to randomly test its athletes for signs of abuse. I ordered myself not to envision rows of brutish hulks clutching little bottles in their oversized paws and continued through the article. The football coaches swore they had no idea where the Smollenski boy had obtained the drugs, and muttered about ways to avoid detection in tests. The basketball coaches said there was none of that going on among their players. The wrestling coach had gone out of town indefinitely. The head of the department had played misty at the press conference and bemoaned the loss of such a fine, upstanding, Christian athlete with such golden opportunities ahead of him. His plea for a thorough investigation to put an end to such abuse among the fine, upstanding, Christian boys who gave their personal best for the Fighting Frogs had reduced the author of the article to tears, or so he claimed.
The final paragraph noted that the DEA and the NCAA were assisting the Farberville CID in the investigation.
Despite the unsavoriness of the story, I must admit I was grinning just a bit. Ol’ Super Cop had almost been right when he smirkingly said that I’d never read about his case, not because it was hush-hush, but because he knew I never so much as glanced at the sports page.
The grin was still in place when Maribeth came out of the office and gave me the clipboard, saying, “I’m sorry I was
so sensitive earlier, Claire. This program is so totally vital to me, and I don’t want Joanie to do something that might result in my being sent back to that dreary house to do nothing but stare at the walls and stuff my face. It’s done wonders for me, both physically and emotionally. I can almost believe someone might like me … or even love me. Once I gain control of the trust, I might go back east to finish my degree, and after that, use some of the capital to open a small art gallery somewhere.”
“With Gerald?” I asked quietly.
“He’s a loser. For years he’s been convincing me that I was the loser, that I was fat and stupid and boring and unworthy of friends. All of a sudden he’s become solicitous and attentive; last night he said he had a long conference with Candice about what he calls my ‘mood exaggerations.’ He brought me an extra bottle of potassium caplets.”
“Which I hope you’ll take.”
“Oh, I’ll admit I’ve been a little giddy, but it’s not from any organic imbalance. Gerald tried to tell me I was going through a predictable stage and would change my mind, but I assured him that the only thing I was going through was a divorce. There are men who might someday love me.”
I suspected she had a candidate in mind, and I could only hope she wasn’t too desperate to remember she was soon to be a rich young woman with battered self-esteem. “I’m sure there are lots of men,” I said, stressing quantity.
“Your friend seemed nice,” she said. “He’s very attractive.”
“And due for a surprise.”
She gave me a coy smile and left for the Ultima Center and her session with the sadist in the adjoining facility. I sat and debated with myself for thirty minutes, then grimly drove to the center for the family group. Young love might be the root of Maribeth’s mood swings, or exaggerations, as Gerald quaintly called them, but fainting was an acceptable side effect only in Gothic romances, where it was more the order of the day.