“Aren’t they closed for renovations?” Katie lied with her own meaningful look, the meaning of which was that if Fifteen would think Sloane was on kitchen duty then City Café would think she was homeless.
“Ooh, what about that delightful little place you took me to the other day when it rained?” Arlene asked.
“Angela Harnett’s?” both Danielle and Katie exclaimed, looking at the older woman as if she were suggesting they knock on the door of Buckingham Palace and ask to use the bathroom.
“Um…no, Mom; I think it’s too late to make a reservation.”
“You know,” Sloane said, “one of my friends at Bryn visited London after our sophomore year and mentioned a restaurant chain named Benji’s. She said I’d love it because it’s just like Denny’s in America and Denny’s is my favorite restaurant. I think I’ve tried everything on their menu.”
It took all of Danielle’s self-control to stifle the giggles that were absolutely begging to escape at Sloane’s last sentence for it came to her that her half sister probably has indeed tried everything on the Denny’s menu, and all at once, too.
“That sounds perfect,” she proclaimed after faking a mild coughing fit to quell the giggles. Benji’s sounded far from perfect, actually, but it did solve the problem of where to eat. She pressed the intercom button on the nearest phone and said, “Maureen? Do you happen to have any idea where the nearest Benji’s restaurant is?”
***
An interminable day.
To begin, Benji’s was exactly what Danielle imagined it would be—in fact, it was just the type of place she vowed never to walk into again once she had started earning enough to make that kind of vow. It was one of those family restaurants with paper placemats and an odd assortment of faux-vintage memorabilia attached to the walls. It appeared that every family with ill-mannered children ate there and so the din in the dining room was almost unbearable. To top it all off the menu was designed to appeal to mankind’s lowest common denominator, those with palates numbed by years of eating TV dinners and drinking instant coffee.
Danielle had been hoping beyond hope that Sloane wouldn’t prove to be a walking cliché; that perhaps the woman packed on the pounds by sheer inertia coupled with consuming vast quantities of those weight gain supplements sold at health food stores. However, her hopes were dashed. Sloane ordered a breakfast that could have fed a small village in Rwanda and without any self-consciousness at all ate every bite of it.
Following breakfast the plan was to take Sloane sightseeing and after some discussion between Danielle and Katie it was decided that because today was surprisingly clement they’d have Penry drop them off at Trafalgar Square and then they’d make their way by foot down The Mall until they reached Marlborough Street at which point they’d cut across St. James’s Park to Birdcage Walk and then on to Whitehall; they’d stroll across Westminster Bridge to the other side of the Thames and eventually end up at the London Eye, one of Sloane’s designated must-see attractions. That, anyway, was the plan and since London, like New York or Paris, is such a great city to walk in Danielle and Katie figured it was a marvelous way to introduce Sloane to their adopted hometown while giving her plenty of sights to snap pictures of with her cheesy disposable camera. However, upon detailing this idea to their companions Sloane replied with:
“I can’t; although it does seem like a good idea.”
“What’s the problem, then?” Danielle prodded.
“If I walk too much I get a rash between my legs from my thighs rubbing together,” Sloane admitted unabashedly.
And so instead of walking they had to drive from location to location—from Nelson’s Column to the Mall Galleries, to Westminster Hall and Big Ben, to the Cenotaph and 10 Downing, and then across the bridge to Dali Universe and the Eye. And since London, like New York or Paris, is such a nightmare to drive in—particularly when there is a two-car accident on the Mall, an anti-war protest at Queen Victoria’s memorial, repaving being done on Birdcage Walk, another anti-war protest near 10 Downing and an overturned lorry on Westminster Bridge—it seemed they had spent more time in the Bentley than out of it.
And they had lunch at Benji’s again.
After dropping Arlene off at Nita’s just after sunset (yet another traffic jam, this time on Nita’s street and this one involving loose chickens) Danielle, Katie and Sloane were driven back to Trinity Manor. Almost as soon as the threesome walked through the front door Sloane gasped and froze in her tracks, her hands flying to her mouth. At first Danielle was alarmed, wondering if Sloane had spotted a masked intruder lurking in the shadows, but then she followed her half sister’s eyes and realized that down a corridor and through a series of open doors Sloane had spotted Max. He was standing before the teakwood cabinet in which he kept his back issues of National Geographic and was flipping through one of the magazines.
“Come on, dear,” she said to Sloane, taking her arm, “I’ll introduce you.”
***
“Max, sweetie, this is Sloane McIntyre; Sloane, this is my husband, Max Bland.”
When Max looked up from the Geographic article he was skimming he couldn’t keep his jaw from dropping open in stunned surprise.
“Jesus Christ!” he muttered before he could stop himself. “I mean, Jesus Christ! You startled me! I didn’t hear you come in. I was, um, reading this article. It’s research for my book. About the Shakers. I mean, um, my book isn’t about the Shakers; that would be ridiculous. The article is about the Shakers. But I, um, still need to know a little bit about them. The Shakers, that is.” He stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
She was, without a doubt, the most enormous person he had ever seen. He simply hadn’t been expecting this. How could he? People that large, he reasoned, never made it past the talent scouts of whatever circus was in town and what had struck him the most as soon as he looked up from the magazine was how tiny Danielle and Katie were in comparison; they provided scale to Sloane’s size, demonstrating just how large she truly was. In fact, he couldn’t tell who looked more freakish: the impossibly immense woman smiling stupidly at him and pumping his hand or the almost pixie-like women standing on either side of her. He suddenly realized he was feeling a bit queasy, considered for a moment that it might have been something he ate, but then decided it was most likely some adverse effect caused by being in range of Sloane’s gravitational field.
“Oh, Mr. Bland!” Sloane gushed, her free hand over her heart as if she were taking an oath. “I am so honored to meet you! I have read all of your books and am a really big fan.”
Max’s nose twitched. He knew there was a potential joke somewhere in what Sloane just said, a bon mot he could share later with Danielle and Katie, but he was still too flabbergasted to locate it. Instead, his mind was on autopilot and merely made his mouth say, “Thank you, that’s very nice of you.”
“I went to hear you speak once,” Sloane continued, finally ending the handshake. “It was at the New School in Manhattan. You gave a lecture comparing Cervantes and Boccaccio which was fascinating. I just ate it all up.”
Again! Again Max sensed a potential wisecrack but it was as if his brain were stuck in first gear.
“I almost didn’t make it, actually,” Sloane went on. “The tickets for the lecture were selling so fast I couldn’t score any. Fortunately, my best friend’s mother once taught at the New School and she made some phone calls and managed to squeeze me in.”
Christ almighty! Again! Something about that ‘squeeze’ comment…but Max still couldn’t formulate a quip in his mind for future use despite the fact that he was certain Sloane was throwing hanging curveballs at him.
“I’m glad you liked the lecture,” Max said numbly. “And, uh, welcome to London. Will you be here on Tuesday?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m doing a book signing that afternoon. That’s when the illustrated edition of Pope Anne comes out. It’s horribly overpriced but on the upside you won’t need a ticket to get in;
in fact, I’ll make sure you get to the head of the line. Um… Katie…I finished your story, by the way.”
“Really?” Katie said brightly. She briefly explained to Sloane about the anthology project for the Rivers Foundation and then asked Max, “Can I read it now?”
“Not just yet. I overnighted it to Rachel in New York so she could give it the once-over; I’ll have it back no later than Tuesday or Wednesday. Listen, can I see you and Danielle in the kitchen, please? I, um, need to talk to you about, um, something.”
“What something?” Danielle said, arching her eyebrow. She was enjoying seeing Max flummoxed.
“Something,” Max snapped. “Just something.” To Sloane he said, “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable, Sloane? Pour yourself a drink and we’ll be right back.”
***
“Okay, what’s the gag?” Max asked when he was alone with his wife and metamour. “That isn’t Sloane; that’s some fat person you hired from an agency just to pull a fast one on me.” He wagged his finger at them. “That’s pretty good, I’ll admit. You almost had me there.”
Danielle was leaning against his chest laughing. Finally she said, “Max, lover, that is Sloane!”
“Fuck you, no it’s not!”
“It is, I swear.”
“You have got to be kidding me!” the writer exclaimed.
“You haven’t heard the best part, Max,” Katie said.
“No, no! Wait!” Danielle pleaded. “Let me tell it! Please?” To Max she said, “The best part is that she wants to be that big.”
Max gaped.
“Is she outta her mind? Strap a couple of seats to her backside and she’ll qualify as mass transit.”
So Katie informed Max of what Sloane had confessed last night. Max actually staggered and had to grab hold of the butcher block table for support.
“You mean to tell me,” he began, “that you two stick insects wake up in cold sweats from fear that the breath mint you may have had after lunch is gonna make you gain half an ounce but Shamu in there actually likes being that big?”
“Yep.”
“And according to her she still has quite the sex life,” Danielle added.
“Unbelievable,” Max muttered.
“Well, I’ll tell you both something,” Katie said. “Before we left for breakfast this morning I went on the Internet because I was curious about what Sloane told us and apparently there’s this whole fat-acceptance movement going on. There are organized groups all over the world that help fat people fight against stereotyping and victimization.”
“Oh, great,” Max began, “I can see it now: the Million Ton March on Washington.”
“Don’t be rude, Max,” Katie said with crossed arms and a frown.
“Whatever,” Max replied. “For Christ’s sake, fat people already have the right to vote, what more do they want?”
To his wife Max then said, “I bet you’re happy, though.”
“About what?” Danielle asked.
Pointing in the general direction of the room they had left Sloane in Max replied, “That has got to be the least threatening woman you’ve ever met. She’s the anti-you in every way.”
“True,” Danielle said softly. Oddly enough, this was the first time she’d considered this fact. She had been so amazed at how far off she had been in her speculations about what Sloane might look like that it wasn’t until now when she realized she could perhaps drop the hostility a bit. “She is rather pathetic, isn’t she?”
“Danielle, that’s not being fair,” Katie admonished. “Sloane may not be shapely—”
“Oh, she’s shapely,” Max cut in. “Round is a shape.”
“Do shut up, Max,” his metamour snapped. “Sloane may not be shapely but she seems happy and well-adjusted. In fact, I kind of admire her. Being different because you were born different is one thing; however, purposefully being different because that’s how you’re most comfortable is another thing. She’s doing her own thing, being her own person and that is pretty amazing.”
“Katie’s right,” Danielle said and gave her wife’s hand a squeeze. “I’ll stop thinking she’s pathetic because she’s fat but I still hate being seen in public with her the way she dresses. God, it’s embarrassing.”
“How long is she here for?” Max asked.
“Until Wednesday, the first,” Danielle answered. “I’ll hang out her with this weekend but I am not taking time off from the bank; let Mom play tour guide; it’s bad enough we’re going to be stuck eating at Benji’s every night for dinner.”
Chapter 27
Dinner plans were discussed briefly. Since the usual restaurants were out of the question and since Arlene wasn’t there to vehemently protest it was decided to order in from a curry place nearby. While waiting for the food to arrive Max went to his office to phone overseas to his editor and Katie went upstairs to take a shower; this left Danielle and Sloane alone for the first time since the latter’s arrival and Danielle figured now was as good a time as any to broach the topic of their mutual DNA.
“So…we have the same father,” she said, pouring another glass of white wine for her half sister.
“Guess so,” Sloane answered and thanked Danielle for the wine. “It was quite shocking when I found out about you and Arlene.”
“Yes, I bet. Mind, it was a shock for both of us, too; Max and Katie can attest to what a state I was in; so could my employees at the bank for that matter.”
“Oh, I cried for days,” the teacher admitted. “And I got sick all of a sudden, too. You know how that happens when you’re really, really sad? I stayed in bed for a week, could hardly eat anything and ached all over. It was terrible.”
“Mom told me you also lost a boyfriend over this?”
“Yes, although it’s not because I suddenly hate men. Keith just wasn’t very understanding about what I was going through; he seemed to think it wasn’t a big deal, you know? He kept saying ‘You turned out alright, didn’t you?’ I realized then that perhaps he wasn’t Mr. Right.”
Danielle nodded, sipped her own white wine.
“I was lucky,” she said. “Katie and Max were both very supportive and understanding but it was still a terrible revelation, Sloane, which makes me want to ask you something that’s been bugging me since Mom first told me about you: why on Earth did your mother feel it was necessary to tell you this in the first place? It doesn’t make any sense to me; she kept this horrible secret for so many years, so why suddenly burden you and us with it?”
“I don’t know,” Sloane stated matter-of-factly but for Danielle that wasn’t good enough.
“Oh for God’s sake, Sloane! Up until your mother opened her big mouth I was under the impression that Dad was a decent man and I’m sure you were too—and, as I’m sure you know, girls who grow up to become women with good memories of their fathers should count themselves lucky. So what gives?”
“I don’t know,” Sloane repeated. “I…I think maybe Mom was feeling guilty and wanted me to know the truth. I honestly don’t know what to tell you, Danielle. I went to her house in New Mexico for the Christmas holiday; we—“
“Was my father there?” Danielle suddenly remembered Christmas seasons past. Harold was always in Fountain Hills on Christmas Day, she could say that much for him, but without fail he would disappear for two or three days afterwards. It was always the same excuse: university business, which, in retrospect, Danielle couldn’t believe her mother bought.
Sloane said, “He wasn’t there on Christmas Day—he never was; up until I was ten I thought Christmas fell on the twenty-eighth of December. Anyway, he did show up for a couple of days and then said he had to return to Arizona.”
“Let me guess: some excuse about his work?”
“Yeah. He always told me that he taught a special class at ASU in Native American Studies during winter break for advanced students.”
“Fucking bastard,” Danielle muttered. She swallowed the remainder of her wine in a single gulp and then stood
. “Come outside with me. I need some fresh air.”
Obediently Sloane got up. The women went to the coat closet, donned their coats and in a moment were on the front steps of Trinity Manor.
After stamping her feet to get a little warmer Danielle said, “So go on…you were home for the holidays last year…”
“Yeah, so Mom and I were sitting around the house one evening drinking eggnog and she started spilling the beans. I can’t even think of what prompted her although I’m guessing she was a bit drunk. She’s a big girl like me but she was hitting the ’nog pretty heavy that night.” Sloane had brought her wine glass outside with her and had been swirling the wine in her glass as she related this but now she looked up at Danielle. “But aren’t you kind of glad to know about all this?”
“Why would I be?”
The other woman shrugged.
“Don’t know. I mean, I guess I’ve always preferred knowing that someone is lying to me as opposed to remaining in the dark and letting them keep lying to me, you know?”
Danielle shook her head.
“No. That may be fine in other areas of life but not this one. Up until a few months ago I loved my father dearly because he had always been a good dad. He was the first man I loved and the fact is you just shouldn’t know the deepest secrets of your parents as long as those deep secrets don’t affect your life because once you learn them then it’s hard to maintain that image of them as heroes. So, no, even though I’m sure you’re the nicest person on the planet I cannot see how your being here improves my life.”
“Do you want me to leave?” Sloane asked.
It was a few seconds before Danielle responded.
“No,” she replied eventually. “You’re here; you’re a reality and therefore you’re something I just have to deal with.”
“Gee, thanks,” mumbled Sloane.
Two for One-Relatively Speaking (The Two for One series) Page 25