Eddie. What about Eddie? It was flattering, of course, but she was committed to him. They were practically engaged, for heaven’s sake.
Of course, Eddie was busy lately, working until nine or ten sometimes, hardly ever coming over anymore, except for Saturday nights. And she really did owe it to Larry. After all, she had played a key role in this young man’s development. Even if he didn’t have deep brown eyes, even if he hadn’t been nervous about calling her, it really was the least she could do.
She wished she could ask Lisa or Betsy for advice. Why weren’t they ever around when she needed them?
Only a second or two had passed, and Martha still had time to marvel over how quickly thoughts can flit through the mind before she answered.
“That sounds really nice.”
“Great!” She could hear him smiling. “This week is kind of busy for me. How about next weekend?”
Not Saturday. “How about Friday night?”
“Friday... okay. Great. How about if we meet at Sylvester’s at...six?”
“Fine. See you Friday, then.”
They both said “Goodbye” at the same time.
Sometimes it seems as though smiles can burst out of your head, come out of your ears, Martha thought. Not enough room in there for too many smiles.
* * * *
“Good morning. Martha Nowicki speaking.” “Hi, Martha? This is Kate.”
“Oh, hi, Kate. What’s up? Looking for a lunch partner?”
“No, actually I’m calling to set up an appointment for you with Sylvia Akins.”
Martha dropped the pencil she had been chewing on and clutched the phone tighter. “Really? Is it to talk about the PR job?”
“I don’t know. Nobody tells me anything. All I know is that five minutes ago, Her Highness came sashaying by, and she said, ‘Kate, dear, set up something for me with Martha Nowicki. Try for early next week.’ I’m just doing my job.”
Martha could hardly contain her excitement. At last! Sylvia Akins had finally seen the light. The coveted PR job was about to become hers!
She was hit with a sudden wave of guilt as she hung up the phone, for a hasty glance at her watch told her that it was time for her to mosey on downtown for her twelve-thirty appointment with the Personnel manager at World Air. Martha was extremely grateful to Judy for having set up the interview, but all that was before AmFoods came around. This latest development created a new feeling of loyalty in Martha, but she was already committed to the appointment and it was too late to cancel out on Virginia Westfield.
Virginia Westfield. Martha wondered what she would be like as she slunk into the subway station, hoping no one from work would see her and ask where she was going. Sylvia Akins had been so difficult to talk to; she hoped Virginia Westfield would be a bit friendlier.
Judy had been right: from what Martha could discern from her brief ride up the elevator and her five-minute wait in the fortieth-floor lobby, World Air was a glamorous place to work. No orange plastic chairs here, no outdated magazines or bored receptionists. World Air was a vibrant company, decorated like an office of the twenty-first century, with huge, bright silk-screen prints in silver frames lining the stark white walls.
As she settled into a plush royal blue chair, Martha noted that the people who worked here seemed to reflect the modern efficiency of their surroundings. Everyone seemed energetic and self-confident, and most people were dressed as if they were about to embark on a flight to Rio de Janeiro to celebrate Mardi Gras. Martha felt a tinge of sadness that she would never discover what it would be like to work in these surroundings that were so different from those at AmFoods.
“Ms. Nowicki?”
Martha stood up, and, remembering her last job interview just a few weeks earlier, hung onto the strap of her pocketbook. A plump woman in a simple beige dress was smiling and extending her hand.
“Hello. I’m Virginia Westfield. Sorry to have kept you waiting, but things have been crazy all morning. It seems that we’ve been threatened with another strike.” Martha followed the Personnel manager into her office, which echoed the elegant simplicity of the waiting room.
“Now. Can I get you some coffee before we begin?” Ms. Westfield buzzed her secretary.
Martha was surprised to realize that not only would this interview fail to make her nervous, but she would probably enjoy talking to this woman. She seemed to be doing her best to make Martha feel comfortable.
“Judy Simpson from our Statistical Department raved about you, Martha, so I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. How do you know Judy?”
Martha felt the sudden knot in her stomach. It was inevitable; things had been going too well. “Judy and I belong to the same... club.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Virginia Westfield exclaimed. “I thought she had mentioned something about that.”
Martha could tell she was blushing.
“New York Hospital, right? Thin, Incorporated? What a small world! You know, I belong to the Brooklyn chapter of Thin, Inc.”
Martha’s mouth dropped open.
“It’s a wonderful organization, isn’t it?” she went on. “I’ve belonged for... let’s see, I guess it’s about four months now. I love it. It’s such a supportive group. I look forward to the meetings so much.” She smiled at Martha warmly, then turned to the résumé that was lying on top of her desk.
“So, Martha, I see that you had a year and a half of college, and that you were majoring in math.”
‘That’s right.”
“And then you got a job as an administrative assistant in Consumer Complaints.”
“Yes. I enjoy it, but I think I’d like to get back into math. I’m looking for a job that uses statistics or some kind of numerical analysis.”
“I see. Do you have any experience with computers?” Ms. Westfield asked, skimming her resume once again.
“Um, no, I...”
“Would you be interested in learning about computers, then? World Air has a pretty sophisticated system of recording information, and everyone who comes to work here has to spend some time getting acquainted with our system. It’s unique; IBM developed it just for us.”
“I’d be very interested. I think I could do well in the area of computers,” Martha added earnestly.
“It’s a growing field,” Ms. Westfield commented. “Well, Martha,” she went on brightly, “it sounds as if we might have a place for you here, from what I know about you so far. Ah, here’s Sharon with some coffee. Why don’t you just sit back and relax, and I’ll tell you a little bit about World Air.”
Martha emerged from Virginia Westfield’s office a half hour later, armed with an annual report, a booklet about employee benefits, and two dozen World Air luggage tags. The interview had gone well; she would call Judy as soon as she got back to her desk to thank her once again. It would not be easy to turn down an offer from World Air’s Statistical Department, she knew, but she did feel a strong commitment to AmFoods. After all, weren’t they turning to her in their moment of need?
* * * *
On Friday night, at ten minutes before six, Martha leaned in the doorway of Sylvester’s. She had rushed over straight from work, and she wondered if her hair needed combing again, if her skirt was wrinkled, if her eye make-up was smudged.
The sky was an ominous gray. A bad sign, thought Martha. Her stomach was in knots. She hoped Larry would come, she hoped he wouldn’t come. It crossed her mind, more than once, that this was all a mistake, or worse yet, a joke. An evening of television and celery and hair-washing was sounding better arid better.
Then he appeared, and she forgot to be nervous.
“Hiya, Martha!” Larry looked mildly embarrassed by the whole thing, and Martha realized that this was going to be easier than she had expected. It could even be fun.
Sylvester’s, they discovered, was crowded. So crowded, in fact, that it would be half an hour before they could be seated.
“I really don’t feel like waiting that long,” Martha
said. “We could try someplace else.”
“All right, let’s go see what we can find.”
They started walking down Second Avenue. A light drizzle had begun to fall, and the dark gray clouds hovering above the silhouette of tall white buildings threatened torrents of rain. A flash of lightning startled them both, and Larry looked up at the sky.
“It’s gonna start pouring any minute now. Why don’t we have dinner at my apartment instead of going out? It’s right around the corner, on Seventy-fourth Street.”
“Okay,” Martha agreed. “I don’t want to get stuck in the middle of a storm.”
The pelting rain began to hit them sharply, and the streets emptied quickly. People ducked into doorways or shops, and an optimistic few tried frantically to hail the occasional passing taxi. Larry broke into a run, grabbing Martha’s hand. He pulled her across the street as the white “Walk” sign flashed on.
“Come on!” he yelled over his shoulder. “We’ll get soaked!”
They ran the rest of the way to Larry’s apartment building. He quickly unlocked the front door, and they hurried inside.
Larry shook his head, and a spray of raindrops spattered the pale walls of the tiny entryway.
“Well, I guess we got soaked anyway!” Larry laughed. “You should see yourself! You look like you just climbed out of the East River!”
“You too, you know!” Martha stood close to Larry in the small hallway, the two of them facing each other, surveying each other’s wet clothes and hair.
It’s funny, thought Martha, I feel as if I’ve known Larry for years and years.
“You’d better get out of these wet things.” Larry leaned forward to untie the scarf Martha had tied over her head, peasant-style. The rain had soaked the scarf, and her hair, tucked beneath it, was damp and cold.
Their laughter and shivering stopped for a moment, as they both seemed to realize, for the first time, that they were alone in the dark hallway, standing close together, the shushing sound of the rain shutting out the rest of the world. Larry clutched the wet scarf nervously, as they stared at each other expectantly, almost afraid. The invisible glass wall that holds two people apart can be dissolved in an instant, and this simultaneous realization created in both of them a sudden awkwardness, a feeling of awe at their own power.
The moment passed when an elderly gentleman and his elderly black dog appeared from behind a closed door at the end of the hall. Relief replaced the tension that had been so thick just seconds before, and Larry, still clutching the wet scarf, challenged playfully, “I’ll race you to the top!”
Martha and Larry laughingly ran up three narrow flights, their hurried tripping steps making loud clomping noises on the wooden stairs.
“Ssssh!” Martha warned, although she herself was overcome with giggles.
They pushed their way up to the fourth-floor landing, each claiming to be the victor. Larry unlocked the door and they stepped into a room cluttered with books and plants and half-empty cups of coffee. It was small, the living room, furnished only with a big sagging couch in one corner, covered with a brown bedspread, some wooden chairs and low tables, and a thick carpet printed with blotches of black and brown.
“Definitely lived in,” pronounced Martha, walking over to the window to glance down at the wet, empty street. She picked up a pile of paperbacks that rested on the windowsill. “Virginia Woolf, Doris Lessing...? Are these for a course?”
“Oh, no, I’m just trying to keep well read. You know, nobody reads anymore. Everyone’s too busy watching television. Come on into the kitchen. I’ll check out the dinner situation.”
Martha made her way through the scattered piles of books and clothes and magazines. There was a bedroom off the living room, she noticed, and a closet-sized bathroom next to the kitchen.
“This is a nice apartment.”
“It’s small, but I’m happy here. Except for the roaches. Those I could do without.” Larry’s head was hidden in the refrigerator. “It looks like it’s a toss-up between frozen fish sticks and hamburgers. What’ll it be?”
Martha grimaced for Larry’s benefit, but she was glad that she hadn’t yet had her dinner serving of beef for the week. Only one serving per week. Irma always said it went straight to the hips. “Hamburgers. I suppose.”
“Ah, my dear. Don’t look so disappointed. Just wait until you taste beef à la Fisher.”
“Yuk. It sounds like a seafood dish.”
“All right, we’ll change that. How about beef à la Nowicki?”
“That sounds worse!”
“Oh well, I suppose this treat will just have to go unnamed. But it’ll be a taste thrill to remember. Mark my words! Onions, pepper...”
“Need help?” Martha leaned in the doorway, watching Larry open cabinets and assemble ingredients. She couldn’t help noticing his lean body, his tight jeans, the curve of the muscles of his arms and back. I never used to notice things like this, she thought in amazement. It must be Judy’s influence.
“Why don’t you make some coffee? The stuff’s up there, over the fridge. Want some music? There’s a radio in the living room. And a stereo.”
“How about some Top Forty? Relive your youth. Feel like a teen again.” Martha switched on WABC, the rock station, and the Beatles joined them in the kitchen,
“That’s not my youth. I was a classical freak. Beethoven was my hero.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It was kind of my parents’ idea. They wanted to raise a perfect child or something. Someone who’d successfully live out what they’d failed at.”
“What do you mean?” Martha fumbled with the coffeepot.
“My mother was an opera singer who gave up her career to marry my father. The same old story. He was a conductor who became an insurance salesman. No money in conducting. So they pushed all their dreams on their one and only child. That’s me.
“Hence, the roots of my neuroses, whatever they may be. Hey, how about some wine? I propose a toast to neuroses! Want some?”
“All right.” What’s the use of a diet, rationalized Martha, if you can’t go off it to have a good time? And she was a bit surprised to realize that she was having a good time.
Larry filled the glasses with cold red wine, and raised his glass to meet hers. “To neuroses.” He took a sip. “Tell me, Martha Nowicki, don’t you have any neuroses?”
“What? I have dozens. Who doesn’t?”
“You don’t seem to. At least they don’t show, not yet. Hey, I think your water’s boiling. You’re shirking your responsibility.”
They returned to the kitchen, this time accompanied by Elton John. Martha watched the coffee drip through the filter, and Larry turned over the hamburgers.
“I’d offer you some canapés to go with the wine, but I’m afraid these hamburgers really are the best I can do.”
“They smell terrific. And it’s certainly better than going out in that rain again.”
“Is it still raining?”
“Pouring. Coffee’s ready,”
They sat on the floor at an improvised dining room table, actually one of the low tables, cleared by putting the piles of junk into a corner.
“How about some candles, for atmosphere?” Larry suggested.
“Okay. So tell me more about your youth.”
“My youth. My youth was dull, uneventful. I made my debut at Carnegie Recital Hall when I was thirteen, then disappointed everyone by becoming a pharmacist ten years later. My father always said my ego wasn’t big enough for me to be in show biz.”
“Really? You really did?”
“Yes, and by now I’ve predictably rejected the whole thing. If you’ll be so kind as to glance around you, you’ll notice that there is not one piano in this entire apartment, not one piece of music, not even a program from Lincoln Center.”
“That’s amazing.” Martha was surprised, but she could tell that Larry had been through his explanations countless times before. “No regrets?”
“N
ot a one, Have some more wine?”
Martha nodded. She felt comfortable, very much at ease with Larry, sitting on the floor of his cluttered apartment. The wine helped, she was sure, but even so, it felt right.
“You know, you’re nice,” she said, in a sudden burst of goodwill. She then felt embarrassed.
“Ah, I see the wine has begun to overpower you. Soon you will be my slave. That means I’ll force you to do the dishes.”
“It’s the least I could do, after you made me this lovely hamburger surprise. You must give me the recipe.”
When the hamburgers were gone and the coffee had been abandoned for the rest of the wine, Larry piled the dishes in the sink and offered, “Should we retire to the living room for coffee and brandy?”
“Very civilized, but there’s nothing left but wine.”
“Good enough. We can watch the rain.”
They leaned on the windowsill, side by side, staring out at the black night.
“I’m glad we’re all safe and cozy inside.”
Martha shivered slightly.
There was a brief silence as they gazed out the window, holding onto their wineglasses.
“Do you like Virginia Woolf?” Martha asked, desperate to break the silence.
“Yes, very much. I just finished A Room of One’s Own. I really enjoyed it. Have you read it?”
“Yes, in school. I took a course called ‘Women in Literature’ my freshman year. I remember that I really identified with it then.”
“And now?”
Martha laughed nervously. “I can hardly even remember what it was about.”
“I really enjoyed it,” Larry repeated. “I think it’s important for men to read books like that, and to think about them carefully. It’s kind of like seeing things from a different side. I mean, different from the way we were taught to look at things. You know, I can remember my father telling me, when I was about twelve, that it’s important for performers to have a wife, because it gives them security and someone to take care of the details of life. I was horrified, even then. It’s things like that that made me turn away from performing and that whole self-centered life.”
“You know, it’s not only true of performers.” Martha surprised herself with this comment; it was almost as if someone else had said it.
Once There Was a Fat Girl Page 10
