by Ray Garton
These sounds were not like that; they were heavier, quieter, almost as if a dead weight were being dragged over the wooden floor.
I looked out the window a couple times but saw nothing. The wind continued to blow, more furiously than before, and, because I felt too stiff and achey to go out and look around, I settled back onto the sofa and returned my attention to Batman, still trying to ignore the siren’s call coming from the kitchen: the refrigerator’s merciless hum. I knew there were eggs in there… a fried egg sandwich with mustard would sure taste good. There were a couple of shrimp cocktails—you know the kind in the little hourglass-shaped jar, full of ketchup and those little tiny firm shrimp, probably about eight hundred and fifty calories each—and some chocolate Jell-O pudding with vanilla swirls. And there were frozen tater tots in the freezer, right next to the frozen Sara Lee cherry cheesecake. Why hadn’t I gotten rid of all those before I went into the hospital? Why hadn’t I gutted my kitchen of those caloric beartraps?
The temptation to go to the kitchen for one of those old friends so I wouldn’t have to watch Batman alone was overwhelming, but then—
—the phone rang.
It was Mardee…
She noticed. It took a while, but she did notice. It was in the hall at school. She stepped before me suddenly, her eyes wide, lips parted, and said, “Have you lost weight?”
I grinned. “Yeah. Guess so.” The weight had been coming off for months and, for months, I’d been hoping she’d notice, but it wasn’t until that moment in the hall that it occurred to her that there was less of me.
“You look great!”
“Thank you.”
“Have you been dieting?”
“Well, I don’t know… sort of, I guess.”
“Well, you look great. Hey, whattaya doin’ tonight? I mean, ylcnow, around six, or so?”
“Oh… nothing.”
“You wanna meet?”
“Yeah. Sure. Guess so. Where?”
“Well… how about the Burger Barn?”
I didn’t want to go there. No one will ever know how much I did not want to go there. But how could I tell her that going to the Burger Barn would undo some of what I’d worked so hard to accomplish? How could I tell her that for me to go to the Burger Barn would be like an alcoholic going to a bar? I mean, you can’t meet someone at a place called the Burger Barn and not eat, can you? The only reason one would meet a friend at a place called the Burger Barn would be to eat, right? But this wasn’t just any friend; this was Mardee Russo. “Sure, that’s fine,” I said, with a plastic smile.
So we met at the Burger Barn. She showed up looking like an adolescent boy’s dream and I... well, I looked like me. Even though I’d lost a lot of weight—nearly forty pounds—I still felt fat and self consciousness. But I guess I expected some of that self consciousness to melt away because—and this is not to my credit, now that I look back on it—I expected Mardee to look at me differently because I’d lost so much weight. I guess I expected her to fall into my arms and smother me with kisses, or something… I don’t know. But whatever I expected, I was disappointed. There was only one reason she met with me; there was only one thing she wanted to talk about: her boyfriend.
His name was Lorne and we talked about him—or, rather, she talked about him—for nearly two hours, at which point I administered to her another dose of what appeared to me to be the most common sense. She seemed encouraged by my wisdom, took my hand and said breathily, “Oh, Benji, I just don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t turn to you. Thank you so much. Here,” she added, opening her purse, “the burger’s on me. You’ve earned it.”
I went home and ate a bowl of ice cream covered with peanut M&M’s.
Mardee Russo has always been one of the few constants in my life. We grew up together, went to the same schools, even the same college, and ended up working two buildings apart on the same block in the town of Redding, California, where we’d always lived, and where, for the first nineteen years of our lives, we’d lived only four blocks away from one another. Over the years, of course, I was able to tuck away my affection for Mardee, the way one might tuck away old photographs that are simply too painful to look at anymore. But even now, all these years later, I still get a little dizzy when I catch a whiff of her perfume—still Ciara, she always wears Ciara—and when she touches me, even in the most friendly, platonic way, my skin still tingles for several minutes and my mouth becomes dry. I keep telling myself that I’m a big boy and I can take it… but when I decided to have the liposuction done, I still harbored the hope—deep, deep inside—that the removal of all that hideous fat and my resulting thinness would finally prompt her to take notice of me in a way she never had before.
She knew I’d gone in for the operation; in fact, she was one of the very few people I’d told. She also knew that my wrapping had been removed the day before and was calling to see how I felt. A few brief telephone conversations—we always kept in touch by phone—had been our only contact in a few months, maybe a little more, and I realized, when I heard her voice that day, that I missed her. That was silly, of course, because, although our telephone conversations were always pleasant and upbeat, the only time I ever saw her was when she was unhappy—usually because of her current boyfriend, whoever that might be—and I suspected I would be seeing her again soon. She’d been dating a local lawyer for several months, which was longer than I’d expected it to last. When she asked me what I thought of him, as she always did, I told her the truth: I thought he was a materialistic cretin who was so in love with himself—with his good looks, his money and, most of all, his car, a Lamborghini—that he would never be able to remain faithful to her. She’d smiled then, tossed her head and giggled, “You just don’t see what I see in him.” When I asked what that was, she was silent a moment, then shook her head distractedly and said, “Nevermind. You wouldn’t understand. Just take my word for it, Benji. He’s different than all the others and… I’m in love.”
Okay, fine.
“Do you feel like company?” she asked as I changed position on the sofa and winced at a few sharp pangs.
“Well, I don’t know if I’d be good company, but if you don’t mind a cripple… “
“Oh, don’t be silly. I know you’re messed up. I thought maybe I could come over and make you a nice healthy dinner and we could talk.”
“Oh. Anything in particular you want to talk about?”
“Well… sort of.”
“Your lawyer?”
“My lawyer.”
“Sure, come on over.”
She said she had to do a load of clothes at the laundromat and she’d be over in an hour or so, then said goodbye. I leaned back my head and sighed, knowing what was coming. Things had changed little between Mardee and myself since high school. Although it hadn’t worked—maybe because I hadn’t expected it to work—I’d tried, the summer after our high school graduation, to change things. Just once…
We were in the park watching the Sacramento River rush by when I decided to do it. I was thin again—well, thin for me, anyway —after another of my emergency diets had taken twenty-five pounds off my frame… back off my frame, I should say. We had been walking for an hour or so and Mardee’s eyes were puffy from crying over the loss of her latest boyfriend, a sophomore at Chico State named Chet… that’s right, Chet; this was the second time Chet had dumped her and, as she had before, she was vowing never to take him back again, never to answer his calls or open his letters again. Hearing this from Mardee was not unlike hearing a presidential candidate vow never to raise taxes. Except for a few sniffles, she was silent as we stood beside the river, waiting, I was sure, for me to pass on another dose of relationship wisdom—something with which I’d still had no experience and about which I still knew nothing. But this time, I wasn’t going to wing it. This time, I knew exactly what I was going to say and how I would say it. I’d rehearsed it down to the smallest facial tic. But somehow, things like that never come out sounding the sa
me if you’re not in front of a mirror.
“How long have we been doing this, Mardee?” I asked. My mouth was suddenly gummy as moist tissue paper.
“Doing what?”
“You know… you get hurt by a boyfriend and I try to cheer you up, maybe give you a little advice, make you feel better. That sort of thing.”
“Well… years now. All through high school.”
“Right. And we’re out of high school now, right?”
“Uh-huh.” She frowned. “What’s the matter, Benji? Are you… tired of it? I mean, if you’re sick of hearing about my—”
“No, no, just let me finish, please.” I had to stop a moment to regather my thoughts, then: “So, we’re out of high school now, and this is still happening, right? I mean, here we are, you’re crying, and I’m trying to think of something to say that will make you feel better, but… well, I’m afraid that, no matter what I say, it’s just gonna happen again. And I hate to see it, Mardee. I hate to watch you go through this over and over. You don’t deserve it. Nobody does. And I can’t figure out why the hell you keep going through it again and again.”
“What choice do I have?” she asked sadly. “How am I supposed to know if a man’s gonna hurt me or not? How do I tell? They’re all the same, at first. Charming, sexy, sweet… full of promises. Then… bingo, they’re with somebody else or just plain gone. So how do I know if that’s gonna happen or not? I just have to… you know, keep trying.”
“Okay, then tell me this. If you knew a guy who wouldn’t hurt you—”
“But where am I gonna find a—”
“Just play along for a minute, okay? Let’s say there’s a guy who would never hurt you, and you know he’d never hurt you. In fact, you’re so certain of it that you entrust him with your most personal thoughts and problems. This guy, let’s say, is concerned about how you feel. He wants the best for you. He… well, he cares a lot about you. In fact… well… “ I could see it was dawning on her now, the lights were blinking on, and I stumbled over my words. “… you might even say that… you know, that this guy, um… luh-Zoves you, because he’s seen you go through so many—”
Her face split into an enormous grin and she fell forward, throwing her arms around me and burying her face in my neck. My heart performed feats of acrobatic daring hitherto unseen by human eyes and I lifted my arms reluctantly, almost unable to put them around her and definitely unable to believe what was happening. Mardee and I had hugged before; she hugged me a lot, but they were always friendly hugs, buddy hugs. This was different. Her embrace was tight and her lips were pressing against my neck and when I finally put my arms around her, she held me even more tightly and laughed, “Oh, Benji, you are so sweet, you know that? I mean, you’re one in a million.”
I grinned, then, and had to fight back a peal of joyous laughter.
“But really, Benji, you don’t have to say that just to make me feel better.”
I gulped, pulled back and said, “What makes you think I’m saying it to make you feel better?”
Then—then—she looked serious… really serious, as if she’d made a horrible mistake… the way you might look when you find out the person to whom you’ve just told a slanderous Italian joke is Italian.
She whispered, “You mean… you mean it?”
I felt my face begin to warm. “Yuh… yeah, I mean it. Is that so bad?”
“Well, no, it’s not had, but… “ She embraced me again, sighing, and stroked my back. “You’re something, you know that? I don’t know how long you’ve felt this way, but it’s news to me. You know what you are, Benji?” She pulled back and looked me in the eyes. “You’re a catch. I mean you are a real catch. You’re the kinda guy women dream of finding… well, sooner or later.”
“Sooner or later?” I asked in a weak voice.
“Yeah. I mean, you’re the kinda guy a woman dreams of settling down with… eventually. I mean, you know, after she’s through fooling around and she’s ready to settle down. After she’s… you know, had her fun, sowed her wild oats. Know what I mean?” She put her face to my neck again and whispered, “You’re kind… loving… so warm. And you know what?” She pulled back again, smiling. “You’re my favorite person in the whole world to hug.” Again, she pressed herself close to me and said, “You’re so sincere ... so giving… “ Putting her hands just above my belt, she squeezed the mushy love handles left over from my latest diet. “… so soft and cuddly… “
I wanted to scream from humiliation. I wanted the ground to open up and gulp me down like an aspirin. I wanted to die. But no… that would be too easy. I had to face her.
“Do you understand?” she asked, smiling up at me. “I love you, too. I really do. But I love you as a good friend. My best friend. In the whole world.” She squeezed my waist. “You’re my cuddly, chubby teddy bear.”
So I was husband material... absolutely out of the question as a date, of course, but perfect husband material. I had flickering black and white images of myself walking through the door in the evening in a dark suit and tie with a newspaper tucked under my arm, briefcase in hand, kissing my wife—who wore an apron over her gray shirtwaist dress, of course—and saying, “What’s for dinner, honey? Are the kids home?” Like Ward Cleaver, or Donna Reed’s husband. See? I can’t even remember that poor bastard’s name!
As we stood there beside the river, still embracing, I paid close attention to the warmth of her body against mine, the graceful curve of her back, the smell of her hair and perfume, the touch of her lips against my neck… because after hearing her little speech, I figured it would probably be the last time I’d ever touch a woman until after I’d walked down the fucking aisle, and I wanted to enjoy it.
But after giving her words a few moments to sink in, I couldn’t disagree with her. There I was, eighteen years old, and I was probably more out of touch with my peers, with my entire age group, than anyone could possibly be. I’d never made out in a car parked in the woods or at a drive-in movie. I’d never been to a drive- in movie. I’d never attended any of the keggers for which so many of my fellow teenagers seemed to live. I’d never been invited, of course, but then, it’s really not that hard to crash a kegger if you really want to go. I just couldn’t imagine myself attending one… standing around among all those other teenagers who would no doubt be laughing, dancing, getting drunk, getting laid… I just couldn’t imagine it. I didn’t know how to have that kind of fun; I’d never had any practice. And dance? Me dance? Come on. I have a hard enough time keeping a beat by tapping my fingers on a table- top, and my fingers have never had all that extra jiggling fat attached to them. The very thought of myself walking onto a dance floor and shaking my booty, even to this day, gives me the chills. That’s why I had never attended any of the school dances. That bothered me, too. I’d never even danced…
Maybe she’s right, I thought. Maybe I’m just destined to be one of those chubby grinning husbands you see on detergent commercials and sitcoms: cuddly and dependable, but not exactly what you’d call exciting.
Mardee pulled away and looked up at me cautiously. “Have I hurt your feelings, Benji?”
“No,” I lied, smiling…
Between two of the back-to-back episodes of Batman, I looked around the living room and realized the place was a mess. Although I wasn’t as limber as usual, I knew I could at least pick up a few things before Mardee arrived. But as I leaned down to move a stack of old newspapers—
—something slammed against the front window and I froze. It sounded like something very heavy. Something wet. I stood and faced the window, which was covered by the Venetian blinds. Leaning over the sofa, I parted the blinds and looked out. Everything seemed blurred, as if the window were wet. It was wet. Something clear and viscous was dribbling down the outside of the pane. Something with a strange tint to it… a sort of yellowish-pink. And it was fresh. I searched the section of the porch I could see through the blinds, but I saw nothing. Except…
There seemed to be a
trail over the wooden floor. A long, broad, wet trail…
I made my cautious way to the front door—cautious because it hurt so much to move—opened it and, as I looked out onto the porch, I heard a loud clatter from the woodpile. My head jerked to the left in time to see a squat chunk of wood tumbling down the side of the sloppy, haphazard stack. It was there that the glistening trail ended: the woodpile. Tiny globs of yellowish-pink clung to the wood. My eyes followed it slowly to the window, then back along the floor… all the way back to the corner where that fat hobo cat was oozing his way through the tear in my porch screen.
“What do you want?” I asked, mostly to calm my nerves; I was still buzzing with adrenalin from the crash against the window.
The cat froze, stared at me a moment, then gave a tentative, questioning meow, as if asking my permission to come in and play.
“Oh, all right. Come on.”
He flopped onto the porch heavily and looked at me with a curious, bemused expression before curling up to wash himself vigorously.
The screen door was closed and latched; no one had thrown anything onto the porch. As far as I knew, there were no liquids on the porch, nothing to spill.
It looked as if someone had slung something heavy and wet against the window, then dragged it to the woodpile. But there was nothing there. And why did the trail lead back to the corner of the porch and end where the cat still lay, licking himself clean as if he were going on a date?
Then I saw it.
Beads of it clung to the cat’s fur and trembled like dew drops on his whiskers. He swiped a paw over his face several times, shook his head furiously and stared up at me with insulted eyes as I approached, limping gingerly over the moist trail in my bare feet.
