ONCE THERE WAS A FAT GIRL
Cynthia Baxter
Introduction
While I’ve written more than 50 books in my thirty-plus years as a novelist, Once There Was a Fat Girl remains my favorite. One reason is that it’s the first novel I ever wrote, as well as the first to get published. But even more, it’s because it’s the most autobiographical of all my books.
Like the heroine, Martha Nowicki, I grew up as “the fat girl.” From elementary school through junior high, I was the chubbiest girl in my class. All the flashbacks in the book are based on my own experiences. Getting weighed by the school nurse in front of the entire class, being forced to appear in a bathing suit at beach parties . . . all of it was painfully true. (So were the humorous diet club scenes, which were based on an organization called Diet Workshop that I joined in Cambridge, Massachusetts in the mid-1970’s.)
Having Belgrave House make the book available required me to reread the book for the first time in decades. I was struck by how much the world has changed! Computers and cell phones are the least of it. Once There Was a Fat Girl was written before every home had a microwave! But I was also amused by the references to Laura Ashley, Tab, Oxydol, and Rolodexes, as well as many brands of cookies that no longer exist. When I wrote the book in the late 1970’s, New York still had an Automat – and jogging and cocaine were very much a part of the landscape. (At least we still have Clinique and Pepperidge Farm!)
But as I reread the book, I was also struck by how much hasn’t changed. The conflicts that Martha faces are the same ones that I, and most women I know, still confront every day: body image, self-acceptance, and the struggle to balance their needs and desires with those of the men in their lives. It is these elements that I believe make Once There Was a Fat Girl as relevant – and hopefully as entertaining – as when it was first published.
Cynthia Blair
(aka Cynthia Baxter)
Chapter 1
April is the cruelest month, releasing plump arms and pudgy thighs from the kind concealment of bulky turtlenecks and bulkier parkas. The gray winter has taken its toll; solace has been found in pasta, ice cream, and Pepperidge Farm anything, and the aftermath begins to be felt just as Glamour and Vogue are sadistically featuring pages and pages of slim naked flesh. Gone are the thick tweeds and knits, somber wools, the protective layers. Bloomingdale’s store window dummies are so naked that their seams show. Joggers come out, shorts get shorter, and the threat of bathing suits looms ominously in the distance.
Spring never had been Martha Nowicki’s forte.
It was particularly difficult in New York, world headquarters for style, fashion, and obsession with beauty. The approach of summer touched the lives of everyone. Even the thinnest secretaries and administrative assistants at Amalgamated Foods, Incorporated abandoned deli lunches for more austere repasts of chef’s salad and iced tea. When Martha and her friends from Consumer Complaints met the Personnel girls for a thank-God-it’s-Friday lunch at Mason’s, such amenities as bread and salad dressing and dessert were conspicuous in their absence.
“What are you having, Shirl?” Louise began one April afternoon, as the group of women sat huddled over two pushed-together tables. “I’m having the chef’s salad. Plain, no dressing. And iced tea.”
The scuffle began as the women ravaged their pocketbooks, searched for pink packets of Sweet ‘n Low, and traded them like baseball cards.
An uncomfortable silence fell over the crowd as the waitress distributed the luncheon fare: five chef’s salads, two fruit salad plates, and seven iced teas, no ice in Shirley’s. Plus one double cheeseburger, with a side of French fries, and a chocolate ice cream soda with chocolate chip ice cream.
Martha was an individual; that was certain. She refused to be cowed by her friends’ asceticism. She felt no guilt as the Spartan packages of saltine crackers were ignored by the others. Instead, she reveled in the hot melting cheese and took delight in the grease slipping down her chin.
The others pretended not to notice. Or perhaps they really didn’t notice. Maybe they were used to Martha’s eating habits. Besides, Martha didn’t seem interested in dieting or being thin. Her main goal in life wasn’t fitting into a size 7, nor was she ever seen carrying fashion magazines or drooling enviously over the latest starlet in People magazine.
“What’s the matter, Martha?” Louise asked, daintily picking a cucumber slice out of the wooden bowl of greens that had been set before her. “You look as if you just discovered that ice cream causes cancer.” She tucked a strand of reddish-blond hair behind her ear and proceeded to nibble on the cucumber as if it were an oatmeal cookie.
Shirley jerked her head up, taken aback by Louise’s insensitivity. Martha smiled halfheartedly.
“It’s Aimee. Again.”
“Oh dear,” Shirley breathed, glancing at Martha nervously. “What now?” Shirley was well aware of the conflict between the two co-workers. It began the very first day Aimee joined Martha and her in the Consumer Complaints Department, three long months earlier, and had continued to escalate.
Martha shrugged and picked up a soup spoon, feigning interest in the distorted reflection of her nose. “Just the same old thing. Mr. Shaw wants the usual summary of all our activity over the past month, and it’s due at three o’clock today. I spent the entire morning on my half, rushing to get it done on time. At a quarter to twelve, Aimee came floating by, dropped all her notes on my desk, and said in that sweet little voice of hers, ‘Martha, honey, you wouldn’t mind writing up my summary for me, would you? Donald Shaw just invited me to lunch.’ That’s the millionth time she’s done something like that to me since she appeared inside the hallowed halls of Amalgamated Foods!”
“For God’s sake, Martha! Why do you put up with it?” Kate from Personnel asked, tugging at the gold necklace she always wore.
“I don’t really have much of a choice,” Martha explained sullenly. “After all, she does seem to be pretty close to Mr. Shaw, and he is our boss. If I get on her bad side, word might get back to him that I’m being uncooperative or not working hard enough or something else that’s condemning.”
“I’m convinced that they’re having an affair,” Louise stated flatly.
“Me too,” agreed Eleanor, an administrative assistant in Employee Benefits.
“Whether they’re having an affair or not,” Shirley interjected, “there’s no reason why Martha has to do Aimee’s work.”
From the very start, Martha had expected to have trouble with the new administrative assistant in the Consumer Complaints Department of the Dried Potatoes and Noodles Division of AmFoods. Her first thought upon meeting Aimee Ludlow was, No one has the right to be that tall, or that thin. No one. Aimee wasn’t really very pretty, but somehow she managed to convince most of the world that she was. It was a talent that had always eluded Martha, achieved through the right kind of make-up, a breathy voice, and a flirtatious way of carrying out even the most innocent action, like sharpening a pencil or sitting in a chair. Aimee had perfected the art of using her ash-blond hair and her pale green eyes to her fullest advantage.
Despite her preconceptions, however, Martha had tried to treat Aimee with open friendliness right from the start. But Martha soon learned that the new girl could take care of herself. Aimee picked up on the ongoing office intrigues and detected where the sources of power lay very quickly. Once she realized that a successful future with AmFoods rested in a comfortable relationship with Don Shaw, she made a special point of cultivating her position as the department manager’s favorite.
“Maybe you should cultivate Mr. Shaw a little,” Kate suggested jokingly. “Low-cut blouses, skirts with slits up the side, black mesh stockings...”
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“Come now, Kate,” Louise interrupted. “Martha is hardly the type.”
Martha started to say something, but Louise threw a hasty, “Cheer up, Martha!” in her direction, and the discussion was closed.
“By the way,” Kate interjected suddenly, “have you heard about the new mini-marathon that’s coming up? It’s the first one this spring.”
“Ugh. Running” Eleanor sniffed, wrinkling her nose with distaste. Martha silently agreed.
“No, it’s exciting. This is a three-mile race around Central Park, for women only. It’s being sponsored by The Big Eight—you know, the eight biggest accounting firms in the city.”
“Oh, yes, I heard about that,” Shirley agreed. “It’s called The Big Three, right?”
“Yes, that’s the one. I’m thinking of competing in it. I probably won’t win, but at least I’ll get a free T-shirt out of it.”
“It’ll probably have a picture of a calculator on it,” Eleanor said sarcastically. “Somehow, the image of accountants running makes me think of tax evasion.”
“Ha, ha, very funny,” Kate returned. “You guys just don’t know what’s good for you. Running makes you feel terrific!”
“So does cocaine, at least I’ve been told,” Louise said, siding with Eleanor. “Personally, I’ll take a long nap or lying on the beach over physical exertion any day.”
The conversation drifted away from the controversial topic of exercise and turned to halters, boutiques, and blow-drying techniques. Martha engrossed herself in the mountain of French fries.
As usual, their chatter eventually shifted to men. This was one topic that permitted Martha’s participation, and she took great delight in amusing Shirley and the others with tales of Eddie, Eddie’s mother, Eddie’s dog, the guys who worked in Eddie’s office. They listened to her stories, then piped in with their own drawn-out reminiscences of Saturday night’s date, the cute new accountant on sixteen, the waiter who’d tried to pick one of them up the night before.
Martha Nowicki was one of the girls, and her cheeseburger and ice cream soda lunches had become an institution, along with Eleanor’s bowling team, Shirley’s menstrual cramps, and Louise’s outspokenness. And yet she looked so different from the rest of them. Not only this group from Complaints and Personnel, but all the secretaries and administrative assistants at AmFoods. They were all thin, with trendy haircuts and a touch of blush and lip gloss. They all looked pulled together.
Martha was dumpy, her body, shapeless. She wasn’t that much overweight, not really, just about twenty-five pounds or so. It was her posture, her presence, or her lack thereof, the way she thought about herself. The twenty-five extra pounds could have been cleverly concealed, remedied somehow; lots of people seemed to carry it off with some style. But there were other things as well: her hair, for example, straight and brown and shoulder-length, as they say in the magazines. It wasn’t scraggly or dirty, just unoriginal. An afterthought. Martha’s pattern was to shower and wash her hair every night before bed, and to go to sleep wet and wake up dry.
Not that flat hair is a sin, but then there were her clothes. Dull clothes, in brown and gray and, very often, black. Not the most appropriate wardrobe for a young woman of twenty.
But none of this seemed to matter to Eddie, so Martha couldn’t see any reason to change. Eddie wasn’t superficial! He liked her fine just the way she was. He’d never notice a new hairstyle or new dress anyway, so why bother? Eddie was satisfied, so Martha was too.
Besides, Martha was used to herself. She had always been overweight. First plump Martha, then chubby Martha, and, finally, fat Martha. Fat she had always been, and fat she would always remain. It was like having blue eyes.
It had been hard, at one time. But Martha the Adult was not bitter. No one weighed her in every year, there was no father around to glare at her as she took a third cupcake from the plate, no girl friends to giggle behind her back or cast looks of sympathy in her direction. No one passed judgment anymore. She was allowed to be fat Martha in peace, just like freckled Eleanor or tall Kate.
She was happy enough. She had her boyfriend, Eddie, who was kind and predictable, and her administrative job at AmFoods. It didn’t pay particularly well, but it supported her apartment on the Upper East Side.
The apartment was actually only one third hers. She shared it with Betsy, an editor’s assistant, and Lisa, a banking trainee. It was a two-bedroom place, and Martha’s bed was the foldout living room couch. Things got crowded in the mornings sometimes, but then again, Betsy and Lisa were out a great deal. She had the place to herself most weekends.
Martha was settled. In a year or so, when Eddie had saved some money and had been promoted and was really sure he was ready to make a permanent commitment, they would probably get married. She would continue to work at AmFoods, maybe go back to college after a few years. But for now, things were good enough. Her job was easy, and she got along fine with her roommates and almost everyone at the office. Besides, it was the best she could do. It was boring, but secure. And Martha found serenity in security.
Chapter 2
It happened one Tuesday night in late April, the argument. Lisa was working late, and Betsy was going out with some up-and-coming writer. Martha had prepared a surprise for Eddie, a candlelight dinner. She had fixed all new dishes from recipes she had found in a Betty Crocker cookbook, a birthday gift from Betsy, which she had read cover to cover. The sour cream brownies were cooling, cheese sauce for the asparagus was bubbling, and the hamburger Stroganoff was ready to be served. She was pouring the wine when Eddie walked in. He was unusually grumpy.
“Hi, sweetie!” Martha was cheerful, realizing that his unexpected bad mood could easily put a damper on the Stroganoff.
Eddie grunted, stroking his dark moustache distractedly, then noticed the table. “What’s all this? Is it your birthday or something?”
“No, of course not. I just thought I’d make a nice dinner for a change. All new recipes. Sit down, sit down. It’s ready.” She masked her disappointment in his crankiness and lack of enthusiasm for her trouble.
He sat down at the table and started to complain about how awful his day had been. It looked as if he wouldn’t be promoted after all, at least not as soon as he’d hoped. He was tired and fed up, his spirits lower than the New York subway system.
Martha felt sure that her Stroganoff, which had turned out perfectly, would change his mood. The brownies, still warm and emitting a delightful chocolate smell, hovered temptingly nearby on the kitchen counter.
And then it started.
“What’s in this stuff ? Heavy cream? Noodles?” Eddie ran his fingers through his curly black hair. “What are you doing, trying to make me fat, too?”
Martha was shocked. Eddie had never mentioned her size, except to say that he loved her the way she was.
“You know, Mart, you’ve really been packing on the pounds lately.”
“I have not! I weigh the same now as I did a year ago.”
“How would you know? When was the last time you weighed yourself?”
He was right. Martha hadn’t weighed herself in months. Scales were just not a part of her life. Some of her clothes did seem tighter lately, but it was easy to leave those in the back of the closet and wear the looser, less revealing ones.
“I don’t want any of this stuff,” Eddie muttered. He got up and walked into the living room.
Martha said nothing. It wasn’t her style to fight. She sat quietly and let the anger form a knot in her stomach. To alleviate the tightness, she began to eat the Stroganoff. She ate her portion. Then she ate seconds. She ate Eddie’s portion. While Eddie stubbornly watched a rerun of “I Love Lucy,” Martha finished off the entire pot of Stroganoff. Serves four.
She was about to close her mouth around the first of the sour cream brownies when Eddie returned to the kitchen. Tears began streaming down her face as he looked at the empty pot and the dessert plate sitting in front of her.
“You’re dis
gusting,” he said. And then he walked out.
* * * *
It had happened before. This scene was as familiar to Martha as the “I Love Lucy” rerun she could hear blaring from the living room. The memory was twelve years old. She always remembered the scene in black and white, as if it had happened to someone else. But there was no canned laughter. No relief from Oxydol commercials. No screen credits assuring the viewer that the story had been created in someone’s mind far away in Hollywood.
Ten of her girlfriends had gathered to celebrate Martha’s eighth birthday. She wore a pink lacy dress with puffed sleeves and a big bow in the back, one that stuck out all around, thanks to the three petticoats whose elastic waistbands carved pink lines across her stomach. A pretty, chubby little girl, she was soon expected to outgrow her “baby fat.”
Martha’s mother acted as social director, reveling in her role as the Perle Mesta of the Ovaltine set. When the games had been played and the presents opened, she shepherded the little girls into the dining room for the grand finale—the refreshments.
Martha sat exultantly at the head of the table, overwhelmed by the excitement of being in the limelight. The stack of Barbie doll clothes and Colorforms sets had been carefully selected by her friends just for her. The dining room was strewn with pink and white crepe paper in her honor. Her friends had gathered together, dressed in uncomfortable frills and shiny patent leather shoes, to celebrate her.
The lights were dimmed, the curtains drawn, and Mrs. Nowicki dramatically paused in the doorway, proudly bearing a huge white birthday cake. Eight glowing pink candles formed a halo above it, and everyone present broke into an enthusiastic chorus of “Happy Birthday to You.” Martha glowed like the candles.
When she blew them all out in one breath, her friends applauded. Their squeals and laughter brought her father in from the playroom, where he had dozed off while watching the Saturday afternoon football game on television. He was cranky, annoyed at having had his nap interrupted.
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