“All right, ladies,” she cried jubilantly, “let’s go! The Perrier is on me!”
Chapter 11
“Ugh.”
Martha dumped a heavy Johnnie Walker Red carton onto the couch and disgustedly wiped her hands on her tattered, paint-stained jeans. “This thing weighs a ton. What’s in here?” she called to Judy, who huffed and puffed a few feet behind her.
“Books,” she said, answering her own question as she tore open the box. “More books. I had no idea you were such a scholar when I decided to move in with you.”
“Yes, well, it keeps me off the streets.” Judy waddled over to the kitchen, struggling with a yellow plastic laundry basket heaped high with Revere Ware.
“What is that, anyway?” Martha asked, glancing over her shoulder.
“A mere portion of a legacy from my Aunt Lavinia.” Judy pushed the basket into a corner of the tiny kitchen. “She got worried when I turned twenty-one and still wasn’t married. I think she felt that the ability to claim ownership of half the existing inventories of Corningware, Revere Ware, and Tupperware would improve my chances.”
“How can you possibly be so cheerful and energetic at a time like this?” Martha groaned, plopping down on the couch, exhausted. “We must have made eighty-three trips up those stairs in the last two hours.”
“Nobody ever said that moving was fun. Or easy.” Judy pulled two cans of Diet Pepsi out of the laundry basket. “Fortunately, I plan ahead.”
Martha gratefully accepted the can that Judy tossed to her. “It’s warm,” she complained.
“When it’s ninety degrees outside, Martha, my dear, everything is warm.”
“I think beer would be much more appropriate. I feel like Joe’s Moving and Storage. All I need is an undershirt.”
“And hairy armpits. Shhh—better cool it. You’ll offend Carlos. He’s bringing up the TV.” Judy peeked out the window. “His buddy is guarding the truck. Although, given the fact that he’s about four foot seven, I’d feel better if I were standing guard and he were carting around Aunt Lavinia’s hope chest.”
Martha glanced around the apartment and felt a twinge of desperation. Boxes were piled everywhere. Cartons of sheets and towels sat on the kitchen counter, records were stacked in the bathroom, and her wicker chair was hidden somewhere in the bedroom that would be hers, probably shrouded in plastic dry-cleaning bags filled with winter coats and wool dresses.
“This is it,” Carlos smiled, depositing the television set in the middle of the living room. “Just one more box. We cleared out two apartments in less than eight hours! That’s a record for me!”
“Must be the supplementary slave labor,” Judy mumbled, handing over a small pile of bills. “Thanks a lot, Carlos. Keep the change.”
“I’ll get that box, Carlos,” Martha offered. She trotted down the stairs, relieved that this next trip up the elevator, lugging her worldly possessions, would be the last. She retrieved the wooden crate filled with records from the truck and dragged it over the sidewalk back to her new building. Carlos’ cohort, stubbornly following his instructions to guard the now empty truck, looked on with amusement as Martha struggled with the box.
She stumbled into the hallway and pushed the elevator button. As she contemplated joining a union, the doors opened and an old lady with two black dogs who resembled bears stepped out.
“Going up?” Martha impatiently asked the tenant who refused to venture out behind the ménage à trois and vacate the elevator. This was no time for playing statues.
“Here, let me help you with that,” came the gruff suggestion from her elevator-mate. She raised her eyebrows as a young man she’d never seen before bent over and effortlessly picked up the box of records.
“What floor?” he asked, lightly placing the crate in the corner of the elevator.
“Three.”
“You just moving in?” The red-haired young man blushed slightly as he smiled at Martha.
Green eyes, she thought. I’ve never seen such green eyes before.
“Yes,” she replied formally. “We just moved in today.”
“‘We’?”
“My roommate Judy and I.”
“Oh, yes? I live on five, apartment 5C. My name’s Mike.”
“Hi. I’m Martha.”
“Hey, listen,” Mike said, turning that same charming shade of pink, “if you need any help moving stuff or anything...just come on up.”
“Okay, thanks.” The doors opened on three, and Martha stepped out, then looked at Mike expectantly.
“Um,” he said, “why don’t you come up for coffee sometime? I mean, I could tell you all about the building and the neighborhood and things like that.”
“Okay. I will.” Martha smiled. “But first I have to ask you something.”
“Yes?” Mike asked quickly.
“Are you planning to kidnap my records?”
“Oh,” he laughed. “Sorry.”
He delivered the heavy crate to Martha’s living room, much to Judy’s delight.
“All right, then. I’ll be seeing you. Come up real soon!”
“Well,” Judy teased when the two women were left alone. “You certainly don’t waste any time. You have men falling at your feet, Scarlett O’Nowicki.”
“Ha, ha.” Martha blushed. “All he did was carry my records and offer to infuse me with caffeine.”
“Hmmm. The way I see it, you’re beating them off with clubs lately!”
“It’s about time,” Martha grumbled, enjoying Judy’s teasing. She collapsed on the couch and cried, “Home, sweet home! I can’t believe we’re finally moved in!”
“Don’t get too settled,” Judy warned, wandering into the kitchen. “The afternoon is still young. We need a new lock, and nails to put up our pictures, and we’d better get a whole carload of Comet to clean that kitchen sink.”
“Say, where are the kittens?”
“Someplace under the bed, I guess. They don’t look like they care much for traveling. I think Snowflake here is basically a stodgy East Sider.”
“Just like we used to be, before we broke loose and became artsy West Siders,” Martha laughed. She sat on the couch and stretched her legs out on a carton. “You know, it’s kind of nice, not having a telephone. It’s as if you can be selective about who you want to talk to.”
“That statement certainly sounds pregnant with meaning,” Judy mused, dragging the wicker chair from Martha’s room into the living room. “Please translate.”
“I guess I’m thinking of my mother. She’s been calling me every night lately, bothering me with stupid questions. Like, ‘Do you prefer a wedding gown that’s lacy or simple?’ Or, ‘Which church was the one where you received your First Holy Communion?’ My favorite was, ‘How do you feel about wedding brunches?’“
“As concerned citizens, it’s important that we take a stand on all vital issues,” Judy stated seriously. “The Middle East, nuclear power, wedding brunches...”
“Well, frankly, the whole thing is boring me to tears.”
“How about Eddie? Is he boring you to tears?”
Martha cringed. “You certainly know how to ask all the hard-hitting questions, don’t you?”
“I was just making pleasant conversation,” Judy said quickly. “I didn’t realize I was treading on thin ground.”
Martha sighed deeply and took a swig of Diet Pepsi. “It’s this whole marriage thing. It feels like it’s gotten... so out of control.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way, you know.”
“I know,” Martha said, not sounding particularly convinced.
“Look, do you love Eddie? Do you want to spend your whole life with him? Or at least a major portion thereof?”
Martha frowned. “The answers to those questions should be a resounding ‘Yes.’ And instead, the answers are ‘Sure. Why not?’” She watched Snowflake toying with a piece of string that dangled from a straw basket filled with jars of spices that Carlos had, predictably, placed in the
living room. “Then there’s that damn cat.”
“What? I thought you adored Snowflake.”
“That’s the problem. I adore his original owner too.”
“Hmm. It sounds like there’s a choice to be made in this room,” Judy said somberly. “And quite frankly, I’m glad I’m not the one who’s making it.”
“No, there’s no decision. Not really. I mean, I am engaged. The choice has already been made. I’m probably just getting cold feet.” Martha tried to laugh lightly, but her laughter was as heavy as the box of books Judy was dragging across the floor.
“Well, when you marry Eddie, I’ll have to find a new roommate.”
“That’s not for months yet! Right now I’m your new roommate. Come on, this conversation is getting too deep for Moving Day. Let’s go to the store and fill our new kitchen with luscious lettuce and sweet strawberries and yummy yogurt.”
“Don’t forget caustic Comet,” Judy added, retrieving her purse from a pile of throw pillows and dish towels. “I’ll conquer that sink yet!”
* * * *
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Thin, Incorporated. Tonight I have a special announcement I’d like to make before we get started. There’s a lady in this room who’s been coming since April. She’s been following the diet, and losing weight steadily. Tonight, when I weighed her in, she said to me, ‘You know, Irma, I haven’t weighed this little since I was twelve years old.’ So let’s have a round of applause for Martha Nowicki, my friend in the back of the room. Stand up, Martha!”
Martha could feel herself turning as red as wine vinegar. Judy stuck her in the ribs and whispered, “Stand up! Stand up!”
As Martha stood amid warm smiles and encouraging applause, she thought of a poem she had studied in school, just about the time she was twelve. The poem related the words of a donkey who spoke sadly of his role as a beast of burden. But in the end it was the donkey who carried Christ into Jerusalem. In the final line of the poem, the donkey remembered that moment of glory. “There were shouts about my ears and palms before my feet.”
Now, in the Formica and fluorescent cafeteria of New York Hospital, here among her fellow dieters, Martha felt that same kind of pride, that same sense of triumph. Dozens of pairs of eyes smiled at; her. Dozens of pairs of hands clapped for her. This accolade was, for Martha Nowicki, shouts about her ears and palms before her feet.
By the time she sat down, tears were streaming down Martha’s face. “I feel really dumb,” she apologized to Judy. “I can’t believe I’m crying over this.”
“Nonsense. You’ve accomplished a great feat.”
“What? You mean losing thirty pounds?”
“I mean taking control of your own life.”
Martha wiped her eyes dry with the crumpled tissue she discovered in the pocket of her purple dirndl. “I never thought of it that way.”
“It’s wonderful that you’ve been dedicated to sticking this thing out. You deserve a real celebration. Hey, I know: let’s give a party. It’ll be in your honor.”
“Okay! But we have other things to celebrate too. Like our new apartment, and my upcoming marriage ...”
“Wait. We’ll have to discuss this later. Irma’s getting started. Look! A bag full of fruits!”
“The most wonderful thing about the Thin, Incorporated diet,” Irma was saying, “is the fact that you’re allowed three fruits a day.” As she spoke, she set up an impressive display that would have put the Ninth Avenue produce vendors to shame. “There are dozens of different fruits that are delicious. You can have them plain, or mixed into fruit salads, or even made up into compotes.”
“Compotes. My, Irma Gold is getting fancy. I wonder if caviar is fattening? I bet it isn’t.”
“How can you listen to that? Come on, let’s plan our party. What’ll we have for refreshments?” Martha took a pen out of her purse and began scribbling on a paper napkin she had pulled from the nearby dispenser.
“Now? Irma’s just getting going with her fruits. You know I relate to apricots in a really heavy way.”
“We’ll have to have diet stuff for you and me and the other dieters but we can have lots of goodies for our other guests. Can you make spinach pie?”
“Without tasting it? That’s considered cruel and unusual punishment in twenty-three states!”
“You can do it. I’ve seen you sail past a mountain of Godiva chocolates in Bloomingdale’s without even inhaling. How about dips?”
“I can rumba and tango, but dips are not my specialty.”
“You’re not cooperating. We’ll have to hurry with wallpapering the bathroom. I want our place to be perfect.” Martha pulled another napkin from the dispenser. “Okay. Enough about food. How about guests?”
“Martha, we’re just getting to the compote recipe. You’re distracting me.”
“Kate, Louise, Shirley, of course,” Martha Wrote, ignoring Judy. “Those people upstairs, in 4G. Let’s invite Lucy... she’s right over there.”
Judy glared at her. “Did Irma say two teaspoons or two tablespoons of Sweet ‘n Low?”
“We’ll invite Betsy and Lisa, and your old roommate. Eddie, of course. And let’s not forget Larry.”
“Larry! You’re kidding! Martha, you can’t invite Larry to your engagement party!”
“I knew that would get your attention!” Martha grinned triumphantly.
“So you are kidding,” Judy sighed, obviously greatly relieved.
“No, I’m not. I’m inviting all my friends, and Larry happens to be a friend,”
“A friend?”
“He gave me a birthday present,” Martha said matter-of-factly, folding her napkins neatly and tucking them into her purse.” “He gave me Snowflake.”
“Yes, and your mother turned you on to cheese on your birthday, but you’re not inviting her.”
“She’s my mother, not my friend,” Martha insisted. “You have your guest list, I have mine. Besides, I had a dream about Larry last night. I take that as a message from a source much greater than anything mere mortals can understand.”
“Sounds like too much asparagus, if you ask me,” Judy commented. “What was it about?”
“I dreamed that I was at Grand Central Station, just hanging out, and all of a sudden, Larry came by with lots of suitcases. He was leaving for good. I felt so terrible. Then, all of a sudden, I remembered that I was supposed to call Eddie. I didn’t know if I should walk Larry to his train, since I knew I’d never see him again, or if I should find a pay phone and call Eddie before it was too late.”
“So what did you finally do?”
Martha shrugged. “I woke up. It’s always so much easier to escape from dreams than from real life.”
“Well, dream or no dream, I think you’re crazy. There are gonna be fireworks!”
“Good,” Martha said, smiling diabolically. “Then we’ll have our party on the Fourth of July.”
Judy shook her head disapprovingly.
“Besides,” Martha explained, “holidays help create themes for parties. We can decorate in red, white, and blue.” She smiled smugly and turned her attention back to Irma Gold. “What better way could there possibly be to celebrate Independence Day?”
* * * *
Martha stood in the kitchen, wrestling with a vengeful piece of Saran Wrap that insisted upon clinging to its prey, a perfectly innocent slab of Brie. There was still so much to do: arrange a six-pack of Diet Pepsi in a decorative manner around Aunt Lavinia’s crystal punch bowl; create mead from vodka, grenadine, and three cans of Hi-C; struggle with a corkscrew and five icy bottles of Liebfraumilch. Boxes of Triscuits and Wheat Thins stood by dutifully, awaiting placement into baskets with the politeness of tense job applicants seated hopefully in a personnel office waiting room. The carrot sticks and celery stalks still had to be removed from their wading pool of ice water, the onion soup mix had to be united as one with the sour cream, the vases of fresh summer flowers had to be coaxed into arrangements.
“We’ll never make it in time,” she moaned, and just then the Saran Wrap magically relinquished its hold.
“Relax,” Judy called from the bedroom, where she was earnestly stacking up records. “We still have ten minutes. Besides, you know no one ever gets to a party on time. The fear of being the first guest is too great.” She joined Martha in the kitchen. “Can I help?” she offered.
“Please. Put those in there, and that goes over there...”
“Marty, calm down. No one expects you to be Perle Mesta.”
“I know,” Martha said ruefully. “It’s just that I’m having doubts about my previous foolhardiness.”
“I told you five pounds of cheese would be too much... oh, you mean the other foolhardiness.”
“I think I was temporarily insane when I invited Larry to this party.” Martha pushed a strand of freshly washed and conditioned hair behind her ear.
“Be optimistic. Maybe he’ll get sick. I hear the plague is going around.”
Martha shook her head forlornly. “No such luck. I know he’s anxious to come.”
“Well, there’s nothing you can do now. The old boy is probably on the crosstown bus even as we speak. But tell me, Marty, whatever possessed you at the time? Was your life running too smoothly for you or something?”
“I had some bizarre notion about a showdown, I guess.” Martha sighed and leaned against the refrigerator.
“Good God! You don’t think Eddie will get violent, do you?”
“I think you’ve seen too many Errol Flynn movies. Or read too many Russian novels.”
“One Russian novel is too many Russian novels.”
“Then why are your shelves full of them?”
“This is neither the time nor the place for a Great Books discussion. We can call the Y after the party and sign up for the lecture series, if you like, but not right now. I just want to know if I should put away my breakables.”
“No. It’s going to be okay,” Martha reassured herself. “Eddie and Larry will meet, and hate each other on sight, and hopefully Larry will politely leave after half an hour. I can chalk the whole thing up to a belief in open, honest relationships.”
Once There Was a Fat Girl Page 20