by Roger Elwood
by Roger Elwood
1
The apartment was dark except for one floor lamp in back of the worn sofa where I was sitting. Outside, rain was splattering against the window—cold drops of it coming down rapidly on a chill winter evening.
I shivered as I reached for. the telephone on the coffee table in front of me, then stopped, my hand in midair. Biting my lip, unsure of what to do, I finally went as far as actually picking up the phone and holding it against my ear. After all, I have to show decisiveness sometimes, you know!
Chachi. . . .
My attention rested, for a moment, on the framed photograph of Chachi Arcola which was also on the coffee table, in fact, right next to the phone. He was smiling that mischievous little smile of his, and there was a kind of sparkle in his eyes. And not from contact lenses, either. He couldn't afford them.
Chachi, I said to myself even though there was no one else in the apartment. Sometimes, even when you are alone, you want to keep your thoughts to yourself and not speak them to the emptiness around you. Chachi. . . .
I sighed, lost in dreams for a few seconds.
But next came the BIG step, tapping out a number on the phone, a long-distance number.
That was harder. I really bit my lip then, and I could feel perspiration on my back.
It wasn't just any number. The one I had in mind belonged to my parents. It used to be mine too. But then I had moved away from home and . . . . . Hold back the tears. Be brave.
Start NOW, I told myself. Take the finger next to your thumb and put it on number 1.
I had to do that. It meant I was starting to make a long-distance call. You couldn't do it without the 1, you just couldn't.
1.
And then a 4.
Followed by another 1.
And next another 4.
Ah! On the way. Forging ahead with resolve.
Next came a 2.
Then another 2. Then. . . .
I froze. What would they think? There I had been, at home, bragging about being independent, all that other propaganda. If Chachi had moved to Chicago from Milwaukee with his mom and good old Al Delvecchio, his new step-father, I had to do the same. I mean, that's the real reason. The camouflage was that I wanted to attend Northwestern University. But I couldn't let my parents know that being close to Chachi was why I wanted to move away.
"Gee, Mom and Dad, other kids are flying the coop all the time!" I blurted out in a moment of great eloquence, my hands on my hips. Always strike for yourself a subtly defiant pose. It helps get the message across. Saves a lot of words. When I realized what I had said, my face turned so red that I looked as though I had a really bad case of sunburn. Only it was from the inside out this time!
Well, what it boiled down to is that they let me go. Tears, yeah. A grand scene, sure. But I went. And you know what? I think they sensed the real reason. In fact, I think they would have felt more hurt if I was putting them through all this just to go to school. The way I felt about Chachi, that was something I guess they understood better than I had given them credit for.
Goose bumps! But that happened just about every time I was alone, looking at his photo.
I shook my head, progressing to the next step in my battle to make a silly little long-distance call.
Progress! I had the phone next to my ear and I had got through 1-414-228 . . . .
Those final digits—all that remained between me and my folks.
I almost hung up the phone, letting all that work go down the drain. I. . . .
"Hello," a familiar voice said at the other end.
A feeling of warmth spread over me as I heard my mother speak.
"Mom, it . . . ," I started to say.
"Joanie! Tom, it's Joanie! It's Joanie! How are you, Joanie? Anything wrong? We've missed you, dear. It's wonderful to hear your voice. You don't know how much it. . . . "
The "conversation" went on like that for about five minutes—well, maybe less. After that I was able to squeeze in, "Hi, Mom. How are you and Dad doing?"
"Joanie, we've been getting along OK."
I could tell in that instant that I had caught her in a lonely moment too. What with Richie off in the service and me gone, well, she did enjoy playing the part of grandmother to Richie's child and mother-in-law to his wife, but it wasn't the same as before. I wasn't there. She missed seeing my clothes strewn all over my room. When she stuck her head in now, the room was tidy! My knitting paraphernalia in the living room . . . an empty milk carton still being chilled in the refrigerator . . . trying to wrench the phone from my death grip so that she could make a call . . . all those great little moments—over, ended, el finisho.
I, Joanie Cunningham, missed my mother's nagging, my father's snoring through the walls separating our bedrooms, Mom's scurrying about like a pack rat, moving things around so that she knew where everything was but I sure didn't, Dad's mumbling some profound observation through his newspaper each morning. I missed the whole ball of wax, as the expression goes.
. . . we've been getting along OK.
"Are you sure, Mom?"
Silence.
Just a second or two, but enough.
"Well, pretty well," she started to say. Then, "You OK, dear?"
Silence. Just a second or two, but enough.
"Why aren't you with Chachi tonight?"
"He's got the flu."
"How long has it been?"
"Nine hours, 30 minutes, and 20 seconds." I started laughing. So did Mom.
"That long?" she said. "So you're calling to get advice."
I nodded, but realizing she couldn't see me, then I said out loud, "Yeah, I am."
"What's wrong?"
"I'm not sure anything is."
"Then what can I tell you?"
I swallowed. My eyes hadn't left the photo of Chachi until then. But I turned away at that point, looking across the room at nothing in particular, a slight blush on my cheeks.
"Mom, I love Chachi more than I ever imagined I did, or could."
She said nothing, waiting for me, knowing in her wisdom that I would pour out my heart.
And I did. I had to tell Mom how it had been, about my whole new life in Chicago. I'd made so many wonderful new friends, especially in the musical group Chachi and I were in. I wanted to tell Mom everything about the group and about how the friendships that blossomed there were also bringing Chachi and me closer together, providing the two of us so many touching and beautiful experiences to share. . . .
2
Annette Rico came to be a very special person to Chachi and me.
At first it had seemed that she didn't have much going for her. It was pretty easy to take her for granted. But then her musical ability proved to be real and wonderful. And it was our respect for that ability that began to form a bond between us.
Annette's biggest problem was her self-image. She would walk by a mirror, look at herself, and sigh hopelessly. Her clothes weren't very attractive either, showing even more clearly how little she thought of herself.
And her eating habits were pretty awful. When Annette was worried, she ate. When she was sad, she camped out by the refrigerator. When she was happy, she celebrated by going to a restaurant. It was almost automatic, this reaching out for a sandwich, a doughnut, a seven-layer cake, whatever.
And her father didn't do very much to foster a better self-image. In fact, he inflicted a lot more harm on her than anything else. His way of encouraging Annette went something like this:
"Annette?"
"Yeah, Dad."
"Don't be so depressed."
"Are you kidding? If you looked like this, you'd be depressed too."
"Listen, Annette, don't talk like that. You'll blossom. You'll grow." And
then he'd take a good look at her and add, "We'll send you to a fat farm."
Again and again, though never deliberately, he managed to shoot down her already low self-esteem.
We were having a meeting of the musical group we all had formed—Chachi, Bingo, Annette, Mario, and I—and it was in Chachi's kitchen this time, directly above Delvecchio's Restaurant, which Chachi's mother, Louisa, and his stepfather, Al, owned. Al had been reluctant to give up his pizza and hamburger place in Milwaukee. He would miss seeing the Fonz and all the other familiar faces there. But all things considered, moving to Chicago had been the best decision, and the new restaurant was doing well.
"Wait! Wait!" Annette said as we broke up and started to head downstairs for a rehearsal.
"What now?" Chachi asked, his tone noticeably impatient.
He found out a minute or so later. Annette had loaded her arms with two sandwiches, a quart of milk, two minipies and, for good measure, a couple of slices of cheese, not to mention a handful of candy bars.
"Annette," Chachi said pointedly, tapping his foot on the floor, "would it help if we got you a truck?"
Her eyes brightened for a second, as though the idea appealed to her.
"Aw, you're just kidding me," she said, blushing.
Chachi and I exchanged glances that were a mixture of amusement and pity.
Ordinarily Annette seemed to take everything in stride, but one day I saw how much she really was hurting inside.
We were all in the kitchen, eating the lunch that Louisa had prepared for us. Annette and Mario's father—the rest of us called him "Uncle Rico"—was late, as usual. He was probably wheeling and dealing. Rico fancied himself a high-powered agent. Trouble was, nobody else thought the same. So he was always having money troubles. Whatever cash Uncle Rico had, he spent on fancy clothes like hand-tailored suits and silk ties and other stuff to keep up a front.
Finally he came dashing up the steps. If nothing else, he kept himself in halfway decent shape. Short and stocky, he was what you might call a bull of a man.
Uncle Rico greeted each one of us. When he approached Al, he said. "Hey, what did you do to yourself?"
"Nothing," Al said. "I always look like this."
"Oh, yeah. I keep forgetting."
Annette reacted immediately. She stood up and started yelling.
"You're always insulting people, Dad. You always are! Some of us aren't strong enough to take that. Some of us can't stand the—."
She couldn't finish. The words were washed away by her tears. She looked from one to another of us, then ran from the kitchen and down the stairs. We heard the front door slam.
"What did I say?" Uncle Rico asked, honestly not aware of what had happened.
"Don't you know?" Louisa confronted her brother. "You're a little too quick with the insuits. You think you're being funny, but with some, well, what you say cuts very deep."
"You're exaggerating," he replied. "She'll come back in a little while, just wait and see."
But Annette didn't come back.
Several hours passed. We tried to be light-hearted, but after a while that wouldn't wash. We were worried sick.
Uncle Rico called the police every hour or so.
No word.
"What can I do?" he asked, nearly sobbing, as he sat hunched over in Al's chair. "What if something's happened to Annette?"
In that moment, all the crass pushiness of the man went like so much sand slipping through his fingers. He was probably more vulnerable than he ever had been before in his life. He had been brought face-to-face, starkly, with how much he loved his daughter. And not only that, but he had had to realize how deeply he had been hurting her.
Al went over to his brother-in-law and sat on the floor next to him.
"The answer is whether we learn," Al said, summoning up wisdom that none of us realized he possessed. "It's a shame when we hurt those we love, but the real tragedy would be if we went on doing the same thing again and again after we had learned the truth."
Al and Uncle Rico stood up and embraced each other.
Later, Chachi and I went outside and walked for blocks in each direction, hoping to find some clue to Annette's whereabouts.
After a long, long time we were successful.
Seeing the broken window at Hershon's Bakery made us stop right in our tracks. We could hear, faintly, a sobbing sound coming from the bakery. Chachi and I went inside and found Annette on the floor, surrounded by empty doughnut boxes, paper towels, and wrapping paper.
She looked up. Different colors of icing were smeared across her cheeks, and a glob of jelly had dribbled down the front of her blouse. In her hand was a half-eaten chocolate eclair.
"I didn't know what to do or where to go," she sobbed, tears pouring down her cheeks. "Dad was telling the truth. I am a fat slob."
I bent down beside her, taking a hankie from a pocket in my slacks and wiping her face.
"Maybe I'll weigh 300 pounds some day," Annette said, "and then what'Il I do?"
Our eyes locked.
"Annette, what you're doing isn't very good for you," I told her. "If you don't stop, you're going to be in real trouble. It's as simple as that."
"But I can't stop, Joanie. Everywhere I turn, I see food. I look at the newspaper and I see ads for luscious barbequed spareribs. I turn on the TV and they've got juicy doughnuts being advertised. I take the bus and there are posters showing chocolate candy, strawberry ice-cream sundaes, and. . . . "
She tried to break away from me but I wouldn't let her. And she was starting to put the rest of the eclair in her mouth.
"What you're saying is that you've given up," I said, my voice rising more than I had intended. "You've just given up. You're admitting to the world that you think you're hopeless, that you're nothing more than a fat lady. Why don't you eat even more and then you'll be big enough to join a circus—be the fattest lady in the world!"
I went over to a big display case that had some French pastry in it, the centers covered with cherry, blueberry, and lemon jelly.
"These look good, Annette. Gobble them all, why don't you?"
I turned to Chachi.
"C'mon, Chachi, let's leave her alone with her calories."
As soon as we were outside, Chachi said, "You were pretty hard on her, Joanie."
"Quiet," I said. "I know what I'm doing."
Five seconds later, Annette came running out of the bakery.
"Wait for me," she shouted. "Please."
After that, both Annette and Al went on a strict diet-and-exercise program. How come Al got involved? Actually, he had to admit that he liked to eat almost as much as Annette did, and at his age the danger was much greater.
"You know," he said as he sat with Chachi and me on a park bench one warm afternoon, "I've been fat most of my life. For as long as I can remember, I had to wear bigger clothes than any of my friends. I ate more than anybody else. And I would never go out for sports because I was ashamed of my shape and my lack of coordination."
He turned to Chachi.
"Son, your mother's been wonderful. She married me in spite of how I look. She was able to see beyond my appearance. That's hardly ever happened in my relationship with anyone. I love her very much, you know. And I've just decided that she deserves to see a better me. She needs to know that I care enough for her to be in the best condition I can. After all, what would happen if, one day, because of all this weight, I were to drop dead of a heart attack?"
It's going to take months, maybe longer. There'Il be relapses for Annette Rico and Al Delvecchio. They may become discouraged at some point and want to throw in the towel. But they've got people around them who care very much for them. None of us will let Annette and Al down.
It won't be easy for them, that's true. But love can accomplish a lot. And a lot of love can do almost anything.
3
Bingo? Well, Chachi and I weren't so sure about him—at first anyway. There he was spouting off all those ridiculous (it seemed) comme
nts about the sun, the moon, the stars, the destiny of man, and all the rest. For my part, I just didn't know how to take him—wasn't even sure I wanted anything to do with the guy.
Our relationship at the beginning wasn't helped by the fact that he had a habit of using his fingers to eat certain kinds of food. The mess he left after eating spaghetti was beyond belief. I know, Joanie Cunningham can be a slob, too, but that's different. I can get away with that sort of thing. Bingo, he's another story.
I remember, early on, Chachi and I were sitting in a booth at Al's restaurant. It was a good little moment for us. We had just had the biggest and best pizza we'd ever tasted, covered with mushrooms, onions, pepperoni, meatballs, mozzarella, cheddar, three other kinds of cheese, garlic sauce, real tomatoes sliced thick instead of the usual thin stuff, olive oil, and several other goodies—you name it.
So we were sitting back, totally stuffed but content and locked into each other's space. And in comes Bingo.
He saw us and came over to our table.
"Hi," he said, waving his hand around to form a circle, then another.
"Bingo," Chachi said, frowning, "what are you doing with your hand?"
"Me?" he asked, puzzled, looking at his hand. "Oh, I don't know. Did it look strange?"
Chachi nodded.
"Well, I'm just going to have to do something about that," he said as he kind of waddled off, talking to himself, looking a little like a duck about to lay her eggs!
I leaned over to Chachi and whispered, "It's not the funny hat he has on sometimes, the one with the plastic propeller on top. It's not the Bermuda shorts he wears, showing off those skinny little legs of his, or the fact that he usually wears them backward! It's not even his table manners, really. But. . . . "
Chachi raised two fingers to his lips, shushing me in such a gentle way that my face turned red.
"Let me tell you about Bingo," he said. "I felt the same way about him, you know. At least when we first met. But he kind of grows on you—like a fungus!"
He burst out laughing. So did I. At the front of the restaurant, in his own little world, Bingo was practicing his drums.