She didn’t bump into anything as she moved slowly into the room. But once inside, she suddenly froze. I stirred noisily in my seat. She heard me and directed a pleading, terrified look at me. I smiled and nodded at her and then inclined my head in the direction of her usual seat. She began moving towards it. I looked around the room to see what effect her appearance had created.
Ms. Holland was staring at her. Somebody was laughing. I whirled around, but it was only two girls who were reading a letter together. I could feel eyes on the back of my head, and when I turned again, Roger Torres and Dolores Kabotie swiftly averted their eyes. I knew Norma had told them.
I purposely avoided looking at Norma. She had said, “Hi, Jeff,” to me when I entered the room that morning and then had disappeared into the kiln room. There hadn’t been any time for me to be embarrassed. All I could think about was Ellen’s entrance.
“What a wonderful dress, Ellen,” I heard Ms. Holland say as she moved up closer.
Ellen mumbled something not very clearly. I would have to work with her on speaking up and not keeping her head down the way she was doing.
“It’s a shame to wear it here though,” Ms. Holland continued. “You’ll get clay on it. Here, why don’t you put this old apron on. It won’t cover all of it, but . . .”
Ellen slipped the apron over her dress and dropped into her seat. The room continued humming with its usual sounds, and I pretended to devote all my attention to a shallow bowl I was glazing.
Later, in the hall, as the two of us walked together, I noticed a few people do double takes when they spotted her. I also heard laughter, and so did Ellen.
“They’re laughing at me,” she said.
“Straighten up your shoulders,” I told her. “You have to develop confidence. And pick up your feet. Don’t shuffle.”
“I look weird in these clothes—and with all this makeup. Nobody else looks like me.”
“That’s just it, Ellen. You don’t want to look like everybody else, do you?”
She remained silent.
“Look, Ellen, I’m telling you that you look great—better than all those silly little cows. You look like a goddess, like Mother Earth—you heard that woman in the store. You have to feel good about yourself “
“But I don’t want to look like this,” she said.
“I like the way you look,” I told her. “Doesn’t it matter to you what I think?”
“Yes,” she said, turning her face up to me, her green eyes, under all the eye makeup, overflowing with adoration.
“Fine, then,” I said, taking her hand. I wanted everybody to see us. I wanted everybody to know that she was my girl and that I was proud of her.
Her hand felt damp with perspiration. Poor Ellen! All those years, how alone she must have felt! But now she had me to look after her.
Somebody laughed. It came wafting back to us. Somebody who had passed was laughing at my Ellen. I could feel her fingers tightening inside my own. I cursed and turned my head. Who was it?
“Never mind, Jeff,” Ellen said. “I don’t care anymore. As long as I have you, nothing else really matters.”
I spent the afternoon with Ellen and didn’t get home until nearly six. It was very quiet in the house.
“Mom . . . Wanda . . .” I called out.
Nobody answered, but I heard a rustling sound in the living room. My mother was sitting on the couch, a newspaper spread out on her lap. She was turning the pages with one hand and holding a martini in the other. Usually by six o’clock my mother was busily springing around the kitchen preparing dinner. I couldn’t remember when I had ever seen her sitting down reading a newspaper and drinking a martini at six o’clock in the middle of the week.
“Hi, Mom,” I said. “Sorry I’m late but I was busy with a friend.”
“That’s fine, Jeff,” she said, smiling at me. “I didn’t know when you’d be home, so I just thought I’d relax until you came.” She continued turning the pages.
“Anything interesting in the paper, Mom?”
“Just the usual—rapes, murders, fires, child abuse, and taxes.” My mother sipped her drink and kept smiling at me.
“Well . . .”
“Are you hungry, Jeff?”
“No, Mom, not terribly. I had some cookies over at Ellen’s house.”
“Ellen?”
“Oh, yeah, Mom, Ellen. She’s my new girlfriend. I thought I told you.”
“No, Jeff, you didn’t.” My mother kept turning the pages without reading anything. “But that’s all right. You’re entitled to a little privacy, I guess.” My mother took another sip, but her hand trembled and some of the drink spilled onto her dress. She didn’t seem to notice because she kept smiling at me.
“Are you all right, Mom?” I asked. “Is something wrong?”
“What should be wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
My mother sipped her drink and turned another page. The house was very quiet.
“Where’s Wanda?” I asked. “Isn’t she home yet?”
“She’s home,” said my mother.
“Is she taking a shower?”
“I don’t know,” said my mother.
“Maybe she and I can fix dinner tonight. You look bushed. You must have had a lousy day.”
“I did,” said my mother. “But it’s not the first.”
I stood up. “Just lie down and rest, Mom. Wanda and I will make dinner.”
“She’s not here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Wanda,” said my mother. “She’s not here.”
“I thought you said she was home.”
“I did,” said my mother, “but this isn’t her home anymore. Here! She left this.”
My mother handed me a paper. It was a note from Wanda which said:
Dear Mom,
I’ve been trying to tell you for days but I just couldn’t. It’s easier to write. I’m going to live with Dad. I just took a small suitcase but I’ll come for the rest of my things over the weekend. It doesn’t have anything to do with the fight we had last night when you said I was a slob. I’ve been wanting to go for months. Ask Jeff. He knows and he told me to wait until after Christmas. I think you’ll be happier without me but we can still do things together. I love you, Mom, but it’s better this way.
Your loving daughter,
Wanda
“I didn’t know if you were leaving too,” said my mother almost gaily. “That’s why I decided to wait for dinner.”
“Come on, Mom,” I said. “You know I’d never go to live with Dad.”
“No,” she said, “I don’t know. I didn’t know Wanda wanted to go either. I guess you knew, but I didn’t.”
It was horrible the way she kept smiling. “Look, Mom,” I said, “she told me before Christmas and I told her to wait. I thought maybe she’d get over it. Maybe she’d just forget it. She didn’t say anything during the holidays. I was hoping it would blow over.”
“Maybe,” said my mother pleasantly, “if you had told me, I might have been able to handle it.”
“I tried to warn you, Mom. I kept telling you not to fight with her, not to pick on her.”
“I never picked on her,” said my mother mildly.
“No . . . no . . . Mom, I didn’t mean that.”
“I tried to correct her for her own good. She has to learn how to take care of herself.”
“Of course she does, Mom, and maybe she’ll change her mind. You know Wanda. She’s always changing her mind.”
“No,” said my mother. “She won’t change her mind.” She shrugged her shoulders and stood up. “I’ll make dinner now, Jeff. What would you like?”
“I don’t care, Mom. Anything you want to make is fine with me.”
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“I was going to make tamale pie tonight because Wanda likes it so much, but maybe I’ll make something else. What would you like, Jeff?”
“Anything, Mom. I don’t care.”
“Well, how about some broiled lamb chops? I know you like lamb chops and I have some in the freezer.”
“That sounds great, Mom. Come on, I’ll give you a hand.”
“No, Jeff, don’t bother. I’m sure you’ve got other things to do. Just go about your business, and I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”
It was unreal. The two of us kept laughing and chattering while we ate. We didn’t leave any quiet, empty spots, and we didn’t mention Wanda at all. I told her about Ellen and Lady Bountiful.
“So you’ve become a fashion designer, Jeff,” laughed my mother.
“But I only have one customer,” I said, grinning.
“So when do I meet her?”
“Anytime you like, Mom. How about this weekend?”
“Fine, Jeff. Anytime you say.”
“But you’ll have to make something low in calories. She’s on a diet, and she’s lost nearly fifteen pounds. She has about seventy more to go.”
“She must be quite a handful,” giggled my mother, and I burst out laughing. We couldn’t stop ourselves after that and kept laughing and laughing hysterically until the phone rang. My mother stopped laughing then.
“I’ll answer it, Mom.”
“No, Jeff, I can answer it.”
My mother arranged her face in a smile, even before she heard who it was. “Why . . . Wanda . . . how is everything working out? . . . That’s good . . . That’s good . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . I do understand . . . Yes, I do . . . That’s all right . . . Yes, of course . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . Whatever you say, Wanda . . . No, I’m fine . . . If that’s what you want . . . Yes . . . Saturday is fine . . . Yes, I’ll be home . . . Thank you for calling . . . Here he is.”
My mother handed me the phone and left the room. Wanda said, “Jeff?”
“Yes.”
“Is she still in the room?”
“No.”
Wanda let out a deep breath. “Whew, I’m glad that’s over! But it wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean, Mom. She’s really taking it great. I thought she’d carry on.”
“Listen, Wanda,” I said, “she’s just putting on a big act. It’s killing her.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Wanda. “I know her as well as you do. She’s probably glad I’ve gone. I told her we can get together lots of times, and she said . . .”
“I heard what she said.”
“Well, I’m coming over on Saturday to get my things. Will you be home?”
“No, I’m working this Saturday.”
“Oh—that’s right. I forgot. Well, Dad will be waiting outside for me, so I won’t have to stay too long. I’ll just pack my clothes. Actually, I got them ready, and I don’t have to take everything.”
“Wanda,” I said, “don’t you want to spend a little time with her? Don’t you care how she feels?”
It was quiet on the other end. I could hear the kids’ voices in the background.
“Wanda?” I said. “Are you there, Wanda?”
“Sure, I’m here,” she said, “and stop trying to make me feel bad. I’m feeling great—it was so much fun eating dinner here tonight. Linda and I made sloppy joes, and Dad’s going to take us all out to Farrell’s for ice cream.”
“Wanda!”
“Here, Dad wants to talk to you, Jeff. ’Bye! See you soon, goon.”
My father began talking—explaining—before I even said anything. “Listen, Jeff, I didn’t know Wanda was going to leave like that. I kept telling her to talk it over with your mother, and she said she would. So it wasn’t my idea.”
I could hear Wanda talking to him in the background, telling him it was all right, that Mom had sounded calm.
“It’s not all right,” I said, but in a low voice. “Wanda doesn’t know anything. She should have . . .”
“What’s that? Wait a minute, Wanda, I can’t hear Jeff.”
“I said it was crummy what she did.”
“I know, Jeff. I think so too.”
Wanda began talking again.
“She’s the most selfish, little . . .”
“What’s that? Just a minute, Wanda. Look, Jeff, why don’t you come over one evening, and we’ll be able to talk.”
“I can’t,” I told him. “Especially now.”
“I know what you mean. Your mother needs you—that’s right. But in a week or so, when it blows over a little bit, come on over and let’s talk.”
“I’ll see.”
“We’ll talk it over, Jeff—it’ll be all right. You’ll see. But I don’t want you to think it was my idea.”
“Okay, Dad, okay.”
“Because I told her . . .”
Wanda started talking again.
“Look, Dad, I’ve got to go now.”
“Just a minute. Just a minute! Please, Wanda, just stop talking for a minute.”
“I’ve got to go.”
“Why don’t you call me, Jeff? Maybe from a pay phone.”
“I don’t know, Dad. What’s the point?”
“I want to talk to you. Maybe I can meet you somewhere. I don’t think you really understand.”
“Okay, Dad, I’ll call.”
“I’m working the late shift next week so call me before Monday.”
“Okay, Dad, good night.”
“Good night, Jeff, and don’t forget I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”
My mother came back into the kitchen after I finished talking. Even though she didn’t want me to, I helped her with the dishes. Later, we sat and watched TV together, and when it was time to go to bed, I gave her a kiss. Ordinarily, we’re not a kissing family.
“What’s that for, Jeff?” she said.
“Oh, nothing special,” I said, trying to laugh.
“You’re a good boy, Jeff,” she said softly, “but I want you to stop worrying about me. Wanda is old enough to make up her mind, and if she wants to go and live with her father, I’m old enough to accept it.”
“That’s right, Mom.”
“So let’s just get things back to normal. You don’t have to cater to me, and you don’t have to change your life.”
“Okay, Mom.”
“Now let’s get to bed and get a good night’s sleep.”
Which is what I did. Maybe, I figured, Wanda was right. Maybe my mother would be better off without her.
thirteen
I told Ellen I was planning to drop ceramics for the spring semester.
“But why, Jeff?” she asked. “Your pots are really beautiful.”
“No, they’re not,” I told her. “And besides, I’ve lost interest. I’m just going to spend my last term in high school floating. I only have to take one class in chemistry, one in American history, and maybe I’ll take a tennis class and that’s it.”
“I have to take American history too,” Ellen said. “Maybe we can be in the same section.”
“Okay. And what else do you have to take?”
“Just another English class and another French.”
“And what about P.E.?”
She made a face. “I always got off because I was so fat. The doctor gave me a note saying I didn’t have to.”
“But I want you to take P.E.”
“No, Jeff,” she said. “I can’t put on shorts. Please, Jeff, don’t make me.”
I kissed her mouth and ran my hand through her curly, springy hair. But she put an arm on my hand and pleaded, “Please, Jeff, don’t make me.”
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nbsp; “You need it, Ellen. Your body doesn’t have enough muscle tone,” I explained. “Especially now that you’re losing all this weight. Your skin’s just going to hang if you don’t do exercise. Let’s see—what about swimming?”
“Please, Jeff, I just couldn’t get into a bathing suit. Not yet, Jeff. Don’t make me!”
I patted her soft shoulder and said, “Okay, Ellen, don’t get upset. You know I’m not going to make you do anything that’s not good for you. Hmm—how about tennis?”
“Please, Jeff!”
“Okay, well that leaves gymnastics or maybe jazz dancing. They’ve just started giving courses in jazz dancing, and I think you can wear your clothes, but you will get a good workout.”
“Do I have to, Jeff?”
“Yes, Ellen, you do. But you know what?”
“What, Jeff?”
“Maybe I’ll take it with you.”
She looked up at me with her eyes full of love. Of course she agreed. She agreed to everything I told her in the beginning.
Except for ceramics.
“You can drop it too,” I said. “There’s no reason why you should keep taking it either.”
She was wearing a purple tunic over a purple pair of pants that day. The neckline was a deep V, and I liked the way the purple contrasted with her white skin. She was watching me, solemnly. “Do I have to?” she said.
“Have to what?”
“Have to drop ceramics?”
“Don’t you want to?”
She shook her head, and hundreds of fat little curls swished in the air. “No, I like it. Ida O’Neill says it’s a good idea to work every day if I really want to improve. She thinks I should stay in the class, even if Ms. Holland isn’t such a good teacher.”
“Well, you don’t have to study with Ida O’Neill either. Why don’t you just drop the whole thing? I only suggested it originally because I didn’t think you had enough interests. But now that you do, you don’t need it.”
Ellen thought for a moment. “Interests? Like what?”
“Well,” I explained, “you’ve got me, haven’t you? And you’ll take jazz dancing, and I think I’m going to take you to a few basketball games . . . We’ll see . . . We’ll talk about other interests as we go along.”
The Fat Girl Page 9
