I noticed she was sitting on her hands.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, turning her face sidelong to mine, her small teeth catching the TV’s gray light. “I know exactly what you’re thinking.”
I got up and went outside. Billetdoux was out on the lawn rubbing wax into the gleaming LaSalle. He was holding a flashlight in one hand and buffing with the other. “Amigo,” he said. “Loan me twenty before you go, okay? I’m in a bit of a jam.”
I gave him twenty without comment and walked away. I felt, then, that I’d seen enough of the Billetdoux family and that I wouldn’t be back, ever.
But half an hour later I was in his kitchen again for no reason other than a vaguely erotic curiosity. I made myself another vodka and nectar and took it out to the backyard. It was a clear, moonless night. The moon, I thought, is in Egypt.
I sat on the dead grass and drank until I got sick. The sickness was sudden and total and my stomach emptied itself colossally into the lawn. When I was able to sit up again, I saw Lona. She was standing before the open bedroom window, naked, her strangely tranquil face upturned to the sky. Her eyes were closed and she was holding her arms out in front of her, palms up, in a gesture that reminded me of ancient priestesses. Her big silver breasts gleamed in the chilly starlight.
“Honey Boy,” she said, her eyes still closed, her face still raised to the delicate radiations of the night. “Honey Boy, come here.”
I got up heavily. I thoroughly believed in that moment that I had once again decided to leave. But I found myself walking trancelike to Lona. Like an inductee to a great and lofty sect, having passed my preliminary ordeal, I moved, awestruck, as if toward the sphinx.
Life Between Meals
Dig in!” I’d say, and the silverware would fly! Those were the days. If we saw a nibbler we would always be sure to let him see us unload our heaping forks. Our cheeks would balloon, our nostrils flare, and our eyes would roll with the sheer ecstasy of eating. The nibbler would usually dab his pinched-up mouth with his napkin and wash down his pellet of food with quick sips of water. A sickening tribe of birds, are they not? They make me gag.
We traveled a lot. The first thing we would do in a new town would be to scout the restaurants. And I mean restaurants. I do not mean the fast-food slop houses, the so-called “coffee shoppes,” or the little neighborhood diners, where you eat at considerable risk. Ptomaine, I mean. We gave them grades. A for best, F for dismal failure. Quality and quantity first, service second. Atmosphere a distant third. We do not eat the atmosphere.
Now hear this: Are you nervous? Are you thin? Then eat! What do you want to be like that for? Eat, sleep, and move your bowels. This is basic. This is life. I have seen too many human skeletons, nibblers, nervous as cats, eating that ghastly Jell-O on lettuce. Their reward? Stubborn stool dry as bird-shot, and they sleep in fits.
I speak from experience. I was there. We were thin. “Doctor’s orders.” Antoinette was down to one hundred and forty pounds, and I teetered at two-twenty. We were a pair of rails. I looked somehow fraudulent in my uniform—no bearing, no authority, no style. A year before I’d been up to three-sixteen and Antoinette was a succulent two-oh-nine. We were a hefty duo, and happy. The famous internist said, “You lose one hundred pounds of that lard, Commodore, or you’re sunk. Your heart will not bear the strain.” And I believed his claptrap.
Broiled slivers of freshwater fish, naked green salads, fruit cocktails sweetened with something made out of coal tar, unsalted wafers, zwieback, fingers of asparagus without a nice blanket of buttery hollandaise, and, of course, the ever-present Jell-O on lettuce. We went through hell. We suffered. And for what, I ask.
Our health did not noticeably improve. Personally, I felt worse. I believed my death was imminent. I said, “Antoinette, my love, what is life for? Answer me that?”
She just cupped her shrinking breasts and laughed, rather thinly I thought. She called me her “enormous whale baby.” But there was a hungry glint sharking the blue waters of her eyes. I whispered heavily into her ear, “Banana nut bread, my darling.” I let the syllables roll off my tongue like buttered peas. “Chicken Supreme,” I said. “Braised Rabbit a la Provence. Shrimp Mull. Creamed Cod Halifax. Marzipan. Fondant. Marshmallow Mint Bonbons.” These were some of her favorites.
I wore her down. “My darling,” I said. “I could eat raw and rotting squaw fish, I am so very hungry.” But Antoinette wanted to remain faithful to the famous internist. She said, “You are forgetting your promise to doctor, Gabe.” And I replied, “I do not care about doctor, Antoinette! I am going to die of misery! This is no way to live!” Eventually I won her over. We gave up on the diet and went back to real food. “We are going to be happy again, darling, I promise you.” And for a while it was true.
Now hear this: I am hungry all the time. You may choose not to believe that. You might find such a statement a trifle on the bizarre side. But it is true. I simply do not stay full. I convert food to energy and bulk very quickly. I might go through a platter of oysters on the half shell, a tureen of minestrone, a tub of Texas hash, a loaf of Irish soda bread, three or four slabs of black bottom pie, ten cups of thick coffee, and do it all over again in a couple of hours, believe what you will.
We were cruising around a pretty little inland town checking out Mexican restaurants. We’d found a lovely little place. But Antoinette had the blues. She said, “God, I just don’t know anymore, Commodore.” Sometimes she called me Commodore. I found it pleasurable.
Something was eating her. She’d been depressed lately. Chewing, her face would sour. She’d put down her fork. “What is it, my darling?” I’d ask. “The meat not done well enough? The sauce flat? Light? Too sweet? Too tart? No character? No spunk?” She would shake her head, run her tongue over her teeth, lift her large breasts off her stomach as if trying to ease her breathing. “Oh, I don’t know, Gabe. It’s just me, I think.” But this was not a satisfactory explanation.
And now, in Guzman’s Authentic Sonoran Cuisine, she was balking at the menu. I ordered for her, which was something I hesitated to do. Ordering, after all, is half the fun.
“Matambre, por favor,” I said to the waiter.
“Matambre, ” said Antoinette, “is not Sonoran.”
I looked at the waiter, a blond boy with large pimples on his neck, his nose ring outlined with threads of acne. “She is right, you know,” I said.
He shrugged. “Get the chicken enchiladas,” he said. “It’s the best thing on the menu.”
“We can get chicken enchiladas anywhere,” I said. “No, we’ll try the matambre. ”
In fact, it was wonderful matambre. My appetite increased. I ordered the tostadas estilo, which were made with pig’s feet and beans. Antoinette ate as much as I did, but without evident relish.
We drove down to our condominium on San Diego Bay. I like the view, the great naval fleet, the fine tuna seiners, the pleasure craft. Sitting on our balcony, ten floors above the waterfront, I said, “Come on, Antoinette. Out with it. What’s wrong, darling?”
There was a platter of cold tongue slices garnished with pimento olives and sweet gherkins between us. The boy had brought them. Antoinette was playing nervously with her diamonds. I tossed a piece of tongue into the air and caught it in my teeth. A small aircraft carrier was easing into the bay I picked up the glasses to observe it.
“A,” she said, “I have no friends. And, B, life between meals is empty.
I put down the glasses and handed her a cool slice of meat. “We have each other,” I suggested. In retrospect, I imagine my tone was peevish.
She took a thoughtful bite of the tongue, but would not meet my eyes. The sun was warm on our large bodies. We liked to sit without our clothing on our little terrace, watching the boats. The boy Wing, was as discreet as only the Chinese can be.
That night, Antoinette woke up in a thrashing sweat. I turned on the lights. “Feel my heart,” she said. I pressed my ear to her sweat-filmed breast. Someth
ing wild was walloping around in there.
“Take it easy, darling,” I said, ringing for the boy “Try to relax. Was it a dream?”
I had Wing fix a plate of leftover cold cuts for us. It was 3:00 A.M. I opened a quart of Pilsner. I covered two slices of rye with a nice hot mustard and then laid in the meat.
I heard her gagging in the bathroom. She stayed in there for quite a while. Then she came into the kitchen and sat at the table. Her eyes were red and she smelled sour. “Fix me one of those,” she said, looking at me with those direct, blue, challenging eyes that first attracted me to her four years ago.
“With or without,” I said, holding up a jar of Weinkraut.
“With,” she said defiantly.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever had troubled her sleep had passed. Or so I believed.
That summer I reached a happy three hundred. I felt good. Antoinette was only one-ninety, but she was coming along fine. When she hits two hundred, I told myself, look out! Her stomach blows out in front, shoving her loaf-like breasts up high and handsome, the nipples spreading wide like brown saucers, and a gossamer rump so soft and creamy it could melt your heart and bring water to your mouth.
“Come over here, you lovely dumpling!” I’d command, and the walls of our condo would shake. I’d imagine the floor joists sagging, the wall studs splintering, the sheetrock crumbling, the roof tiles slipping off and crashing into the streets below.
By fall I made three-twenty and Antoinette reached two-oh-nine, equaling her previous high. We were never happier. We cavorted like honeymooners and ate like young whales. Dig in! Dig in!
We’d go to one of those smorgasbord places just for the fun of it, the ones that advertise, “All You Can Eat For Ten Dollars!” We loved to watch the manager’s face sag as we lined up for seconds and thirds and fourths, on and on.
“Fifteen trips, Antoinette,” I’d say, a friendly challenge, and she would sweetly reply, “You are on, Commodore!” And we’d fill and empty our trays fifteen times, heaped, while the manager would whimper to his girls and shake his head. Once we cleaned out an establishment’s entire supply of veal-stuffed zucchini, which was supposed to be the specialty of the house. The manager was a skinny twerp who kept snapping a towel at flies. He didn’t bother us.
Now hear this: Skinny people can’t be trusted. A man who can get along on cottage cheese, pears on lettuce, or chicken salad sans mayo, bears watching. A man who keeps a girl’s waistline is probably sly. I wouldn’t touch one of those female skeletons you see in the ads. Like bedding down with Tinkertoys. I’d crush her dainty innards, her bones would go like twigs. All of them, the thin ones who are thin by choice, are nibblers. We once elected a tribe of fancy nibblers to high office and look where it got us. They make me gag.
Steak and potatoes, hot rolls and butter, cheese sauce and broccoli, stuffed eggplant, black bean soup, honey-glazed ham, Bavarian cream, chocolate butter sponge cake, jelly rolls, doughnuts, cookies, ice cream! Eat, eat, enjoy! Make that table groan. What do you have a mouth with teeth in it for? Whistling and smiling?
Our national flag should be a steaming dressed-out turkey with stuffing oozing out onto a garnished platter.
We were in a nice restaurant up north. Antoinette had been feeling a little moody again and I thought a change of scene would do her good. She was up to two-twenty, an all-time high, and she never looked better. I was holding steady at three-forty-nine. Everyone has an upper limit, unless there’s a problem and your glands explode on you. Then you get the six-hundred-pound abnormals, the half-ton shut-ins.
Steak and kidney pie was the specialty of the house. The servings were generous enough, but we ordered, as usual, seconds and thirds. Now, the thing is, we were very serious about eating. We would tuck our napkins in and we would eat. No small talk. No stopping for cigarettes. If we spoke at all, it was to get the salt, the pepper, butter, soy sauce, and so on. Later, over coffee, we might talk.
We would get down, close to the plate, and we would keep the silverware moving. Lift dip, lift dip, lift dip. The object is to get the food into the stomach.
So I did not hear him when he first said it because I was occupied in the manner described. Then, when he raised his voice, I said, “Are you addressing me, sir?” He said he was. I dried off my mouth with my napkin and looked at him. I do not like to be interrupted when at table.
“You disgusting goddamn pigs,” he said.
He was tall and skinny and had a cowboy-thin face that jutted out with years of lean living. I did not like his looks.
“You people look like you got greased life rafts tied around your necks, you’re so goddamn sinful fat and slobbery.”
Antoinette was still eating but her fork had slowed considerably.
“You supposed to be some kind of fucken sailor?” said the cowboy, sneering at me now and looking back to his table for approval. I sat erect in my chair, removed my napkin from my lap, and gazed coolly at him. “You got near everyone in this restaurant ready to blow chunks, the way you pig down that food, admiral,” he said.
“That will be quite enough,” I said.
He laughed at me and did something obscene. He threw his cigarette on my plate. Then he went back to his table, which greeted him heartily, like a returning hero.
“Now hear this, Antoinette,” I said. “We will not stand for this impudence. We have our dignity.” Antoinette was white as her napkin and her eyes were teary. She had put her fork down. Her Up was trembling. She touched the sides of her neck with her careful fingertips.
“Life rafts?” she said.
I pushed away from the table and stood up. The skinny cowboy saw me coming but he turned his back deliberately as if I was not someone he should be concerned about. No one takes the fat man seriously.
“I believe this is yours, sir,” I said.
I had my plate with me, complete with his dirty cigarette sticking out of my mashed potatoes. He turned slowly and looked at me in an offhanded way. Even his mouth was skinny, the Ups like blades.
“What’s that, pig face?” he said. The two skinny women and the skinny man who were at his table laughed. They were eating breaded fingerlings of some kind and crackers.
I took the back of his head in my left hand and with my right hand I shoved that plate full of ruined food into his face. His mouth yawned open for air under a smothering gray sUck of potatoes and gravy. He was quite surprised by my action. Fat men are not generally regarded as quick, strong, or willing to retaliate. This is a common error. At two hundred pounds I can barely lift a kitten. At three-forty-nine, I am strong as a bear and quick enough. And, I am more than willing to demand satisfaction from the likes of the skinny cowboy.
He jumped to his feet and began throwing punches at me. But he was wild, hitting only my shoulders and chest, which met his fists like sofa cushions. I pushed him off balance and kept pushing him until he was against a wall. Then I leaned, belly first, and the air whistled out of him. Antoinette came over then and pinched his cheek so hard that a welt appeared. He tried to kick me but his legs were about as dangerous as pencils. Behind us, his table was laughing and singing Anchors Aweigh.
I took Antoinette on a clothes-buying expedition to cheer her up. That ugly incident had made her blues return stronger than ever. At night she would wake up, filled with gas and sour dreams, gagging.
“These dresses,” she said, holding several of the new items up. “They are circus tents.” We’d bought them at the Wide Pride outlets, the only clothing emporiums that carry Mega X sizes. We were in our bedroom. I was in bed watching the morning news. The navy, I was sad to learn, was in full retreat before the budget-cutting demands of several skinny congressmen. They were denying the return of the beautiful battlewagons, calling them “fat missile targets.” I made up my mind then and there to send telegrams to our legislators, urging them to bring the great wide-beam navy back. Stop this mindless downsizing. Then a commercial came on, diverting my thoughts. Ham and eggs in a sunny
kitchen, whole wheat muffins stacked like shingles, prune Danish, fritters, and the lovely girl was taking potato pancakes out of the pan and carrying them to her smiling husband, a good-sized man of healthy appetite. My mouth watered.
Antoinette threw her new dresses aside and stood before her mirror. “Elephant,” she said. She made her reflection jiggle and blur by rising up on her toes and letting her weight come down hard on her heels. The room vibrated. Then she began to prance. But it wasn’t for fun. She was mocking herself. “Look at me!” she shouted with false merriment. “The elephant is dancing! Come one, come all!”
I thought she looked good. Lovelier than ever. Her rain-barrel thighs roared across my field of vision. Her meal-sack breasts swung. Her dimpled rump seemed to fill the room. I was, quite frankly, aroused. I caught her by the wrist.
“Oh no you don’t!” she said. But I pulled her anyway. She came down, off-balance, and the wood slats of the bed cracked. Bang, and the bed came down. The room quaked, and I imagined plaster dust graining the air of the room below. “No, Commodore!” she said. “I told you no!”
But the Commodore cannot be denied. “Jumbo lover,” I whispered hoarsely into her tangled hair. I pinned her and our tonnage moved the seismographs of Spain.
She poked at her breakfast. I didn’t like to see that. “Come, come, cupcake,” I said. “What’s wrong now?”
She looked at me across the laden table, her keen blue eyes gone soft and waxy. She touched her neck, an unconscious habit which began in the restaurant where I had been forced to discipline the skinny cowboy. I folded a piece of ham in half and speared it. She stabbed a fritter but she did not lift it to her lips. I chewed slowly, waiting. My patience, I confess, was wearing thin. Finally she put down her fork. I put down mine.
“My darling,” I began. “Everything is either inside or it is outside. Make no mistake. If it is inside, it is being eaten. If it is outside, then it is either eating or waiting to eat. That is all anyone can say about it. The rest is manure. Things on the outside sooner or later find themselves in the inside. For, you see, everything gets its chance at being on the outside eating, or in the inside getting eaten. My darling, everything in the wide world is food. Us included. It is so very simple. I don’t understand your confusion. We are lucky eaters now, but someday that will change. Dig in, my darling. It is the skinny people of the world who are stuffed to their eyes with illusions.”
Borrowed Hearts Page 5