by Sarai Walker
When I finished eating, I remained at the table, fixated on Eulayla’s fat jeans hanging on the red wall. I still hadn’t deposited the $20,000 check from Verena. I had also never canceled my surgery. I called Dr. Shearer’s secretary to make it official. After hanging up the phone I didn’t feel a sense of loss. I felt proud.
Sana had asked why I’d wanted to talk the night before, but I told her I had been bored and thought going to the bar would be fun. She didn’t seem to suspect anything. I had decided not to tell her about Julia’s request for money. I’d been relying on the women of Calliope House, particularly Sana, for support and community, but this was a decision I needed to make alone. It wouldn’t be fair to implicate them. Leeta had never been part of their lives, and they didn’t understand my connection to her. She was my problem.
While I considered what to do about Leeta, I decided it was time to return to Swann Street. I’d abandoned my apartment in Brooklyn months before and needed to face it again. On my way there I mailed about fifty books to my girls, as the requests kept coming in. After the post office I went to my bank and deposited the $20,000.
On the subway to Brooklyn, descending into the dark tunnel, traveling back to my own netherworld, I prepared to see my old home again. I arrived at the brownstone, opening the familiar street door and stopping at the wall of copper-colored mailboxes in the entryway before going upstairs to my apartment. Mail was stuffed into my box, and there was a notice from the post office saying they’d stopped delivering it. I shuffled through the bills and junk mail, throwing most of it in the recycling bin. One letter was from Austen Media, dated from the summer. It stated that I’d been fired for gross misconduct for deleting Kitty’s email and was not allowed back in the slim chrome tower. I was about to throw the letter away, but then decided I might frame it instead.
I inserted the key into the front door of my apartment, and when I opened it, I saw my living room, my desk, the kitchen, just the way I’d left them. At the sight of my old home I felt a twinge, a plucked guitar string of memory that reverberated from head to toe. I flicked the light switch and was relieved the electricity was still on. My coffee mug, still half full, sat on the kitchen counter. Everything was covered in dust, a gray powder like time made manifest, the time that had passed since I’d left this life.
There was barely any food inside the refrigerator. The cupboards were mostly empty, aside from a box of crackers and a few cans of soup. In the freezer there was the stack of Waist Watchers entrées that I’d made, wrapped neatly in foil, the two-star and three-star meals. I recalled my empty belly and the lethargy, sometimes even paralysis, that had resulted from existing on those meals. I’d moved slowly back then, when I’d moved at all.
In my bedroom, I removed Alicia’s clothes from the closet, the dresses that didn’t fit me and never would. I called Sana and asked if she might need clothes for the girls at the clinic when it opened. I explained that the outfits weren’t likely to be the girls’ style, but they would work for job interviews and court appearances. She was enthusiastic, so I packed the clothes in the two black suitcases that were stored under my bed and arranged for a courier to pick them up and deliver them to Calliope House.
The clothes I used to wear every day were in piles on the floor and stuffed into the dresser. I put them in the trash. Over the next several days, I slept in my old bed and awoke each morning to continue sorting through my belongings, going through my books and mementos, my whole life in New York. I discovered empty bottles of Y——, as well as piles of Waist Watchers literature and copies of Daisy Chain. Most of that went into the recycling bin. The copy of Adventures in Dietland that Leeta had given to me went into the box of things I would always keep, with my family photo albums and souvenirs.
As I continued sorting my things and packing, I would go out to withdraw cash from the bank. I considered visiting the café while I was out, but Carmen was still on maternity leave and she was the only part of it that I missed.
Movers came to collect my furniture and boxes and take them to a storage unit in Queens, where I’d leave them while I was living at Calliope House. Then the apartment was empty, except for the bedroom where my cousin Jeremy’s boxes were stored. I called him in Cairo to let him know that I was moving out of his apartment. I offered to continue paying rent until a new tenant moved in, but he told me not to worry. With me moving, he said it was likely he would sell. I understood that he would have sold years before if not for me, and I was grateful for the time he had allowed me to live in a nice place, one that I wouldn’t have otherwise been able to afford. The apartment on Swann Street had made the other difficulties in my life easier to bear.
On my way out, I took one last look around. The apartment was smaller than I remembered it, in the way that everything looks smaller after you’ve left it behind.
The next morning, I awoke in the buttery light of my bedroom back at Calliope House and realized that it wasn’t simply another day. It was the tenth of October, the day my weight-loss surgery had been scheduled to take place. Lying in bed, I instinctively placed my hand on my bare belly and ran my fingers over the terrain—soft to the touch despite the lines and crevices. I was grateful for what was missing: the violent eruption of an incision. Beneath the expanse of flesh, my stomach was nestled among my other organs, healthy and whole, not stapled and clamped shut. I knew I had Leeta to thank for leading me to Verena and the others, for this morning spent snug in my bed, not under the blazing lights and masked faces of an operating room.
The money I’d been withdrawing from the bank for Leeta was in a neat stack in my bottom dresser drawer, but she would need much more than that. I knew Julia would contact me soon; at any moment I’d receive a frantic email or phone call and she’d demand to know if I was going to help fund Leeta’s escape. Until that moment came, I would put it out of my mind. What I wanted now was to celebrate how far I’d come.
I decided to throw a party, with food and lots to drink. The previous weeks had been intense for all of us—the women had their work, I had my personal struggles, and through it all was Jennifer. We continued to refer to Soledad and the attacks by this single name, its origins not yet clear. Jennifer had made up seem like down, had left us all spinning and dizzy, had set the world on fire, and she was still out there.
I climbed out of bed and headed out to shop for groceries and booze. In the afternoon, I baked a three-layer chocolate ganache cake and prepared vegetable curry and rice for the main course, the perfect warming meal for an October evening. I didn’t bother to tell the others we were having a celebration. It didn’t need to be a formal occasion; I would let it bloom before their eyes.
As the curry and rice simmered on the stove, I cleared the stolen lingerie out of my bedroom closet and carried it downstairs in two plastic bags. In the tiny backyard, Verena kept her gardening tools in a tall metal drum, which I emptied onto the ground. I dumped charcoal into the drum, drenched it with lighter fluid, and set it ablaze. When the fire was glowing and flames shot out the top, I opened one of the bags and pulled out a few thongs and padded bras, dropping them into the drum, which made the fire pop. I’d always known the underwear would serve a purpose—it had just taken me a while to discover what it was.
When it was time for dinner, I was joined by Verena, Marlowe with baby Huck, Rubí, and Sana. We ate curry and rice in the kitchen, followed by cake. I was pleased that I no longer needed voluminous amounts of food to feel satisfied. I was learning to listen to my body’s hunger cues and desires, which helped me know when I needed to eat, and what, and how much. Rubí said my metabolism was ruined from years of dieting and it would take time to heal and get back in touch with my natural rhythms. I would never restrict myself again or do math before eating. I would give my body what it needed and wanted—nothing more, nothing less.
After dinner we carried our drinks outside to where the fire was burning; the drum was positioned in the middle of the concrete slab that was our yard, ringed by trees br
ight with autumn gold. I kept the fire going, but everyone was eager to help. “Let me,” said Sana, dropping a lilac negligee into the flames, and then a pair of striped boy shorts. We watched them sizzle.
“This lingerie is from Bonerville, right?” said Marlowe. I told her it was and she asked why I had two bags full of it.
“Long story,” Sana said, directing the conversation elsewhere.
We were running out of drinks, so Rubí went inside to mix another pitcher of mojitos. She brought it outside and refilled our cups. The backyard was only a small patch, but we were all crammed together, drinking, watching the fire, and, inevitably, talking about Jennifer. It was the festive atmosphere I’d wanted, but then I saw through the kitchen window that Julia had arrived. She sliced the cake and ate some of it with her fingers. I excused myself to go inside, closing the door behind me.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. The last time I’d seen her was in the café bathroom. At the sight of her, I imagined my wrists in handcuffs.
Julia moved around the table, stuffing her mouth with curry and rice. “Have you made a decision?” she whispered.
“I’m not sure yet. I need more time anyway. I can’t withdraw too much money from the bank at once. It’ll arouse suspicion.”
“So you have access to money?” she asked with frantic hopefulness.
I nodded and Julia closed her eyes. “Thank God,” she said. “I need it on Friday. I’ll come by at noon. I can’t wait any longer than that.” Friday was two days away.
“I told you, I’m not sure. I want to know more about Leeta.”
“Shhhh,” Julia said. “For crying out loud, do not say that name.” She peered at the women outside. Through the glass, Marlowe waved. Julia didn’t bother to wave back. “Did I mention this is a matter of life and death? I’m not bullshitting.” Her acrylic nail tips were chipped, as if she’d been biting them. “You have no idea what I’m going through.”
“Because you won’t tell me.”
She ignored me, focused completely on the food, an animalistic glint in her eyes. I missed the vulnerable Julia from the café bathroom, but assumed that version was rarely let out of its restraints. She piled her plate high, then composed herself before opening the door to go outside. “Let’s try to act normal,” she said over her shoulder.
Julia approached the women around the fire and I followed. “What is this, a party?” she said, announcing her arrival. I took my place on the opposite side of the drum, between Rubí and Sana. Everyone looked at Julia, her mouth so full that she struggled to chew and swallow. “Since you’re all here, I might as well tell you that I’ve quit my job at Austen. Tomorrow is my last day.”
“Whoa! End of era,” said Marlowe.
“What are your plans?” asked Verena.
“I’m going to travel for a while. You won’t be seeing much of me in the near future.” Julia looked at me over the flames. Was she going on the run as well?
“You’re going to travel?” Verena said in a tone of disbelief. “What about your undercover work?”
“I can’t do it anymore. This charade is too much,” she sputtered, shoving more food into her mouth. Bits of rice fell down her top. “I’m so goddamn hungry all the time, you have no idea what it’s like.” She began to choke on something stuck in her throat. She clasped her neck with one hand, coughing loudly, flinging her dinner plate into the bushes. Rubí handed her a drink, which she downed at once. “I’m a wreck, I apologize,” she said when she recovered, her eyes watery from the curry and the coughing, and perhaps there were tears as well. She looked at me again over the flames, their orange tongues giving her a devilish glow.
Rubí reached into the bag and dropped a few bras into the fire. “So what’s the special occasion?” Marlowe asked me. “We don’t get to burn underwear and eat curry every night. You’re spoiling us.” She handed Huck a pair of lacy pink crotchless panties, which he threw into the drum, giggling with delight.
“My surgery was scheduled for today,” I said, drinking rum and mint from the plastic cup, enjoying the feeling of community. “I wanted to celebrate.”
“I had no idea,” Verena said.
Sana and Rubí put their arms around me, squeezing me between them. “I want you to know she’s gone,” I said to Verena. “The thin woman inside me, the perfect woman, my shadow self.”
“Alicia?”
“No, I’m reclaiming her. That perfect woman, that smaller self, was only ever an idea. She didn’t really exist, so she doesn’t need a name.” Alicia is me, Alicia is me.
Verena blew me a kiss from across the fire. “Virginia Woolf once wrote that it’s more difficult to kill a phantom than a reality,” she said. And so it was, but at last my phantom was gone. I knew my life would never be easy, but this must be what Sana had meant. I had crossed over and would never go back.
I turned my face away from the fire, burying my head in Sana’s shoulder, a moment of escape from the heat of the blaze and my emotions. When I looked up again, Verena was standing on the other side of the drum, holding the framed pair of Eulayla’s fat jeans. She hit the frame against the metal drum, shattering the glass. With the jeans freed from the frame, she hugged them to her body.
“Verena, what are you doing?” Marlowe asked. She spoke for all of us. The jeans had always been a sacred object, untouchable.
“I’ve been inspired by Plum,” she said. “This feels right.”
She held the legendary jeans out in front of her, the jeans that had obsessed me as a teenager, the jeans that had launched a million diets. “The New Baptist Plan really worked,” I said, staring at the iconic denim. “I’m completely transformed. You guaranteed it.”
“Born again,” she said.
“No calorie counting and no weighing,” I said.
“No pain, no gain.”
“Results not typical.”
“Feel the burn.” Verena tossed her mother’s jeans into the fire. “Burst!” she said as they sank into the flames.
• • •
Who is Jennifer?
Soledad Ayala was born in Mexico in 1973. When she was eight years old, her family moved to South Dakota for five months, then to Iowa for six months. In each place, the other children made fun of her for being chubby, for having an accent and a weird name: Soledad.
Dad! Daddy! Soleduddy!
When her family moved to Wyoming and she started another new school, she told the teacher her name wasn’t Soledad but Jennifer. The girls named Jennifer whom Soledad had met weren’t like her. They were blond or brunette and pretty. They didn’t have accents or dark skin. They had nicknames like Jenny or Jenna, names that no one laughed at. Soledad didn’t want to be laughed at. She wanted to blend in.
For a few years, every day on the first day of school, the teacher would call out the name Soledad Ayala and Soledad would raise her hand and say, “Everyone calls me Jennifer.” Throughout her elementary school years she was known as Jennifer Ayala. Even her parents called her Jenny, but she knew in her heart she wasn’t a real Jennifer; she wasn’t like the American girls, she was only an impostor. She liked to think that by calling herself Jennifer, Soledad would disappear, but whenever she looked in the mirror Soledad was still there.
When she and her family settled in California, she started junior high; her guidance counselor, Miss Jimenez, told her that she shouldn’t pretend to be someone else. “Soledad is your real name,” she said. “That’s what we should call you.” Soledad was unhappy at the thought of giving up Jennifer, but she didn’t want to disappoint Miss Jimenez. The nickname faded away, consigned to Soledad’s early childhood, but her mother sometimes called her Jenny for fun when they were reminiscing about old times.
“Who’s Jenny?” Luz had asked when she was little and first cognizant that her mother had a name and it was Soledad, not Jenny.
“Jenny is a girl I used to be,” Soledad had told her daughter, but that wasn’t true. She had never been Jenny; she had only been an impo
stor.
Soledad had a firm alibi for the night that two of her daughter’s rapists, Lamar Wilson and Chris Martinez, disappeared. The police assumed the men had jumped bail, but given the high-profile nature of their crime, a thorough investigation was necessary in order to rule out other possibilities. They began with Soledad, who’d been recorded on CCTV at multiple locations in Santa Mariana on the night in question, including the local shopping mall, where she stayed for several hours, browsing aimlessly and having dinner with friends from church; and the supermarket, where she carefully loaded her cart with a week’s worth of food for herself, now that she was alone. For days afterward she was observed in town by neighbors and police, doing nothing out of the ordinary. The police were confident that neither she nor any members of her family had plotted revenge against Wilson and Martinez—Soledad’s father and husband were dead, she had no brothers; her sisters, mother, and other relatives were back in Texas. The investigation moved on.
Weeks later, after Wilson and Martinez were dropped into the desert along with the rest of the Dirty Dozen, Soledad cooperated with federal authorities, agreeing to speak at a press conference. FBI agents were impressed with the bereaved mother’s courage, but they began to investigate her anyway, lacking confidence in the Santa Mariana police. They soon discovered that Leeta Albridge had been a volunteer at the women’s clinic where Soledad had once worked training rape crisis counselors. The FBI knocked on Soledad’s door again, to address what couldn’t be a coincidence, but there was no answer. A neighbor told them she’d gone to Mexico City to care for a sick aunt.
While Mexican law enforcement officers tried to locate Soledad, FBI agents in Houston visited her mother in the hospital, where the old woman would soon die from pneumonia. In her delirium she was insistent that her daughter was innocent of any wrongdoing and said she wasn’t running from the police but had killed herself. “She had a gun,” her mother said, describing the days before Luz’s funeral. “She was upset. She was drinking.” Soledad’s sisters, who were in the hospital room while their mother was being questioned, pleaded with the agents to leave her alone, but they refused.