The Ivory and the Horn n-6

by Charles de Lint

  It hadn't done much to quell the constant gnaw of hunger inside. All she could do was think of food— food and cigarettes and not necessarily in that order. She'd been feeling grumpy all morning. The interview hadn't done much to improve her mood. Her nerves were all jangled, her stomach was rumbling, her body craved a nicotine fix, she was broke for at least the next three years...

  How come doing the right thing felt so bad?

  Her route back to the office took her by her favorite clothing store, Morning Glory, and naturally they were having a huge sale— UP TO 40% OFF EVERYTHING! the banner read. She hesitated for a long moment before finally going in, just to have a look at what she could no longer afford. Then of course there were three dresses that she just had to have and the next thing she knew she was standing at the counter with them.

  "Will that be cash or charge?" the sales clerk asked her.

  It'd be her last splurge before the austerity program went into affect, she vowed.

  But she didn't have enough money with her to pay for them. Nor could she write a check that wouldn't bounce— wouldn't that impress Mr. Cameron with how well she was following the guidelines of his budget? Finally she used her In the City Visa card.

  She'd make it up from her next pay. Her first loan payment wasn't due for three weeks, and she had another paycheck due before that. Conveniently, she'd managed to forget the unpaid bill due her garage.

  11

  Thursday after work I drive up Highway 14 and pull into the parking lot of The Wishing Well. By the time I've walked around back and made my way through the rose bushes, the evening's starting to fall. I've never been here so late in the day before. I sit on the crumbly stone wall and lean against one of the roof supports. It's even more peaceful than on a Sunday afternoon, and I just drink in the tranquility for a long time.

  I need something good in my life right now. I've already lost a couple of pounds, and I still haven't had a cigarette since Tuesday night, but I feel terrible. My jaw aches from being clenched so much and all I can think of is cigarettes and food, food and cigarettes. Whenever I turned around at work, someone was stuffing a Danish into their mouth, chewing a sandwich, eating cookies or donuts or a bag of chips. The smoke from Keith's cigarettes— one desk over from mine— is a constant reminder of what I can't do anymore.

  Sitting here, just letting the quiet soak into me, is the first real down time I feel I've had in the last two days. It's dark when I finally reach into the pocket of my dress and take out the penny I found in front of the trust company the other day.

  Splash.

  "So there's this guy," I say finally. My voice sounds loud, so I speak more softly. "I think I like him a lot, but I'm afraid I'm just going to get hurt again..."

  It's the same old litany, and even I'm getting tired of it. If the well had a wish for itself, it'd probably be for me just to go away and leave it alone.

  Wishes. I don't believe in them, but I'd like to. I think of what Jilly said about them.

  It just depends on how badly you want them.

  To come true.

  For all the times I've visited the well, I've never actually made a wish myself. I don't know why. It's not just because I don't believe in them. Because there's something here, isn't there? Why else would I be able to hear all those old wishes? Why else would the ghosts come walking through my sleep every night? Truth is, I've been thinking about wishes more and more lately, it's just that...

  I don't know. Two days into my new healthy Brenda regime, yes, I'm still hanging in with the diet and not smoking, but it's like I'm conspiring against myself at the same time, trying to undermine what I am accomplishing with other messes. Can't eat, can't smoke? Then, why not blow some money you don't have?

  I made the mistake of stopping at one of the sidewalk jewelry vendors on Lee Street and I used my In the City Visa card to buy fifty dollars' worth of earrings. I didn't even know those vendors took credit cards. Then, when I got back to work, there was a guy from a collection agency waiting for me. The garage got tired of waiting for the money I owed them. The collection agency guy had a talk with Rob— my boss, the paper's editor— and I had to agree to letting them garnishee my wages until the collection agency's paid off.

  Which is going to leave me desperately short. Where am I going to get the money to pay off the bank loan I took out earlier this week, not to mention the money I borrowed on the paper's Visa card? This diet and no-smoking business is saving me money, but not that much money.

  Whatever good I'm supposed to get out of doing the right thing still seems impossibly out of reach. Even though I haven't smoked in two days, my lungs seem more filled with phlegm than ever and my mouth still tastes terrible. All I had was popcorn again today, and a quarter of a head of lettuce. I'm losing weight, according to my bathroom scale, but I can feel the fat cells biding their time in my body, ready to multiply as soon as I stick a muffin or a piece of chocolate in my mouth. I'm worse than broke.

  I guess the reason I haven't ever made a wish is that this is the only place I know where I don't feel so bad. If I make a wish it'll be like losing the genie in the bottle. You know, you've always got him in reserve— for company, if nothing else— until you make your final wish.

  What would I wish for? To be happy? I'd have to become a completely different person for that to work. Maybe to be rich? But how long before I'd blow it all?

  The only thing I'd really want to wish for is to see my dad again, but I know that's something that'll never happen.

  12

  Monday morning found Jilly sitting on the wooden bench in front of Amos & Cook's Arts Supplies, impatiently waiting for the store to open. She amused herself as she usually did in this sort of a situation by making up stories about the passersby, but it wasn't as much fun without somebody to share the stories with. She liked telling them to Geordie best, because she could invariably get the biggest rise out of him.

  She'd been up all night working on the preliminary sketches for an album cover that the Broken Hearts had commissioned from her, only to discover when she finally started on the canvas that she'd used up all her blues the last time she'd worked with her oils. So here she sat, watching the minute, hand on the clock outside the delicatessen across the street slowly climb to twelve, dragging the slower hour hand up to the nine as it went.

  Eventually Amos & Cook's opened and she darted inside to buy her paints. It was while she was heading back up Yoors Street to her studio that she ran into Brenda coming the other way.

  "You're looking good," she said when they came abreast of each other.

  "Well, thanks a lot," Brenda said sarcastically.

  Jilly blinked in confusion. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You and Wendy are always telling me how I shouldn't worry about being fat—"

  "We never said you were—"

  "— but now as soon as I find a diet that's actually letting me lose some weight, I'm looking great.' "

  "Whoa," Jilly said. "Time out. I have never said that you needed to lose weight."

  "No, but now that I have I look so much better, right?"

  "I was just being—"

  Friendly, Jilly had been about to say, but Brenda interrupted her.

  "Honest for a change," Brenda said. "Well, thanks for nothings."

  She stalked off before Jilly could reply.

  "You have a nice day, too," Jilly said as she watched Brenda go.

  Wow, talk about getting up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, she thought. She'd never seen Brenda running on such a short fuse.

  She was a little hurt from the confrontation until she realized that besides Brenda's bad mood, there'd been something else different about her this morning: no cigarette in her hand, no smell of stale smoke on her clothes. Knowing that Brenda must have recently quit smoking made Jilly feel less hurt about the way Brenda had snapped at her. She'd quit herself years ago and knew just how hard it was— and how cranky it made you feel. Add that to yet another ne
w diet...

  Quitting cigarettes was a good thing, but Jilly wasn't so sure about the diet. Brenda didn't need to lose weight. She had a full figure, but everything was in its proper proportion and place. Truth was, she often felt envious of Brenda's fuller shape. It was so Italian Renaissance, all rounded and curved— and lovely to paint, though she had yet to get Brenda to sit for her. Perhaps if this latest diet helped raised Brenda's self-esteem enough, Brenda would finally agree to pose for some quick studies at the very least.

  She knew Brenda needed a boost in the self-esteem department, so she supposed a diet that worked couldn't hurt. Just so long as she doesn't get too carried away with it, Jilly thought as she continued on home.

  13

  Even I'm getting tired of my bitchiness. I can't believe the way I jumped on Jilly this morning. Okay, I know why. I was not having a good morning. The ghosts kept me up all night, going through my head even when I wasn't asleep. By the time I ran into Jilly, I was feeling irritable and running late, and I didn't want to hear what she had to say.

  Thinking it over, none of that seems like much of an excuse. It's just that, even though I knew she was just trying to be nice, I couldn't help feeling this rage toward her for being so two-faced. You'd think a friend would at least be honest right from the start.

  Yes, Brenda, you are starting to seriously blimp on us. Do everybody a favor and lose some weight, would you?

  Except nobody was going to say something like that to a friend. I wouldn't even say it to an enemy. It's bad enough when you've got to haul that fat body around with you, never mind having somebody rub your face in the fact of its existence.

  I think the best thing I could do right now is just to avoid everybody I know so that I'll have some friends to come back to if I ever make it through this period of my life.

  I wonder how long I can put Jim off. He called me three times this past weekend. I played sick on Friday and Saturday. When he called on Sunday, I told him I was going out of town. Maybe I really should go out of town except I can't afford to travel. I don't even have transit fare this week. Too bad the paper won't pay my parking the way it does Rob's. Of course, I'm not the editor.

  When it comes right down to it, I don't even know why I'm working at a newspaper— even a weekly entertainment rag like In the City. How did I get here?

  I was going to be a serious writer like Christy, but somehow I got sidetracked into journalism— because it offered the safety of a regular paycheck, I suppose. I'm still not sure how I ended up as an advertising manager. I don't even write anymore— except for memos.

  The girl I was in college wouldn't even recognize me now.

  14

  Jim looked up to find Scotty approaching his desk. Scotty sat down on a corner and started to play with Jim's crystal hall paperweight, tossing it from hand to hand.

  "So," Scotty said. "How goes the romance?"

  Jim grabbed the paperweight and replaced it on his desk. "One of these days you're going to break that," he said.

  "Yeah, right. It wasn't me that missed the pop fly at the last game."

  "Wasn't me who struck out."

  "Ouch. I guess I deserved that." Scotty started to reach for the paperweight again, then settled for a ballpoint pen instead. He flipped it into the air, caught it again. "But seriously," he went on. "Was Brenda feeling better on Sunday?"

  Jim nodded. "Except she said she's going to be out of town for a few weeks. She had to pack, so we couldn't get together."

  "Too bad. Hey, did Roger tell you about the party he's throwing on Friday? He told me he's invited some seriously good-looking, single women."

  "I think I'll pass."

  Scotty raised his eyebrows. "How serious is this thing?" he asked. "She's out of town, so that means you have to stay in?"

  "It's not like that."

  "When do I get to meet her, anyway?"

  Jim shrugged. "When she gets back, I guess."

  Scotty gave him a long considering look, the pen still in his hands for a moment.

  "I think you've got it bad, pal," he said finally.

  "I guess I do."

  "How does she feel about you?"

  "I think she likes me," Jim said.

  Scotty set the pen back down on Jim's desk.

  "You're a lucky stiff," he said.

  15

  I've decided that the ghosts are simply hallucinations, brought on by my hunger. Never mind what Jilly or Christy would say. That's all that makes sense. If anything makes sense anymore.

  I've been on this diet for almost four weeks now. Popcorn and lettuce, lettuce and popcorn. A muffin on Wednesday, but I won't let that happen again because I'm really losing weight and I don't want to screw anything up. From a hundred and twenty-six to a hundred and four this morning.

  Once I would have been delirious with joy to weigh only a hundred and four again, but when I look in the mirror I know it's not enough. All I still see is fat. I can get rid of more. I don't have to be a cow all my life.

  I still haven't had a cigarette either and it hasn't added anything to my weight. It's as bad as I thought it'd be— you never realize what a physical addiction it really is until you try to quit— but at least I'm not putting on the pounds, stuffing my face with food because I miss sticking a cigarette in my mouth.

  I'm so cranky, though. I guess that's to be expected. My whole body feels weird, like it doesn't belong to me anymore. But I kind of like it. There's a down side, like my clothes don't fit right anymore, but I can deal with it. Since I can't, afford to buy new ones, I've been taking them in— skirts and jeans. My T-shirts and blouses are all getting really loose, but I don't mind. I feel so good about the way I'm starting to look now I know that I can never let myself get fat again. I'm just going to lose a few more pounds and then I'm going to go on a bit of a more normal diet. I'm sick of popcorn and lettuce.

  The diet's probably making me cranky as well, but I know I'll get past it, just like I'll get past the constant need to have a cigarette. Already it's easier. Now all I've got to do is deal with the financial mess I'm in. I don't know how to handle it. I'm not spending any money at all— mine or the paper's— but I'm in deep. My phone got cut off yesterday. I just didn't have the money to pay the bill after covering my other expenses. I guess I should've told the bank manager about it when I went in for that loan, but I'd forgotten I was overdue and I don't want to go back to his office.

  What I really want to do is just go away for awhile— the way I'm pretending to Jim that I have. Before my phone got cut off, I was calling him from these "hotels" I'm supposed to be staying in and we'd have nice long talks. It's the weirdest romance I've ever had. I can't wait to see his face when he finally sees the new and improved me.

  But I'm not ready yet. I want to trim the last of the fat away and put the no-smoking jitters aside first. I know I can do it. I'm feeling a lot more confident about everything now. I guess it really is possible to take charge of your life and make the necessary changes so that you're happy with who you are. What I want now is some time to myself. Go away and come back as an entirely new person. Start my life over again.

  Last night one of the ghosts gave me a really good idea.

  16

  Wendy slouched in the window seat of Jilly's studio while Jilly stood at her easel, painting. She had her notebook open on her lap, but she hadn't written a word in it. She alternated between watching Jilly work, which was fairly boring, and taking in the clutter of the studio. Paintings were piled up against one another along the walls. Everywhere she looked there were stacks of paper and reference books, jars and tins full of brushes, tubes of paint and messy palettes for all the different media Jilly worked in. The walls were hung with her own work and that of her friends.

  One of the weirdest things in the room was a fabric mâché self-portrait that Jilly had done. The life-size sculpture stood in a corner, dressed in Jilly's clothes, paint brush in hand and wearing a Walkman. No matter how often Wendy came over, it stil
l made her start.

  "You're being awfully quiet," Jilly said, stepping back from her canvass.

  "I was thinking about Brenda."

  Jilly leaned forward to add a daub of paint, then stepped back again.

  "I haven't seen much of her myself," she said. "Of course I've been spending twenty-six hours a day trying to get this art done for this album cover."

  "Do they still make albums?"

  Jilly shrugged. "CD, then. Or whatever. Why are you thinking about Brenda?"

  "Oh, I don't know. I just haven't seen her for ages. We used to go down to the Dutchman's Bakery for strudels every Saturday morning, but she's begged off for the last three weeks."

  "That's because she's on a diet," Jilly said.

  "How do you know?"

  Jilly stuck her brush behind her ear and used the edge of her smock to rub at something on the canvass.

  "I ran into her on the way to the art store the other day," she said as she fussed with the painting. "She looked, so thin that she's got to be on another diet— one that's working, for a change."

  "I don't know why she's so fixated on her weight," Wendy said. "She thinks she's humongous, and she's really not."

  Jilly shrugged. "I've given up trying to tell her. She's like your friend Andy in some ways."

  "Andy's a hypochondriac," Wendy said.

  "I know. He's always talking about what's wrong with him, right?"

  "So?"

  "So Brenda's a little like that. Did you ever know her to not have a problem?"

  "That's not really being fair," Wendy said.

  Jilly looked up from her painting and shook her head. "It might not be a nice thing to say," she said, "but it is fair."

  "Things just don't work out for her," Wendy protested.

  "And half of the reason is because she won't let them," Jilly said. "I think she lives for extremes."

  Putting her palette and brush down on the wooden orange crate that stood beside her easel for that purpose, she dragged another orange crate over to the window and sat down.