Slashing Mona Lisa

by D. M. Barr

  April, misinterpreting her reaction, smiled and gave her a sympathetic squeeze on the forearm. “It’s okay. He has that effect on everyone.”

  “There’s more,” Mangel continued. “We will never know what killed poor, sweet, young Christina Corrigan. Marlene begged for a full autopsy, because she suspected heart issues. But what did the medical examiner do?”

  “What, Terry?”

  “A visual autopsy. Do you want to know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because she was heavy. And because of those extra pounds, the investigation might have run overtime, and the examiner might have missed lunch. Or his golf game. So, they just gave Christina’s cold, dead body a quick glance and forgot about her. Think that was fair?”

  “It was not fair!”

  “Think people are ever fair to fat people?”

  “Everyone hates us! No one understands us!” the crowd yelled. Mangel again waited as the audience chanted, “Fairness for the fat! Equality for the enormous! Objectivity for the obese!”

  Fairness for me. Camarin heard her sister begging for help from the depths of her consciousness and felt the familiar pain jab at her heart. I killed off my own sister, she admitted to herself. Whatever terrible things might befall her in the future, she deserved them all.

  Her eyes started tearing, but she couldn’t let April see. Instead, she stood again, did a 360-degree turn, and marveled at the froth that practically oozed from people’s mouths. Mangel had clearly hit a collective nerve with these forgotten masses. And at five hundred dollars a pop, he was being well-rewarded for his efforts. But to these people, could you put any price tag on the value of finally having their raised voices be heard? Their psychic pain acknowledged? She sat back down as the oration continued.

  “In the end, my friends, I’m happy to say that fairness did prevail. Marlene was convicted, but only of a misdemeanor. She was put on probation and ordered to undergo counseling and perform community service.”

  “She was put on fucking probation for trying to help her daughter?” yelled one particularly outraged man in the third row.

  “How about a conviction and community service for the people who turned their backs on Christina Corrigan?” a distraught woman screamed from the depths of the tent.

  “I know you’re angry,” consoled the evangelist.

  Of course they’re angry. You’ve riled them up into a rabid mob. Camarin made a note to read up on the newspaper accounts of the Corrigan case. Despite Mangel’s fire-and-brimstone condemnation, she was sure the truth lay somewhere between innocence and hyperbole.

  “I can feel your fury. I join you in your outrage. They hate us!”

  Us? All 140 pounds of you? You’re part of ‘us’? I think not.

  “And do you know how we deal with their hatred, my friends? Do you know what they deserve, all those people out there who live to mock those of us who have the nerve to weigh more than their capricious charts allow?”

  Here it comes. Camarin’s heart pounded wildly. He’s going to incite them to go out and kill. This is what I’ve been waiting for.

  “We repay them with love. The more they hate us, the more we forgive them. The more they mock us, the more we embrace them. Because only with love can we get them to know us, to understand us, to realize that weight is about size, not character. Make them see that fat is not a pejorative. Fat is not a state of mind. It’s an excess of intake over output, nothing more and nothing less. Only by inviting the haters into our world, urging them to spend time with us, allowing them to witness our daily struggles, will we neutralize their bias against us. Because what are we?”

  Shocked, Camarin listened to the repartee between Mangel and his Mangelites. They seemed utterly, totally sincere in their outpouring of affection.

  “We are more than just our bodies!”

  “And how will we silence our enemies?”

  “Through love!”

  “I didn’t hear you. How?”

  “Through love!”

  Mangel paused yet again until the racket his words inspired faded to a low hum. With the crowd simmering and the evangelist fanning down his inflammatory rhetoric, Camarin felt herself returning to her old, impartial self.

  “That’s right, my friends,” he said, reaching for a cup of water. “I want to thank you for your faith. I want to thank you for your allegiance. And most of all, I want to thank you for your struggle. Every one of you inspires me every day. And that’s why I want to invite someone up here to inspire everyone else with her story and her success. Is Maria here?”

  “I’m here, Terry! I’m coming!”

  As the roly-poly woman lumbered her way to the stage, April tapped Camarin on the shoulder. “Are you okay? You look a little out of it.”

  “I’m fine. I’m just a little surprised. That whole speech about love—it’s not what I thought he was going to say.”

  “You’re not the first to admit that. It’s easy to get swept up in the message. That was me, once upon a time,” she said, pointing out at the crowd. “Terry turned it all around for me. Once I lost the chip on my shoulder, I was able to shed the weight from my body. He’s amazing. I owe him everything!”

  Her words made Camarin realize there was an entire category of suspects she’d previously overlooked. His staff!

  “That’s fascinating. Tell me, would you consider allowing me to interview you for my story? I think the reasons that you and others like you work for Terry and follow him from city to city could make for a great sidebar.”

  April’s entire face became bright and animated. “No one has ever asked for my story before. I’d…I’d be honored. Terry has been so wonderful to me, so much more than just a boss.”

  There was excitement in April’s eyes, but also something more. Gratitude? Pride? Camarin couldn’t put her finger on it, but given time…

  “And the others? Are there others in Mangel’s circle who might be willing to speak to me?”

  “I’m not sure, but I can’t see why not. We give our hearts and souls to this cause. When would you want to do this?”

  She did some quick schedule calculations. “Maybe tomorrow, about five PM? That would still give people plenty of time to prepare for the evening’s event.”

  “That sounds good. I’ll put some thoughts down and see who else might be free.”

  Maria cleared her throat, ready to address the crowd, and Mangel faded back into the shadows. She looked so familiar, and it took a few minutes before Camarin realized where she had seen her before—the woman whose tears Mangel had wiped away prior to the event’s commencement. Had they been merely an expression of fear over addressing the audience? And hadn’t Mangel’s kiss been a bit of an exaggerated way to calm a speaker’s nerves?

  “Hey, y’all. My name is Maria Whalen. I’d been out of work for over a year when I came to Terry.” Maria’s Southern drawl quaked slightly, as if the sound of her words over the loudspeaker unnerved her. “I had been working as a programmer for a cosmetics company, not even a position where I was seen very often by clients. But after talking to some of my thinner coworkers, I realized that I was being paid a much smaller salary than they were. There was absolutely no difference between my skills and theirs. If anything, I had even more experience and worked longer hours.”

  The room remained silent, eating up Maria’s every word.

  “I went to my boss and asked for an explanation. Why were they earning more than I was for doing less of a job? He didn’t deny the fact that I had been discriminated against. He said if I didn’t like it, I could quit. I told him I imagined several overweight employees in other departments might be curious how their salaries stacked up against those of their thinner counterparts. He fired me on the spot.”

  Camarin could see Maria’s eyes tearing up. A familiar pang of nausea reminded her that it could have easily been her sister up there. How often had Monaeka complained about the inequities in life, like how it was hard to get hired when you’re overweight,
and how tiresome it was to have every bite at every meal judged?

  By choosing a college across the country, Cam had put some distance between herself and all that noise. She’d used her heavy coursework as another excuse to ignore her sister’s ramblings. She felt her own tears well up as she recalled how the calls had come less and less frequently until one day they’d stopped entirely.

  “I went to see a lawyer about suing the company to get my job back, but of course, he explained that I had no recourse,” Maria continued. “He told me that anyone can discriminate against fat people in any way they choose. Which is ridiculous. I mean, no offense to anyone here, but I worked with smokers and their clothes reeked of tobacco. It made me sick, but as long as they smoked off-premises, they couldn’t get fired for it. I worked with another guy, again no offense, who suffered from Tourette’s. His work was top-notch, but every so often, he’d scream out a string of swear words, and frankly, it was disruptive as hell. But again, his job was protected. Me? My weight didn’t disturb my coworkers or break anyone’s concentration. But I was the one let go.”

  She stopped to wipe a tear from her cheek.

  “I went to the papers, figuring it would make a mighty good story, one that might interest other people my size, get them to boycott the company. But the reporter said my story had no merit, wouldn’t even speak to me. Turns out they got major cosmetics advertising dollars from my former employer. I was despondent. No job, no justice. But the day Terry’s caravan rolled into Atlanta, everything changed.”

  Seated in the front row, Camarin could still see Mangel, standing several feet behind the podium, far from the glare of the spotlight. He seemed to be in deep conversation with yet another woman, this one quite shapely. He whispered into her ear, and she tilted her head back, laughing. Cozy. To the uninitiated, it looked as if Terry Mangel wasn’t just staging a revival tour—he was auditioning his own personal harem.

  “I listened to his insights, just like you’re doing now. He was the first person who really understood what an overweight person like me goes through every day.”

  “You’re not overweight! You’re your weight!” cried out several persons from the audience. Others joined in, and for five minutes, the chant reverberated throughout the tent. Maria stood at the podium, basking in the group’s support.

  “Thank you, friends. You are right. Anyway, it was Terry who listened to my plight, Terry who offered me his shoulder to cry on.”

  I bet it wasn’t the only body part he offered you.

  “And it was Terry who offered me a job. For the last two years, I’ve worked with the Feel Good About Yourself revival, and I’ve never been happier!”

  Terry retook his place along Maria at the lectern, kissing her paternally on the cheek and holding up her hand high above her head, joining in her triumph as the crowds went wild. For a minute or two, Camarin allowed herself to get caught up in the excitement, and then cynicism took hold again. Check deaths in Atlanta two years ago, she typed into her smartphone.

  Mangel again addressed his devotees over the din as an army of hawkers entered the tent, peddling CDs, DVDs, books, t-shirt and mugs. “Thank you, Maria. Your story has moved us all. The important lesson is to remember that, in the end, what helped this lovely lady?”

  “Love!” screamed the spectators in unison.

  “Correct. Love cures prejudice. Love cures hate. Love cures all!”

  He paused for another rabid ovation.

  “My friends, your turn is coming. We want to hear your stories. We want to help you where it hurts. Come back tomorrow night for our Saturday night Feel Good About Yourself finale, where you’ll do the speaking, and we’ll do the healing!”

  Mangel wallowed in the admiration of his fans until their attention was diverted by the peddlers. Then he and Maria disappeared from the dais, no doubt to count the evening’s take.

  April stood up and smoothed her skirt. “If you’ll come with me back to the other tent, I’ll introduce you around and get you some background material and a set of DVDs.”

  “That would be terrific.”

  But would it? In one sense, she was a bit in awe of the great, mighty Terry Mangel, especially up close. If he was anything in person like he was on stage, perhaps he’d see right through her to her core. But on the other hand, like Trend, he represented everything that she railed against, taking advantage of people’s low self-image for his own financial gain. Would she be able to mask her scorn?

  The two women walked out of the tent and into the cool evening air. Camarin breathed deeply. She hadn’t realized how stuffy it had become inside, with all that outpouring of righteousness and angst. They made their way past a second outdoor legion of salespeople flogging their Mangel wares and back into the administration tent where they had dined earlier.

  A celebratory vibe permeated the atmosphere inside. Corks popping, champagne flowing, the slap of high fives everywhere. Mangel was standing in the corner, with Maria lingering by his side. Camarin noted how many of the female admins in the tent were scowling and throwing an evil eye in the couple’s direction. Where’s the love there? thought Camarin. I bet they have a story to tell.

  “Just help yourself to something to eat,” said April, pointing at the buffet table and a newly added carving station where a waiter was serving up copious portions of turkey and roast beef. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  She started over toward the food but then, as if drawn by an invisible magnet, veered over to a group of women who appeared to be engaged in an impassioned discussion. They grew suddenly silent as Camarin infiltrated their ranks.

  “Ladies, good evening. I’m Camarin Torres, and I’m a features editor with Trend magazine. I was wondering if I could—”

  A heavyset African American woman shot her an acidic glare. “Trend? The magazine with all the skinny models and the articles that constantly remind us of how imperfect and damaged we are?”

  “Unless, of course, we buy the products you advertise,” added a little person, standing by her side. “Then we’ll all be magically saved.” She spat in disgust at the ground in front of Camarin’s feet.

  Stunned by their revulsion, Camarin realized that these spontaneous interviews were not going to be as easy as she’d previously thought. In this audience, she was the enemy, and no one was going to give a rat’s ass about her magazine’s proposed change of focus. She took two steps back, reeling from the vitriolic assault, and naturally, in true Camarin style, backed right into the person behind her.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. Excuse me,” she said, spinning around and finding herself standing face-to-face with Terry Mangel himself. Up close, the facial lines looked more prominent, perhaps the price he paid for months spent on the road, galvanizing his followers.

  “Ms. Torres, what a pleasure,” he said, firmly shaking her outstretched hand. She heard a snort from the women she’d just turned away from. “Ladies, have we forgotten our manners and our motto? We treat everyone with love. Especially those who have taken time out of their busy schedules to cover us in national magazines.”

  The ladies blushed, murmured apologies, and backed away.

  Much to her surprise, Camarin felt a jolt of electricity flow from his arm through hers. There was something undeniably mesmeric about this man, something that prompted people to want to follow his lead. She stood transfixed as his gaze danced playfully with hers, and she felt herself drawn to him.

  This is ridiculous. He’s a con man, a huckster, a false prophet. Walk away. Walk away now.

  “Can I offer you a drink, Ms. Torres? Or some dinner? It was a long event. Surely you’re hungry?”

  “No, I’m good,” she sputtered, aware of the heat blazing in her cheeks. “But if you have a moment, I’d love to ask you some questions.”

  “I know our meeting is set for…” He looked over at April. “Eleven AM on Sunday, is it?”

  April nodded affirmatively.

  “But for someone as lovely as you, I always h
ave time for a chat.”

  He led her to a quieter corner of the venue, away from April, Maria, and the cackling trio of women who’d nearly attacked her earlier.

  “You have my full attention, Ms. Torres. What do you think your readers would be most interested in knowing about our small—but growing—movement?” He flashed her his warmest smile, and while Camarin searched for even a smidgen of smarminess, she came up short. He seemed authentically interested, as if she were the only person in this congested, bustling space.

  “I’d hardly consider this small. It’s quite impressive. I wish something like this had been around when my sister was alive. I think she wouldn’t have felt so…alone.”

  Where did that come from? She’d had no intention of sharing anything so personal with this charlatan. And yet, he made you feel so comfortable. Maybe she’d leaped to conclusions too early. Maybe he was legit, and all these women felt what she felt—a longing to remain in his circle. Maybe there was no hanky-panky involved. Maybe.

  “It sounds like losing her…it must have been devastating.”

  “It was…I…well, listening to you, to Maria earlier, it all came flooding back.”

  “She was heavy, your sister?”

  “Yes. She was on meds as a kid, and they messed up her metabolism. She struggled to lose the weight, but she’d go up and down. She never really felt comfortable in her own skin. If she could have only known someone like you…or like Maria…”

  “Did I just hear my name being bandied about?” Maria sidled up beside Mangel and insinuated herself into the conversation.

  “Yes, darling. Maria, meet Camarin Torres, a reporter from Trend magazine. She’s come to do a story about us. Camarin, meet Maria Whalen, my fiancée.”

  Camarin’s head drew back in surprise. “Fiancée? Wow, I had no idea. Congratulations!”

  “He just popped the question tonight. I accepted, of course!” She bubbled over with excitement. “We haven’t formally announced it, so please, it’s off the record.” Maria put up her hand and showed off her ring. It was a silver ring from a pop-top soda can. “It’s a placeholder until we can pick out the real thing. But it will be something equally low-key,” she said in a lowered voice. “Nothing that could draw attention away from our message.”