Abby’s suddenly blathering in my ear. “Stop calling me. I’m a lawyer for Christ’s sake. Just because you don’t have a goddamn thing to do…”
“Gotta go, Abigail. Destiny’s calling. I’ll get back to you.” I hang up and look at Daniel.
“Step four,” he says. “Never show up empty-handed.” He opens his briefcase and takes out a sunflower. Red-faced, I feel girlish and silly and can’t stop smiling. I wish I could run my finger through his layered hair, which, though thinning, curls boyishly at his collar.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll put this in something.” I smooth my skirt, which suddenly feels tight in the behind, stick the flower in a can of Diet Coke, and put it on my desk. “Ms. Hunter is out. But you can wait in her office.” I try to sound professional because I know my mother would kill me if I flirted with the man she’s trying to hire. It’s the least I can do for her. If this Daniel is hired, it might keep Mr. Bennet off her back.
“I think I’ll just sit here and enjoy the sunlight.” He glances at me. “And the view.”
I fumble for a witty retort, but I’m stumped. I stare at my computer. The silence between us is so intimate, it’s impossible to move. When I look up, Daniel is rummaging through his briefcase. “They sure have you slaving away,” he says.
“Not really. It’s not that busy. I mean, we’re always busy, but today just seems to be slow. Probably because it’s so beautiful out.” The perfect day to have a picnic in the park—just you, me, and my pretty voice. “Why don’t you wait in Marsha’s office?”
“Sure.” He waves. “Put me any place you’d like.” Daniel walks into my mother’s office and looks around. I admire the lightness of his step. It’s particularly appealing when I compare his walk to Mr. Bennet’s waddle. “Can I get you anything?” I ask, standing in the doorway.
He shakes his head, looking not at me, but at the picture of my father. “Nice-looking man.” He pushes the frame with his pointer finger. I suddenly notice his wedding ring. I guess I didn’t see it before, or maybe I wasn’t looking for it. But seeing it startles me. From the way he acts, you’d think he’d have the foresight to hide it. As he bends to look at the picture of my dad, I notice a donut of scalp where hair should be. Forget you, Mr. Flirtatious Married Man. I’d rather have a single twenty-six-year-old, blinded by tequila shots, dancing in his wet socks, over you anytime.
He’s still pointing at my father. “Mr. Hunter?” he asks. As I nod, he glances at the picture of my mother and aunt. “You know, I always forget just how good-looking Marsha is.” He sits in my mother’s chair and plays with a paperweight.
I don’t like Daniel Reynolds’s pretty face anymore, or his trim body, or his wedding-banded finger, which sticks out like an erection. And I certainly don’t like the way he touches my mother’s things. “She’s very pretty,” I tell him. “And happily married.”
“Almost as pretty as you.” He points to the picture of me. “That’s you?”
“Uh huh. I’m Veronica.” I shake my hair. “But everyone calls me Frannie.”
“Oh.” Daniel pales slightly beneath his tan. He also loses his toothy smile, but it quickly reappears, as if he merely blinked. “I thought you were Carol. I never met her in person.”
“Who brought the flower?” I hear my mother’s voice as she walks through the office. Mr. Bennet shuffles behind her, holding his maroon jacket.
“Hi, Mom. I’m in here with Daniel Reynolds.”
“I brought you tuna, Frannie. With low-fat mayonnaise.” She smiles at Daniel.
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”
“An hour ago you were starving.” I take the sandwich and try to leave the office, but Mr. Bennet is blocking the doorway and I can’t get through.
“I brought the flowers for Frannie thinking she was Carol. I didn’t realize she left already for her honeymoon.” Daniel gets up from my mother’s chair and shakes her hand.
“So you’ve met?” my mother says. She glances at me, narrowing her eyes. I bet she’s worried that I told Daniel about how Mr. Bennet flirts with her. Don’t worry, Mom, I say telepathically. I won’t give away your secrets. Besides—I watch Daniel pump Mr. Bennet’s hand—I think we have bigger fish to fry. “Yes,” I tell her. “Daniel was admiring your family album.”
“I was just remarking on how good-looking your daughters are. And you, of course,” Daniel says, not looking at my mother, but at the picture of my father who is still staring into the room, eagle eyed and trusting, his smile unwavering.
“Thank you.” My mother stares at Daniel, her cheeks flushed. “I have a great plastic surgeon.” My mother never focuses on anyone when she talks to them, so to see her gazing at him, her eyes filmy and soft, is really unsettling. I want to knock her with my elbow so she’ll blink. For a second, I wonder if she’s zonked, but she never takes Valium during business hours. She keeps smiling, and when Daniel says that she can’t be serious, she laughs. Actually, it’s not a laugh, it’s a giggle, in a voice that’s high-pitched and whiny. I know the giggle, but it’s not my mother’s. It’s the giggle of a high school girl who is talking to a boy she likes, her voice strained and artificial like a guitar string being pulled too tight.
Suddenly uncomfortable, I take the deli bag and edge past Mr. Bennet, who, like Daniel, is staring at the picture of my father. Suddenly my mother is all business. She shoos Mr. Bennet out, claiming she has a million things to discuss with Daniel and closes the door.
Mr. Bennet and I stand outside her office and he shuffles his feet, looking lost and forlorn. For a second, I worry he’s going to start scratching at the door. He puts on his jacket, and sucks in his stomach to close the gold buttons. Through the closed door, I can hear Daniel and my mother laughing. “Well, back to business,” I say. I hold up the bag. “Tuna, Mr. Bennet?”
I don’t want to say anything to anyone about Daniel until I know for sure. The last thing Shelly needs to deal with is the possibility of our mother’s mid-life crush. So the next time we visit her, I try to keep everything light. My sister doesn’t look much better, but her mood is improved. We sit on the roof in plastic folding chairs, staring at the view of New York, and marveling at the sunset. We even have a few laughs about Mr. Bennet’s flirting when my mother goes to the bathroom. “No way,” Shelly says, smoking. “And Mommy flirts back?”
I shake my head. “No, I think she’s aware of how pitiful he is.”
“What about this new guy?”
“What new guy?” I busy myself by lighting a cigarette.
“Abby said you told her Mommy hired a really handsome guy.”
“When did you speak to Abby?”
“She stopped by yesterday afternoon. What? Why are you looking at me so funny?”
I can’t stop staring at Shelly. Every time I see her, it freaks me out that this is my sister. It’s not just that she’s skinny. Everything about her is shrunken. Her lips are shriveled as though she’s aged ten years, and her skin, which was so creamy and clear, now has the texture of parchment paper. “I’m not looking at you, Shelly,” I say. “Stop being so paranoid.”
Shelly fidgets in her seat, holding her hands in her lap and cracking her knuckles until the sound gets to me and I ask her to stop. Around us, mothers and daughters sit together, talking quietly. There’s a girl crying and a nurse is hovering over her, holding a tissue. I want to tell Shelly my fears about Daniel, how he is handsome, but in a sleazy way, and how, when Mommy looks at him, she gets all girlish and stupid in a way she never is with Daddy, and it scares the hell out of me. But when I see my sister hunched over, her bony shoulders sagging like she doesn’t have the strength to hold herself up, I can’t bring myself to say anything. Besides, for all I know, the tension between my mother and Daniel is something I made up to enhance my own loveless life.
“Hey, Shelly, did you know that Mommy and Daddy went to a marriage counselor?”
“Uh huh. They’ve been going for about a year. I helped them do their taxes and saw al
l the receipts.”
A year? An entire fucking year? “Huh. How ’bout that? I didn’t know you did their taxes. Do they make a lot of money?”
She shakes her head. “Don’t tell Mommy I told you, but they have a lot of debt. The last time Daddy lost his job, they went through their savings. They’re doing okay now, but they’re still paying off their credit cards and they spend everything they make. I hate thinking about it.”
“No one tells me anything!” I say just as my mother joins us. I grind out my cigarette with my toe, then lean forward to check that it’s out.
“That’s because you can’t keep a secret,” my mother says, smiling. “It’s beautiful out tonight, isn’t it?” She turns to Shelly. “Is it supposed to rain tomorrow?”
“How the hell is she supposed to know?” I cut in.
Shelly shrugs. “Mom, have you asked Johnny about calling his nephew for the Harvard recommendation?” She glances at me, but I’m looking at my mother.
I can’t keep a secret. Is that so? Who found the picture of Daddy facedown in your desk drawer and didn’t say a word? Who? Around me, the sound of the anorexic girl’s crying fills the air like fog.
“This is delicious.” In the supermarket an hour later, my mother chews a sample of honey-roasted turkey breast. The teenage boy behind the counter is wearing a white butcher’s coat covered with multicolored buttons. “Don’t you think, Frannie?”
I lean forward, trying to read the guy’s buttons. One is hand-made and half-hidden under his lapel. I read it and burst out laughing. WE CHALLENGE YOU TO BEAT OUR MEAT is scrawled in Magic Marker.
“What’s so funny?” My mother squints. “Tell me, I could use a laugh.”
“Nothing.” I turn away. “You wouldn’t get it.”
“Fine.” She looks at the boy. “Can I have another sample please? For my daughter?” The boy slices another piece of turkey. When I look up, he winks at me. “Frannie, here, he cut you some turkey.” She nudges me with the cart.
“Mom, I don’t want any turkey.” I try to move away, but she shoves her hand under my nose. “Come on, Frannie. You love turkey.” I start to laugh again. “Frannie, tell me. What’s so funny? Are you making fun of me?” She peers over her huge sunglasses, which keep slipping off her nose, and lightly touches her face. Ever since the facelift, she’s gotten into the habit of pushing her cheeks up, and holding them as if her face is made of clay and she can mold it with her fingertips. “I told your father we’d pick up some things for dinner. Tonight, it’s chicken marsala.” She rolls her eyes, but smiles. “Daddy’s a strange bird, isn’t he?”
“I think he’s sweet.” My mother shrugs and turns to the boy. “Mom, come on. The last thing you need is another piece of turkey.”
She waves. “Okay, take me away. That turkey just sings to me.” She looks at me, but I’m smiling at the butcher boy. “You’re flirting, aren’t you? Is that what it is?” I shake my head. “Daddy said we needed some basil. Where’s the basil in this place?”
“Am I wearing a name tag?”
“I’m just asking. You don’t have to get all huffy, especially after making fun of me.”
“I wasn’t making fun of you and I wasn’t flirting. Certainly not the way Mr. Bennet flirts with you. And,” I add slyly, “the way you flirt with Daniel.”
“What is that supposed to mean? I’d hardly call my relationship with Daniel flirtatious.” She tugs on her zipper. “Damn this thing.” Then she insists that Daniel is a professional, just a friendly guy who’s teaching her the art of selling. Besides, she says, he’s ten years younger. And married.
“Whatever, Mom. What Ever. I just don’t trust him. I think he likes you.” I smile, adding, “And I don’t mean professionally.” She laughs slightly, but I can tell she’s getting annoyed. That slight little laugh always comes right before an outburst of anger, so I try to lighten the conversation. “Trust me, Mom. I know men. Just remember that you’re a very attractive woman for your age. I see the way guys look at you.”
“Frannie, please. Your father and I have been married for thirty years. Can we change the subject now?”
“But you’ve been seeing a marriage counselor, right?”
She stares at me. “How do you know about that?”
“I found the receipts and Shelly confirmed it. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It‘s not something I felt you needed to know.”
“You told Shelly.”
“You know, Frannie, there are some things that people like to keep private. Besides, it came up in the context of another conversation. Sometimes you are just like my sister. You have to know everything. Aunt Lillian would drive Grandma crazy with all her questions.” She eyes a Zucchini Lasagna Lean Cuisine. “I wish your father wasn’t so caught up in this cooking thing.” She examines the calorie content. “I like TV dinners.”
I hold up a carton of fudge ripple ice cream. I almost throw it in the cart but catch myself, thinking of my sister’s legs. I feel my own thigh, imagining cellulite packed on like cottage cheese, then exchange the ice cream for yogurt. “If Grandma was alive, would you tell her about Shelly?”
My mother shrugs. “I would probably want to, but I don’t think she would understand. She hated it when I dieted. She always said that I was starving myself.” She sighs. “She should only know from starving.” She smooths my hair away from my face. “I wish you pulled your hair back. It hides your pretty face.” She laughs self-consciously. “Grandma always said the same thing to me.”
“You do have a pretty face.” I smile. “You’re also in great shape and smart and have two men after you. Three if you count Daddy.” She tells me to stop. “But it’s true. Admit it. Daniel flirts with you. And it’s obvious you find him attractive, too. There’s nothing wrong with finding another man handsome. It’s not like you’re leaving Daddy or anything, right?”
She whirls around. “Frannie, SHUT UP! I DON’T have to defend myself to you! JESUS H. CHRIST!”
Neither of us moves for a long time. Finally I tell her I’m sorry. “I am, Mom,” I say sincerely. But she won’t talk to me. “Come on, Mom. I was an asshole. I’ll tell you what I was laughing at before.”
“When you were flirting with the boy?”
“I wasn’t flirting! I was laughing. The kid behind the counter is wearing a button that says WE CHALLENGE YOU TO BEAT OUR MEAT.” She looks at me blankly. “I told you you wouldn’t get it. Anyway, Mom, you must lighten up. Here.” I reach into the freezer and pull out the ice cream. “This will make you feel better.”
She laughs. “It’s going to take more than food to make me feel better these days. More then men, too,” she adds. But she tosses the carton into the cart. “What the hell, Frannie. We have the rest of our lives to worry about our weight.”
“And you’re married, I’m the one who’s desperate.” I pull out another carton. “We should eat both of these. Fuck all the men in the world.” I laugh. “I mean, who cares about men? Grandma was right—we should eat what we want and be happy.”
My mother looks pained. “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Are you thinking about Grandma?”
She shakes her head sadly. “No.” She rolls forward. “I’m thinking about Shelly.”
I huddle against the pay phone. “You die,” I say the second Abby picks up.
“What’s wrong? Where’s Baldwin?”
“He’s at the table. How could you do this? You’re supposed to be my best friend.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This guy’s an asshole. He showed up stinking DRUNK without any CASH. I’m paying for drinks and probably dinner. You’re supposed to bring money when you take a girl out. Don’t they teach you anything in law school?”
“Baldwin wouldn’t do that. He has pictures of his parents on his desk. You have to believe me. I would never set you up with a loser.”
“What about Michael Previs?”
“Frannie, that was in the tenth grade.” She tells me t
o go back to the table, that she’ll pay for dinner. I don’t say anything. “Okay,” she says. “And a new outfit. Just go back and be nice. Make believe nothing’s wrong.”
The story of my life, I think, steeling myself. I will act like a lady. Maybe I came on too strong. I’ll calm down, I’ll act normal. But as I approach the table, I see that it doesn’t matter how I act. My date, who comes from such a cultured family as to be endowed with a last name for a first name, has passed out, facedown, in his salad.
When I get home, I expect to see my father on the couch, but the den is dark. I grab an apple, and I’m about to pick up the phone to yell at Abby again, when I hear someone in my dad’s office. Quietly, I stand in the doorway.
“She knows.” I hear my mother’s breathy whisper. “Frannie knows. You have to stop.” Through the crack, I see her sitting in a short nightgown, cross-legged on the floor with the phone nestled in her shoulder. Her head is bent and her hair hangs like a curtain. She looks up. I jerk back. My heart jumps, positive she saw my shadow. But then there’s a drawn-out “Yes” and I relax.
“I know,” I hear her say. “Me, too.” Then she laughs in that whiny giggle that makes me hate her. “But Frannie’s here…until she finds a job, I guess. Then I don’t know.” I lean forward again. “I feel the same way. I told you that.”
Her face glows in the moonlight as she fingers a lock of hair. For a second, she looks like a teenager. “No,” she says. “No, that’s not possible.” She sounds so happy. This is so unfair. How can she do this to me? “I was with Shelly. I tried to call you from the hospital—twice—but you didn’t pick up. I felt funny leaving a message.”
My mind races. Does Shelly know? She’d never talk to Shelly about this, would she? She murmurs, so I move as close as I dare.
Hunger Point Page 7
