Once There Was a Fat Girl

by Cynthia Baxter

  Martha continued to stare at Sylvia Akins blankly, but she could feel the color draining from her cheeks.

  “We know,” Ms. Akins went on brusquely, suddenly busying herself with the crucial task of shuffling papers from place to place on her desk, “that you know most of the younger women who work at AmFoods, especially secretaries and administrative assistants, and we thought you would have a good idea of who might be most qualified for a position like this.”

  Martha remained speechless. I think, she told herself, that this would be an appropriate time to throw a temper tantrum. But she immediately thought of the possible consequences of such an act: it simply wouldn’t do to get fired at this particular time. She reconsidered.

  “Well,” she began slowly, trying to keep the anger out of her voice, “I don’t know of anyone offhand. If I think of someone, though, I’ll let you know. I’ll need some time,” she added deliberately, “to see what I can come up with.”

  “Good.” Ms. Akins smiled, her relief showing openly on her carefully made-up face. “Well then, I’ll expect to be hearing from you sometime soon. Thank you, Martha.”

  Once again, Martha had been dismissed. Her mind raced, but not in the usual panic-stricken way. This time, she thought, good old Martha Nowicki is going to ensure that justice reigns in the free world. This time, things are going to be different.

  * * * *

  Friday evening after work, the city cleared out as if there had been an evacuation notice. The crowds flocked to points north, south, east, and west, anywhere to escape the threat of a three-day weekend in the city.

  ‘That’s one thing I’ve never understood about New Yorkers,” Martha mused as she and Larry took advantage of the city’s relative tranquility to enjoy a leisurely dinner at Sylvester’s. “They break their necks to live and work in the city, they pay inflated rents, they put up with all the rudeness and crowds and expense just to be a part of the city. And then, the first chance they get, they head for the provinces.”

  “I know,” Larry agreed, looking up from his menu. “The best reasons for living in the city—museums, stores, theaters, restaurants, parks—are all deserted on the weekends, once the weather gets warm. I don’t understand it either. So,” he grinned, “why are you going to Long Island tomorrow?”

  Martha grimaced. “That’s different. That’s family obligation. I have no choice.”

  “Ah, my dear, there is always a choice. One merely has to exercise it.”

  “Easy for you to say. Your family lives far away.”

  Their waiter came by, and Martha and Larry interrupted their conversation to order.

  “It’s a good thing I like fish,” Martha commented. “Irma Gold once referred to broiled fish as a dieter’s savior.”

  “Sounds pretty heavy to me.”

  “Is that a pun?” Martha teased, kicking Larry playfully under the table. “If you don’t start being serious, I won’t tell you about my surprise.”

  “Oh, really? I love surprises.”

  “Well,” Martha began excitedly, “Here it is: I’m going to be competing in a mini-marathon in a couple of weeks! No one knows about it but Judy. Shirley and Kate, my friends from work, are also going to be in it.”

  “A race?” Larry said doubtfully.

  Martha nodded. “Three miles. In Central Park.”

  “I didn’t know you were running.”

  “I know. I was keeping the whole thing a secret from everyone, even you. I’ve been building up my distance, and now I’m ready to start working on my speed. Right after this weekend, I’m going to have to start putting more time in. I must admit, I haven’t been quite as dedicated as I should be. But from now on...”

  “Boy, Martha,” Larry grumbled. “Don’t you think you’re spreading yourself a little thin?”

  Martha’s smile faded as she looked at Larry, astonished.

  “Why, Larry, I thought you’d be happy for me. I’ve never been very good at sports and this is the first time...”

  Larry sighed and shook his head. “Martha, you know how erratic my schedule is. Between my working at the pharmacy until eleven three nights a week and your diet meetings and everything else you’re always running around doing, I feel that we never get to spend any time together.”

  Martha was shocked. “But Larry, this is really important to me. It’s only a few more weeks until the race, and after that, I won’t have to push myself so hard. You’ll see.”

  Larry refused to be appeased. “I don’t know. It just seems that you never have any time for me anymore.”

  “Larry, you’re being ridiculous! This is just a couple of extra hours a day...”

  “You owe me more, Martha. You owe me some of your time.”

  Martha counted to ten as the waiter deposited a Coke and a Tab on their table. Our first fight, she thought wearily.

  “I think you’re taking this a bit too personally,” she said when the waiter had gone. “I know that we both have a lot of constraints on our time, but I can’t give this up. Not now. Besides,” she added cautiously, “if we start giving up things for each other, we’re going to start getting resentful.”

  Larry’s reply was a surly “Hmph,” but the waiter reappeared with two green salads. Martha carefully shifted the conversation to another topic. Still, as she sprinkled vinegar over her radish roses, she sadly reflected that her Prince Charming seemed to be developing a dent in his armor.

  Chapter 8

  There was a bowling ball in Martha’s stomach.

  Actually, it was more like a candlepin ball: a solid black mass the size of a grapefruit. It was funny, Martha mused, candlepin balls had always seemed so innocuous when she watched Candlepins for Cash on television as she waited for the magic rays of her oven to turn frozen tinfoil into dinner. But now that said sporting equipment was situated in her anatomy rather than on Channel 9, the fun had vanished.

  “Tension! Ugh!” she mumbled to the grimy window on the Long Island Rail Road car. She yearned for the peace of a migraine headache or a clenched jaw. This stomach business was getting to be too much.

  The candlepin ball joggled up and down as the train chugged on. They always brought out the old Civil War trains around Memorial Day, the relics with the bullet holes in the windows. Each mile was a major accomplishment. Martha thought of the Little Engine That Could. I can, I can. She thought of spending this long Memorial Day weekend with her family. I can, I can.

  She stared out the window and watched Long Island speed by. Long Island: a collage of twenty-first-century shopping malls and auto repair shops and corner taverns with names like Dew Drop Inn. Sleaze City, Martha concluded.

  She was trying, though. She attempted to ignore her stomachache. She strove to blend in with the other seekers of sun-and-fun that sat primly on the hard seats of the train, occasionally lifting sweaty legs from hot plastic to assure themselves that they had not, indeed, melted into the Naugahyde.

  She tried to pretend that she too was going out to her one eighth of a beach house on Fire Island, or to play houseguest to some reluctant host with the bad fortune to own a summer home. She wore the big sunglasses, sported new leather sandals, carried the canvas satchel with the latest issue of New York magazine sticking out of the top. No one would ever guess that she also carried a plastic bag full of fresh green celery. Be prepared. Wasn’t that one lesson she had learned from Irma Gold?

  When Martha heard her station called out, she unstuck herself from her seat and filed out with the other passengers. “Have a nice weekend!” beamed the conductor. Martha did not appreciate the enthusiasm of the men in blue. This would not be a nice weekend.

  “Home is where the heart is. There’s no place like home. Home, sweet home.” These were Martha’s thoughts as she wandered up and down the platform, dragging her satchel in the heat of high noon. But these adages did little to console her as she caught sight of her parents’ car. Mrs. Nowicki and Susan waved enthusiastically, big smiles plastered on their faces. Susan’s li
ttle son simply drooled. Martha admired his sincerity.

  Instead of drooling, however, Martha opted for a big smile of her own. “Hi!” she called gaily, sauntering over to the blue Oldsmobile.

  “Martha! How good to see you!” Mrs. Nowicki cried. “It’s been such a long time!”

  Martha politely pecked her mother on the cheek and turned to her sister Susan.

  “Well, Mart, long time no see,” Susan said. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  Martha smiled wryly at the masked insult. “Neither have you, Susan.”

  Susan hadn’t changed. She still had the wispy figure, the pale blond hair, the perky nose, all inherited from her mother’s side of the family. While Martha epitomized the peasant stock of her father’s family, Susan was a remnant of the aristocracy.

  In the formal dinner party of life, Susan was the graceful hostess, the elegant princess in a low-cut gown with glowing white shoulders daringly revealed, sitting at a long table, attended by handsome counts and barons who worshiped the very Baccarat crystal from which she drank. Martha was the maid in this scene, or better yet, the cook, jolly and stout, dressed in coarse garments, preparing greasy soups in the solitude of a back kitchen.

  Fortunately, Martha and Susan were not the victims of another century. Even so, they presented a striking contrast as they leaned against the car. Martha was streaked with grime and sweat, and her sunglasses formed a red line on her nose. Susan was fresh and cool in the comfort of cotton, her hair swept up casually and fastened with a single barrette.

  “And here’s little Georgie. Georgie! I haven’t seen you since you were in a tiny crib, and all you could do was gurgle!” Martha picked up the two-year-old, a vision of cuteness in his little Carter overalls, and hugged him.

  “Truck!” cried Georgie, grabbing for the plastic toy that Mrs. Nowicki had just placed out of his reach. “Truck! Truck!” He started to bawl.

  “Let’s go home and have some nice iced tea!” Mrs. Nowicki said brightly over the noise. “You must be famished, Martha. It’s past noon.”

  “I’m okay, Ma.” Martha slid into the back seat, wincing as a small wooden giraffe jabbed her in the thigh. “So, Susan, how do you like living in Minnesota? How does Mark like teaching at the university? Where is Mark?”

  “Oh, Mark. He’s working on some journal article that was just too important to leave. Some new theory about medieval Icelandic poetry.”

  Martha started to laugh, then realized that Susan was serious. “It must be interesting to be an academic wife. Especially in such a quaint little university town.”

  Susan shrugged. “It’s certainly better than living in the dirty old city.”

  Martha decided to let that remark breeze right by.

  “So what about you, Susan? What have you been doing?” she asked cheerfully.

  Susan glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, just the usual. Looking after my loved ones.”

  Martha couldn’t help being offended by her sister’s lofty tone. She had a way of making everything sound so easy, so uncomplicated. Judy had once asked what the other Nowicki daughter was like. Martha had answered offhandedly, “She’s a Barbie doll.”

  Now, seeing her for the first time in over a year, Martha found herself condemning Susan, feeling almost uncontrollable anger toward her. Why was it that she had been the one to have flocks of boyfriends, a closetful of precious Junior Petite clothes, the open adoration of their mother? While Martha was squeezing into size 14 1/2 pedal pushers, her sister was receiving a dozen red roses from an anonymous admirer on her sixteenth birthday, being elected class vice-president, flaunting her thinness in a skimpy cheerleader’s outfit.

  Susan’s remembrances of this town were undoubtedly quite different from her own. For a fleeting moment, Martha saw, with a clairvoyant’s vision, Susan’s life through her eyes. It must be free of anger, Martha mused, free of regret. Her return must be conjuring up images of happiness and security, spotted only by such past conflicts as whose party to attend, which boy to go steady with, which blouse to wear to the Prom Committee meeting.

  Martha was surprised to find herself feeling sorry for her sister, despite this revelation, for things seemed to have reversed themselves. It was not without satisfaction that she realized that she, Martha, was really just beginning her life. Susan wasn’t much older, but her life had already settled into a predictability that Martha found disturbing. It wasn’t her life-style as much as her attitude. It startled Martha to recognize that Susan had not changed since high school; she was still the Queen of the Prom.

  “So, Martha,” Mrs. Nowicki interrupted her reverie. “How’s Eddie? When are you going to announce the big date?”

  Susan raised her eyebrows and turned around in her seat. “What? You mean my little sister is actually getting married? “

  Martha opened her mouth to speak, but heard Mrs. Nowicki’s voice come out. “Well, she is twenty years old. We don’t want any old maids, do we? I was nineteen when I married your father. You met Eddie. Remember, last time you were home? At Christmastime?”

  “Oh, yes. The budding advertising executive. Pretty good, Mart. Congratulations!”

  Martha just stared out the window as Susan and her mother discussed the wedding. Their conversation then turned to differences in food prices in Long Island and Minnesota. As Martha watched her town drift by, she found herself spinning back into her past. Settled into the back seat, she was nine years old again, a fat unhappy little girl, sitting quietly in the back seat of the car while her sister and mother chattered away in the front seat about, clothes and hairstyles and Susan’s numerous boyfriends. She suddenly longed for the city; she wished she were standing on the hot pavement of Second Avenue, watching the heat waves rise out of the sidewalk. It was true, that saying of Thomas Wolfe’s: you can’t go home again. Only it should read, you shouldn’t go home again.

  When the car pulled up in front of the Nowicki house, Martha couldn’t help shuddering. It hadn’t changed; nothing had changed. It was a pretty house, and Mrs. Nowicki’s touches were everywhere, in the yellow shutters, the bright circle of calla lilies that danced in the middle of the front lawn, the old-fashioned mailbox that stood at the foot of the walk. And there was another one of the special touches added by her mother: Mr. Nowicki, who left the lawnmower and strolled over to the car.

  “Come on, Mart, I’ll help you with the iced tea,” Susan said. “But first, I’ll put George to bed. He needs a nap.” She and Mrs. Nowicki disappeared, and Martha lingered in the cool shade of the maple trees that lined the front walk.

  “Martha!” her father beamed. “How are you?” Mr. Nowicki looked genuinely pleased to see his daughter, and he hugged her warmly. “How are they treating my baby in the big city?”

  “Philip!” Mrs. Nowicki called from the kitchen window. “Would you please come in and help me with these ice cube trays?”

  Martha looked closely at her father, and was shocked by what she saw. The old merriment was still in his eyes, but there was a tiredness in his face that she had never noticed before. Not from the heat, or from mowing the lawn, but a much deeper fatigue that created shadows around his eyes, around his mouth. A wave of sadness filled Martha’s limbs with weariness.

  “Let’s go in the house, Mart. I hope Mom didn’t make one of her famous chocolate cakes in honor of your visit. Your Mom and Susan, they never get fat. But you and I, we have to be more careful.” Martha wasn’t offended; instead, she felt an allegiance with this man, who was tied to her by a weakness for chocolate cake and an inability to understand why indulging in such pleasures caused such unfair consequences.

  They went inside, and Mr. Nowicki dutifully freed the ice cubes from their frozen prison. Mrs. Nowicki suggested that they have lunch out on the patio.

  “Coming outside, Dad?” Martha asked, balancing a tray of glasses and spoons.

  “No, baby, I’ve got to finish up the lawn. Go on out with your mother. She misses you so much.”

  The scene was
reminiscent of a Renoir painting: three women resting on the patio, lazily draped across lawn chairs, surrounded by lush greenery and sweet-smelling flowers. The hypnotic din of the lawnmower far away, the luxurious fragrance of freshly cut grass, the unfamiliar sound of birds chirping created in Martha a feeling of utter bliss. She could hear herself think, and suddenly all things seemed possible.

  The dialogue between her mother and sister droned on, and Martha half listened, as if she were listening to a talk show on the radio. She forgot that she was expected to contribute.

  What does she think about? Martha wondered, lazily glancing over at Susan. Does she remember things with the same clarity that I do?

  It was funny: it was so easy to remember her own life, but her sister never seemed to be a part of those memories. She was like a shadow, lurking in the background. She and Martha had never been close, or anything that even approximated intimacy. They had simply existed together, like parallel lines, their lives never crossing, never touching. It was too bad, Martha reflected. Perhaps Susan and I could have been friends, maybe we could have made each other’s lives easier somehow.

  But perhaps Susan had always considered her chubby little sister an eyesore, maybe she felt she cast a bad light on the Nowicki family. Martha could imagine being locked away in an attic, like some crazed aunt or the literary character Grace Poole, forced to live in purgatory, suffering for her sin of fatness. Is that how Susan had thought of her? Was that the source of their Grand Canyon-like separateness?

  “Martha, you’re awfully quiet. Here, have some rye bread. But save room for the chocolate cake I made especially for you. It’s your favorite.”

  Martha snapped out of her dazed state. “No, thanks, Ma. This is fine. I’m not very hungry.”

  “Nonsense. You’re always hungry. Oh, you’re not still on that diet, are you, dear?”

  “What diet?” Susan leaned forward, interested.

  “Oh, it’s nothing. I’ve been on a diet for the last few weeks.”

  “Did you lose any weight?” Susan asked, reaching for a peach.