The Penalty Box

by Deirdre Martin

  “Thank you,” she managed.

  “How did you do it?”

  “Diet and exercise. I run, too.”

  “Yeah?” Paul’s eyes lit up. “Maybe we could run together sometime.”

  “Maybe.”

  Perhaps she was wrong, but she could have sworn she saw disappointment flit across his face. She was baffled. Why would he want to run with her? Maybe that was an ego thing, too. Maybe he thought he could kick former fat girl Katie’s ass out on the open road. If so, he was in for a big surprise.

  “So,” Paul said casually, “do you have a boyfriend?”

  Katie clutched the steering wheel hard to avoid driving up onto the sidewalk. “Not right now, no. How about you? Do you have a boyfriend? Oh God—I mean girlfriend.”

  Paul put his hand on her knee and Katie’s foot nearly shot through the floorboard.

  “Relax. I don’t bite.” Paul removed his hand. “I used to.”

  “What? Bite?”

  “No, have a girlfriend. She dumped me when I retired.”

  “Nice.”

  “Happens all the time.” He sounded resigned as he gazed out the window. “Where you living now?”

  “Where I’ve always lived. On Herbert Place. I’m staying with my mother.”

  “I don’t know where Herbert Place is,” Paul admitted.

  “Over the tracks, close to the printing factory.”

  He turned back to her, concerned. “Is it safe to run there?”

  “Of course,” Katie retorted with a frown. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  Shrugging, Paul leaned back against the headrest with his eyes closed. They drove the rest of the way in tense silence.

  “I’m sorry,” he said as they rolled to a stop in front of his house, a modest split-level that Katie thought was pretty nondescript. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  Katie switched off the ignition. “It’s okay. I can be a little touchy sometimes. I’m sorry, too.”

  The silence returned, but this time it was tense in a new, different way. Katie took a deep breath. She wanted this to be over. No, what she really wanted was him. She’d settle for a candy bar.

  “Friday, then?” Paul reconfirmed.

  “Friday.”

  “Thanks for the ride, Katie,” Paul said softly.

  He leaned over and kissed her. Soft enough to be sweet, but just enough pressure for it to mean something.

  Katie’s mind reeled. She’d just been kissed by the boy she used to fantasize about kissing, the same one who used to call her “Bubble Butt” in high school.

  “I—I better go. I’ve got research to do at the library.”

  “Okay,” Paul said easily, opening the car door. “See you Friday, then. Thanks again for everything you’ve done for me today, especially not killing me.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Where is Dunkin’ Donuts?

  Katie’s first impulse after dropping Paul off was to head to the nearest Dunkin’ Donuts to drown her confusion in a box of Munchkins and a fresh cup of coffee. Once upon a time, food had been her answer to everything, both good and bad. Get a nearly perfect score on the SATs? Celebrate by eating half a cake. Missing your father? Cram the pain down by devouring a pan of brownies. Katie recognized this impulse for what it was: a way of obscuring the real emotional issue at hand. What was going on between her and Paul van Dorn?

  Katie knew sexual tension when she felt it. Granted, she hadn’t had tons of experience with men, but she had some, and there had definitely been sexual tension between them in her car. Definitely.

  And that kiss . . .

  She closed her eyes, wanting to experience it all over again. It was like watching a movie in slow mo; his body leaning toward her, the brief flash of desire in his eyes, the first press of his lips on hers—all real, all able to be conjured at will. But what, if anything, did it mean?

  She forced herself to go to the library to work, though concentration was hard to come by. Afterward, she decided to go to the local meeting of Fat Fighters. The earlier impulse toward donuts was a tip-off she needed support. That’s what the group was there for.

  The Didsbury chapter held its weekly meeting in the basement cafeteria of the local Unitarian church. Trying to ignore the faint smell of mildew as she walked down the frayed carpet of the basement steps, Katie came on the scene ubiquitous to every Fat Fighters meeting she’d ever attended: a snaking line of chatting women of all shapes and sizes lined up to weigh in. Taking her place in the line, Katie pulled out her Lifetime member card and waited. It felt like forever before she even crossed the threshold into the cafeteria, where women were stepping on and off scales, their successes or failures dutifully recorded by a Fat Fighters employee. Exultation mingled with desperation depending upon the verdict. Katie watched as one woman preparing to be weighed removed her shoes, socks, sweater, earrings, and wedding band—anything that might lower the number on the scale. It worked: pumping her fist victoriously in the air, she put her clothes and jewelry back on and went to sit with the rest of those who’d been weighed and were waiting for the meeting to begin.

  “Psst! Katie!”

  Shocked to hear her name, Katie looked out on the sea of folding chairs to her left. There sat Denise Coogan, the transsexual, waving to her.

  “I’ll save you a seat,” Denise mouthed, putting her Gucci bag on the empty chair beside her. Katie smiled and took a few steps closer to the scale. Denise turned to talk to the other woman beside her, a heavy blonde in sweats who seemed to giggle at everything Denise said. She wondered who the other woman was.

  Finally it was Katie’s turn to weigh in. It always surprised her how nervous the process still made her, even though she’d achieved her goal weight four years ago and had maintained it. Slipping out of her loafers, she handed her card to the woman in charge of weighing in, then climbed onto the scale. The woman nodded approvingly. “Still a lifetime member,” she said, handing Katie back her card. “Congratulations.”

  Katie smiled, hurrying to take her seat beside Denise. “Katie, you know Bitsy Collins, don’t you?”

  Katie blinked. There was no way the heavy blonde beside Denise could be Bitsy Collins. Bitsy Collins had been so nicknamed in high school because that’s what she’d been—itsy bitsy, petite. Not only that, but Bitsy had been one of Katie’s primary tormentors. She was a close friend of the dreaded Liz Flaherty. Bitsy and Liz had ruled the school.

  “Um . . .”

  Bitsy held out a plump hand. “I know, hard to believe it’s me.”

  “That’s why you’re here,” Katie said kindly, hoping she hadn’t looked too shocked by Bitsy’s appearance.

  “I’m trying.” Bitsy sighed.

  “If I can do it, anyone can do it,” Katie assured her. “I didn’t see you at the reunion.”

  “No way was I going to the reunion looking like this.”

  Katie nodded her head knowingly. She understood that feeling of believing yourself so physically grotesque all you want to do is hide. She wanted to dislike Bitsy the way she still disliked Liz, but she couldn’t. She knew the pain Bitsy was in, as well as the courage it took to finally do something about it.

  Eventually, everyone was weighed and seated and the group leader, a small, smiling woman named Lolly, strode to the front of the cafeteria. “Hello! My name is Lolly and I lost one hundred and twenty-five pounds on Fat Fighters. Tonight I want to talk about the crazy things some of us have done in the past to try to lose weight. Anyone?”

  “I once put myself on a scrambled egg and water diet,” one woman said.

  Lolly dutifully wrote “Scrambled egg and water” in large, childish scrawl on the portable blackboard behind her.

  “I once tried living on coffee, cigarettes and Skittles,” volunteered another woman with a pile of knitting in her lap.

  Lolly’s list grew to include such classics as diet pills, diuretics, laxatives, starvation, hypnotism, pasting “fat” pictures of one’s self on the fridge, and vari
ous diet plans.

  Denise leaned over to Katie. “I used to snort cocaine,” she whispered.

  “I used to snort cheese doodle dust,” Katie whispered back.

  Denise laughed loudly, causing several women to turn around and glare. That was one element of Fat Fighters Katie disliked: the sometimes evangelical fervor of some of its members.

  A lecture followed where Lolly outlined why Fat Fighters, with its emphasis on portion control and exercise, was the way to go. Katie had heard it all before, but she still felt she needed to be here. It was empowering to know she wasn’t the only one who still struggled with food issues.

  When the meeting ended, Bitsy leaned over to Katie. “Denise and I are going for coffee at Tabitha’s. Wanna come?”

  Katie hesitated. Tabitha’s was Didsbury’s only coffee shop. It served coffee. Plain black coffee, both caf and decaf. And cake. Its lunchtime specials included tuna casserole and sloppy joes. All the waitresses were over sixty and said things like, “What can I do ya for, hon?” No latte, no low-carb chai, no biscotti, no anything.

  “Is there a Starbucks nearby?” Katie asked hopefully.

  Denise and Bitsy looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  “A Starbucks?” Bitsy practically shrieked. “In Didsbury ?”

  “Sorry,” said Denise. “Tabitha’s is the only game in town.”

  “You up for it?” asked Bitsy.

  Katie nodded. She wasn’t totally sure what to make of Bitsy. But after being kissed by Paul van Dorn, she knew a lot could change in ten years. What did she have to lose?

  “I saw the fear in your eyes when I asked you to join us,” Bitsy said to Katie later when the two of them, along with Denise, were safely ensconced in a booth at Tabitha’s. Unable to completely resist temptation, the three of them agreed to split a piece of crumb cake, the perfect accompaniment to their plain black coffee.

  “I don’t blame you,” Bitsy continued. “I was a total bitch to you in high school.”

  “Yes, you were,” Katie agreed, nibbling on her cake.

  “Well, what goes around comes around,” said Bitsy ruefully. “I mean, look at you now.”

  “You can lose the weight,” Katie encouraged.

  Denise looked at Bitsy with envy. “She’s already dropped ten, the witch.”

  “That’s great,” said Katie, meaning it. Psychologically speaking, she knew how important reaching that ten-pound milestone was. “Keep it up.”

  Bitsy sighed. “I’m trying, but it’s hard. Frank is the junk food king. The man never met a Ho Ho he didn’t like.”

  “A boy after my own heart,” trilled Denise. She turned to Katie. “You remember Frank, don’t you? Frank DiNizio? Played football?”

  Katie tried to conjure his face, but all she could see was a pair of grizzly-bear-size shoulders. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I don’t really remember him.”

  “He has a flat head like Frankenstein,” Bitsy offered helpfully.

  Katie coughed to cover a laugh, taken aback by Bitsy’s bluntness.

  “Do you remember him now?”

  “Kind of.” The description of his head helped.

  “Well, anyway, he says he’s supportive, but then he brings all this crap into the house.”

  “A diet saboteur,” Denise put in knowingly. “The worst kind of evil.”

  “Tell him to put all the bad stuff out of sight,” Katie advised.

  “I think I’ll just tell him to keep it at the bar with him.” She took a sip of her coffee. “He tends bar nights at the Penalty Box,” she explained.

  “Really?” Katie’s interest was piqued. Here she was with two townies. She had no doubt she could get a world of info on Paul if she wanted, but she had to be subtle. “Does he like it?”

  “He says Paul’s a better boss than Cuffy was, that’s for sure.”

  Denise shuddered. “Cuffy was an old perv.”

  “Did you both stay in Didsbury after high school?” Katie asked.

  Denise popped her entire portion of crumbcake in her mouth before answering. “I was in Boston for a long time. I came back two years ago after my mom died. She left the house to me.”

  “That gorgeous Queen Anne up on Maple,” Bitsy swooned. Katie had no idea what house she was talking about. Maple was part of the Ladybarn District.

  “What do you do?” Katie asked Denise.

  “I’m an insurance adjuster. Very glamorous.”

  “And you?” Katie asked Bitsy.

  Bitsy smiled proudly. “I’m a stay-at-home mom.”

  “How old are your kids?” Katie asked.

  “I just have one, my son, Christopher. He’s nine.”

  “So’s my nephew, Tuck!” said Katie, regretting it immediately. Didsbury was small; everyone had to know what Tuck’s circumstances were.

  “How’s Mina doing?” Denise asked tentatively.

  “She’s still in rehab. We’ll be allowed to see her in a few weeks. Tuck’s very excited.”

  “I think it’s great that he’s with your mom,” said Bitsy. “God knows your sister—” Denise shot her a sharp look and Bitsy clamped her mouth shut. She looked mortified.

  “I’m sorry,” said Bitsy. “I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay,” Katie assured her quietly.

  “So, what are you doing back in Didsbury?” Denise asked Katie.

  Katie told them about her sabbatical from Fallowfield College to work on her book. Both women looked impressed.

  “I knew you were a professor or something,” said Denise.

  “How?”

  “The way you dress: kinda LL Beanie. Plus that book bag you’ve been dragging around.”

  Katie glanced down at the large canvas tote at her feet. Not only did it serve as her purse, but it also contained her laptop as well as several books and papers. Without it she felt naked.

  “Guilty,” she said with a smile.

  “Are you going to talk to Paul van Dorn for the book?” Bitsy asked.

  “I was planning to,” Katie said carefully. “Why?”

  Bitsy shrugged. “No reason. Frank says he’s real moody, that’s all.”

  “I’d be moody, too, if my career blew up in my face before I was even thirty,” said Denise.

  Moody. Katie filed that one away. She turned to Bitsy. “You must be happy Liz is back in town,” she made herself say.

  Bitsy made a sour face. “Liz and I fell out years ago.”

  “Really?”

  “She was scandalized when I got pregnant with Christopher and had to—excuse me, chose to—marry Frank. Apparently marrying someone who earns less than three mill a year is bogus, dahling.”

  “I never liked her,” Denise sniffed.

  “Me, either,” Katie confessed.

  Bitsy giggled. “Me, either! But I was so desperate to be popular, I was willing to trail behind her like a puppy dog and do whatever she said.” She shook her head. “Pathetic.”

  “I can’t wait to see how long it takes her to lure Paul van Dorn back into her web,” said Denise.

  “You think?” Katie asked, trying to sound offhanded.

  “Oh, please.” Denise stole a piece of Katie’s cake. “If it has money and a dick that works, Liz is there. I just hope Paul isn’t that stupid or depressed.”

  CHAPTER 05

  Katie felt anxious walking into the Penalty Box. For someone who prided herself on holding the attention of a hall full of students, having lunch with an ex-jock should have been a piece of cake. Instead, she felt as if she were going to meet her parole officer.

  The place was packed. Katie had never been here when it was Cuffy’s, but even she could tell Paul had made the Penalty Box his own: There was hockey memorabilia everywhere, much of it personal. A game of tabletop hockey in the corner was generating loud whoops and shouts from the four businessmen who were playing. Katie recognized two of them; one had graduated the year before she and Paul, the other headed up the insurance company in town. Once again, Didsbur
y’s insularity was brought home to her. In Fallowfield, it was possible to walk down the street or go out to lunch and not see anyone you knew, or even recognized. Not here.

  Katie was surprised at the variety of people having lunch; everyone from hard hats to suits to moms with kids in tow.

  And in the middle of it all, loving every second of the attention he was being paid, was Paul.

  Katie had no doubt Paul loved the hum of conversation in the Penalty Box. It probably reminded him of the sound of the crowd, the background music to so much of his life. Surrounded by tangible signs of his glory days (photos, trophies, jerseys, banners, signed pucks, battered sticks, skates) and a clientele who loved hearing his stories about the NHL, it would be easy for him to forget what had happened. Night after night, he was the main attraction. She was sure he could have turned the tavern into a bona fide sports bar with a mega sound system and multiple TVs, but then the focus would be on the screens . . . not him.

  Katie hung back by the door a moment, watching him. He sat perched on a stool at the far end of the bar, surrounded by three young guys who looked to be high school age. One was wearing a New York Blades jersey; another held out a picture for him to autograph. There was no mistaking the pure pleasure on Paul’s face as these young men hung on his every word, adoration in their eyes. Discreetly as she could, she pulled out a pen and jotted down. Ex athletes need to cling to former identity—the importance of remaining in the public eye. She was just capping the pen when Paul spotted her. Pointing in the direction of an empty booth, he mouthed “Five minutes,” then continued talking to the starstruck adolescents.

  Katie slid into the small wooden booth and laid out the items she needed for the interview: list of questions, notepad, microcassette recorder. She hadn’t been sitting for more than a minute before a waitress swung by with a menu, asking if she wanted anything to drink. “A Diet Coke would be great,” said Katie.

  She was busy pretending to study her notes when Paul sat down opposite her. “Sorry ’bout the delay,” he said. Katie nodded uncertainly in the direction of the bar. “Is that Frank DiNizio?”