Fat Chance

by Deborah Blumenthal

  Am I invisible? Apparently. With an inhalation of breath, I give voice and heft to the apparition. I lean toward him slightly, my arrestingly calm voice barely above an icy whisper.

  “So, you’re just going to ignore me? Is that it?” I watch him continuing to type, undeterred. I’m ready to reach behind his terminal and disembowel it. In a nanosecond, I fly into an uncontrollable rage, drawing my hands into tight fists. I resist the urge to pummel the back of his head. I am a lady.

  “I JUST WANT YOU TO KNOW, TEX RAMSEY,” I shout, “THAT I LEFT A WORLD-CLASS LAY, A MAN WITH ABS SO ROCK HARD THAT A MISSILE WOULDN’T PIERCE THEM, TO COME BACK HERE TO ATTEND YOUR WEDDING, DO YOU KNOW THAT? ALTHOUGH I NOW CANNOT I-MA-G-I-N-E IN MY WILDEST DREAMS WHY ANYONE IN THEIR RIGHT MIND WOULD WANT TO BE SUBJECTED TO BEING MARRIED TO YOU, YOU INGRATE, SO DON’T YOU DARE, DARE IGNORE ME.”

  The entire newsroom falls into a dead hush. All eyes are on me. Finally Tex closes the screen and glances up, over his shoulder at me. Just a flicker of annoyance crosses his face.

  “Will you please just shut up?”

  He stands, and looks out over the newsroom, addressing the sea of frozen faces fixed on us.

  “We’re trying to put out a newspaper here,” he says, with an annoying smirk on his face. “Deadline is approaching. Will everyone go back to work?” At once, a sea of eyes look down.

  He grabs my upper arm, like a probation officer who suddenly takes custody of someone who has violated parole, and leads me through the door of his glass-walled office, shutting it behind him. He leans against his desk, arms crossed over his chest, eyeing me with a practiced cool. He gestures toward the couch. “Siddown.” He studies me for a minute, saying nothing. Then the head shakes slightly.

  “You want to turn yourself into a self-parody and run off to L.A. to screw movie stars, go right ahead. Play playmate of the hour and act like a gushing fan out of People magazine—you go right ahead, that’s just fahn with me. But don’t expect me to stand by and cheer while you get seduced by celebrity bullshit and make a horse’s ass out of yourself on your so-called assignment. Your real mistake was coming back—because whatever it is that’s missing in your life, it’s clear you weren’t finding it here. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a paper to put out.” There’s a breeze as he strides past me.

  I sit there, stunned, immobile, then look up, aware now of my glaring visibility through the glass wall. I stand, head high, and begin to walk out, purposely letting a swinging arm slam into an oversize University of Texas beer stein, sending it crashing to the floor and splintering, spewing pens and pencils through the air like shrapnel. Don’t mess with Texas, huh?

  nineteen

  “I know you’re wondering where I am.”

  “So where are you?” Tamara says.

  “Over Pennsylvania, I think, heading west.”

  “What? You’re in a plane?”

  “Well, how else would I be over Pennsylvania?”

  “Whoa, Maggie, what about your job?”

  That’s the last thing I’m thinking about at the moment. All I know is that I had to get out of the office, out of Manhattan, out of New York. I know that Tamara is now taking the heat, trying to field calls and put off everybody who’s after me, but how she’d handle things was the last thing on my mind when I got back from the newsroom and fled.

  “What about the column?” Tamara says, her voice distorted by the phone on the plane that makes everyone sound inebriated.

  “I’m not leaving that,” I shout. “You’ll get the columns…I had to see Taylor, it’s complicated, I can’t explain now, but I have to see things through out there. It was a mistake to leave…that’s obvious now…”

  “Taylor? Maggie…what can I say?”

  “Say you’ll cover for me. I’ll be sending you the columns. Gotta go, Tamara…you’re the only one I’ll miss, babe. Talk to you later.”

  The line dissolves in static as she shouts, “Wait…but I didn’t get…what should I tell Wharton?”

  After hanging up, I sit back in the airplane seat and press my thumb on the inside of my wrist to take my pulse. I didn’t need a second hand to tell me that my heart was speeding. Shattered nerves? Lack of sleep? Or the plane vibrating? I summon the stewardess, order coffee, then wave it away when it comes. I don’t need caffeine, what I need is a Xanax. I reach inside the side pocket of my purse for the small brown plastic bottle, and immediately have trouble coordinating the delicate maneuver—pressing down with the heel of my hand and unscrewing the cap—simultaneously. Kidproof? More likely everyone-proof. Finally, hands quivering, I shake out a precious white oval. A half usually worked, but not today. I pop a whole one, and then another.

  The scene in the newsroom is playing over and over in my head and I’m fuming all over again. The nerve of him to humiliate me by ignoring me. Then, after reducing me to shrieking at the top of my lungs like a crazed harridan, and making a spectacle of myself, to be coolly led into his office, dissed and then abandoned because he disapproved of who I chose to sleep with. Did that Texas jerk with the monumental ego think he was in Mike Taylor’s league?

  And HELLO, who was he to judge me? If I critiqued every broad that he had gone to bed with I’d be slim just from flapping my jaws. And to think of all the things I confided in him. The manic premenstrual moments when I called and asked him if I’d ever be happy. I cringed at the thought of how I had spoken openly to him of my fears of never meeting anyone. Growing old in my one-bedroom apartment, sleeping alone in the double bed, still interested in Cosmopolitan magazine at age forty or fifty (Get Him and Keep Him In Bed!) and shaving off a good five years of my age, and far more off my weight (c’mon, everyone does it) if I connected with someone promising in a romance room chat.

  Sharing intimate conversations with him came easy then, but now I was in a lather thinking of how I had trusted him and unburdened myself to him. And big brother would just sit there and listen mostly. Except for one time when I complained about a guy standing me up and he jumped to my defense.

  “Where does he live?”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll go punch his face in.”

  Sometimes he offered advice, but more often he was just a sympathetic presence. I was the same way with him. But lately, there was Sharon. Even when I sensed they might have had an argument, he tended to keep it to himself. Men did that…they didn’t lift the phone and call a friend.

  But now, God, I’d be a complete laughingstock at the paper. The answer was to never go back to that place. How could I ever hold up my head? I never want to look at that SOB again. Let the paper go under, him with it. I’m going to be syndicated, I’d survive.

  At least the Xanax is starting to work. I could feel it filtering through my blood, calming it, soothing me, like liquid sleep infusing my tissues. Maybe the ’90s answer to opium. I thought of Taylor waiting for me when I got off the plane…his beautiful face, that cut, sinewy torso, the way he held me, being in bed with him, being held in his arms, the house, the gardens. He would take me back, take care of me, give me anything I wanted. I’d be happy with him, he was strong, famous, accepting of me. He’d never throw me out, he’d help me. I’d put New York behind me…and I’d be happy…at last. My eyelids fluttered as I slipped under a thick narcotic blanket. I wanted to sleep that way forever.

  I had no idea how long the flight attendant had been tapping on my shoulder. In the dream someone was saying, “Miss, miss…” I was lost, immobile, there were gardens, the blue Pacific, somewhere in the background a movie projector….

  “We’ve landed.”

  “I drifted off…I…”

  “Are you all right? You look a little pale.”

  “Fine…oh…just wiped out…” I reach into my bag for a compact, and then look at my face. Cadaver chic. I dust on blusher and then more, and then stop and quickly wipe it off. What was I thinking? Full faces didn’t need blusher, I knew that. I switch to lipstick, add mascara, then pinch my cheeks. Wake up! The su
n was shining, why not? I get myself up and pull my bag over my shoulder. One last look around, and I walk down the aisle.

  It’s so odd to be returning now. Would I drop into his arms like nothing happened? What would we talk about? Where would I sleep? Was Jolie out for good? I didn’t hate the girl. I wanted to at first, but I didn’t. How could I? Not enough there to hate, really. Aside from her packaging, she didn’t lead an enviable life. She was an unhappy model, a bulimia graduate in love with a guy who didn’t love her back. She had the looks, nothing more. What was to envy? How was your day, Jolie? Was the lighting bright? How many rolls of film did the photographer go through? Did you wear coral lipstick? Pink?

  My mind is shutting on and off. I’m trying to stay alert, figure things out, but my body is leaden, oblivious, opting to float off. The sun blinds my eyes, and I try sunglasses. God, just to sit down again, rest. I don’t see him now. Where is he? Couldn’t he even get here on time to pick me up? I think of the cartoon I had on my refrigerator—a bride and groom coming out of the church and she turns to him: “You know, you’re really starting to get on my nerves.”

  I head toward the waiting line of cars, weaving in front of a midnight-blue Jaguar, then stepping aside to avoid a red Range Rover that comes to a screeching halt.

  Then, in the distance, I spot the T-shirt with the High Life logo. Its model wears it well, of course. The relaxed posture, and the tanned face warming as he smiles. I step toward him, my ankle inadvertently twisting slightly due to the weight of the bag. “Dammit!” I wobble to the side, nearly tripping, then catch myself and regain my balance. This is not going as planned.

  He bolts toward me, reaching out for support. “I recognize you now.”

  “Déjà vu all over again.”

  He takes my face in his hands and studies it. “You okay?”

  “Mildly tranquilized, otherwise terrific.” I’m trying for upbeat. “Didn’t get much sleep in the last twenty-four hours. So one—no two—measly little Xanax hit me like a grenade.” He leads me to the car, throws my bag in the back, and holds the door open.

  “Well, forget the pharmaceuticals, and just sit back and enjoy the ride.”

  I am not the kind who does impulsive things. No one would ever describe me as “flighty.” Sober, more likely. Levelheaded. I’m a list maker, I use lined yellow legal pads, every item numbered according to priority. I have a collection of highlighters so that key items are neon green or creamsicle-orange. I also have Filofaxes with business cards in plastic sleeves, “to do” lists, subway maps, street address locators, area code directories. I do research. I’m methodical about checking with multiple sources for every new theory committed to paper. The corrections column rarely, if ever, includes items about inaccuracies in my column unless they result from hasty surgery made by editors on deadline who, in effect, removed the wrong kidney. Millions of readers go over my copy, the topics I write about are painfully familiar to so many that I can’t afford to be sloppy, or worse, wrong. I could do bodily harm. I make a point of following that old rule of journalism: If your mother says she loves you, check it out. So I always take the time to make that last call. I’m conscientious, methodical.

  So how does a person like that, who, except of late, buys Ferragamos that you can actually walk in, who buys all-purpose Nike cross-trainers, who wears black jackets instead of white ones that would show food stains board a plane without giving a second thought to terrorism, hijacking, engine failure or simply the obscene price of a plane ticket purchased last-minute? Well, maybe that was the old me, the one who was plodding and predictable. The new one would be free of those kind of restraints. From this day forth, I would be carefree, devil-may-care. I’d live life on a whim. Go wherever the urge took me.

  Taylor glances over at me. “HELLO! You’re miles away.”

  “No, I’m here,” I say, reaching out and rubbing his hard shoulder. What better reality check?

  “Let me guess,” he says. “You’re reexamining your life right about now.”

  “Is this the Edgar Cayce Airport pick-up special? You’re now going to play clairvoyant and see into my mind?”

  “That’s right,” he says. “Here goes: You’re going over the past twenty-four hours of your life, and now wondering what the hell you’re doing here.”

  “Thank you, I already have a shrink for that.”

  “You know what my advice is? Enjoy the moment. That’s all we have.”

  “And today’s the first day of the rest of my life.” I close my eyes. Did Hallmark cards sponsor his series? I turn and stare out the window.

  He swerves the car over to the side of the road and sits there looking straight ahead of him. Slowly he turns to me.

  “Where are we going, Maggie?”

  Unconsciously, I draw a hand up to my mouth like a prepubescent kid and bite at a hangnail, only, this one’s on the end of a perfectly painted scarlet fingernail. Why was there always a wily nub that defied all your efforts to nip it off?

  I reach over to him and lift his sunglasses slightly, peering into his eyes. “I don’t know, Taylor.” His expression softens and his face breaks into a smile.

  “So is my house gonna become a shelter for runaway journalists?”

  “Mmm…a safe haven where you keep lost souls until someone comes to claim them and give them a proper home.”

  He shakes his head in despair. “You’re screwed up, baby.”

  “Don’t just beat around the bush, Taylor. Come out and say what you think.”

  twenty

  The beach is a barren landscape that belongs just to us in the late afternoon. We sit wrapped in a blanket, drinking champagne. Lucky for us he had a bottle stashed in the trunk. There are no cups so we pass the bottle back and forth.

  “I never chug-a-lugged champagne.”

  “It’s the best way to get drunk,” Taylor says.

  “Is that what we’re trying to do?”

  He shrugs. “It helps to break through the reality barrier. French truth serum,” he says, hoisting the bottle. “You start speaking your mind, but it comes out in French so no one can understand what the hell you’re saying.”

  That strikes me as the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. I laugh so hard that tears well up in my eyes, and Taylor leans over and licks them away. We’re lying under a blanket tent, blotto.

  “We can’t drive home like this.”

  “Let’s nap here for a while,” he says groggily. I move closer to him and never see the sun set. When I wake up, not really out of my fog, it’s one in the morning and there’s a brisk wind. I lay back, listening to the comforting rhythm of the water slapping against the sand. Taylor’s curled up in a fetal position, dead asleep. It feels like we’re on some lunar landscape away from civilization.

  “Taylor,” I whisper. “We have to go. It’s late.”

  He doesn’t move.

  “Taylor.” I nudge him.

  He opens his eyes and looks at his watch. “I was comatose,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “Not used to the fresh air.”

  Slowly we get to our feet, dragging the blanket and the empty bottle. In the darkness, we weave toward the parking lot.

  “I left it around here, didn’t I?” he says, scratching his head. No one has a worse sense of direction than I do. Whenever my instincts tell me to go left, I go the opposite way, and I’m usually right.

  “I thought so,” I say. “But it is probably further down.” We walk another few hundred feet or so, afraid to look at each other, and then continue walking. Finally, we’re at the end of the lot, with nothing but the ocean on one side and the highway on the other. There isn’t a car in sight. We look at each other without saying anything. There’s no way to get back.

  It’s one thing to lose your car, and another to lose your identity. Whoever took the car now has the registration, Taylor’s wallet, his license, money, credit cards and his phone. The only thing in his pocket is a used tissue and about thirty-five cents in change.

  �
��Just great,” he mutters.

  I know better than to say anything when a man is furious. Fortunately, I have my bag with me, with a phone and some money. I hand it to him.

  “Call the police,” I say, hoping that we won’t have to hike home. Why the hell had I worn high heels?

  He shakes his head. “We’re both shit-faced, we look like we slept here for a week. It’s not the most opportune moment to report a theft. Let me see if my agent’s around.”

  His agent was in New York. “Shit,” he mutters.

  He punches in another number and waits while it rings. “Shit.”

  Then another and another.

  After the eighth call, something about our situation strikes me as funny. No, hysterical. I start laughing and can’t stop.

  “I’m glad you think this is so hilarious, sweetheart,” Taylor says. “I have to be at the studio at the fucking crack of dawn.”

  “I’m sorry, it’s just that this is so surreal. I mean, just stand away from it.” I wave my hand in a wide arc. “Water water everywhere and not a drop to drink. We’re literally at sea.” I laugh even harder.

  “You lost me,” he says. He picks up the phone again.

  I wait while the phone rings and finally hear a soft female voice.

  “Nicole, it’s Mike… I’m okay, sweetheart, yeah. I know it’s two in the morning. Listen, I need a favor.”

  There are times when you need a handful of cookies for comfort. And other times when the whole bag won’t be enough.

  Nicole Cervantes was a redheaded, nubile Brazilian sex kitten with breasts as big as Corcovado. Hollywood took a liking to her on sight, and within months she had a three-picture contract with Miramax. Somewhere along the way, hers became one of the phone numbers that Taylor knew by heart.