Slim to None Read online

After the fiasco of yesterday, I’ve decided to start the day anew with a different diet. Nothing like a clean slate to get things going in the right direction. In fact perhaps each day should be a different diet. Variety is the spice of life. And I do love spices. Usually, though, the spices are mixed in with fattening sauces and calorie-packed carbs.

  Today I am trying the Letter M diet. Last night I was reading about the Alphabet Diet and technically they tell you to start with the Letter A but I wanted to be a little experimental so started in the middle instead. So far today I’ve had macaroni, macadamia nuts (protein—which puts me in the passing lane of the superhighway to weight loss, they say), mulberry muffins (two M’s in one), a modest serving of mahi mahi with glazed mandarin oranges, and malted milk balls (which I couldn’t help, really, because these days it seems that whenever I eat something salty I just have to follow it up with something sweet. Since I already ate my Godiva chocolate bar while reading my diet books, the only sweet thing lying around was a carton of malted milk balls that William must have bought at the movies and not finished). I feel fairly proud that I haven’t had any M&Ms.

  I could get used to this alphabet diet.

  I’m a little bit bored today and can’t figure out what to do. I don’t want to call Jess, because we have bigger fish to fry than to chit-chat about my issues. I’m so upset with her right now that fried fish doesn’t even sound good to me. Although once in Calabria, William and I had the most perfect fried sardines, silvery melt-in-your-mouth crisp and not at all fishy. God, what I would do to have a platter of them, along with a helping of ‘nduja, the region’s famously spicy pepperoncini salami spread, smeared across a fresh loaf of crusty bread. And an earthen pitcher of vino rosso, made by the contadini locali.

  I’m lost in thought when the doorbell rings. Cognac barks several deep, bellowing barks to alert me, in case I’ve suddenly gone deaf and can’t hear the bell on my own. Sometimes I don’t quite get why dogs have to overreact to doorbells like they do.

  I peer through the peephole to see Sally, George’s wife, standing on the stoop, tapping her toe. She’s wearing a pair of pink Pappagallo flats and has on bright fuchsia and neon green Lily Pulitzer pants in a bold print, paired with a solid lime green top. Her smart hairdo is pulled back with a headband. She looks as if she just won her singles match, six love, six love, and is now about to head out to play nine. I open the door, not a little surprised.

  "Sally? How’d you find my home?"

  She strolls into my foyer without a formal invitation. Very un-Westchester of her—I’d have thought someone of her breeding would simply have had her footman leave a calling card.

  "I knew you worked at the Sentinel so I tried to find you there. A very charming man named Barry—he said he was good friends of yours—told me I should just pop by your home instead."

  Yeah, charming as in snake charming. Just pop on by. What a snake. "Barry gave you my home address?"

  "He assured me it was fine."

  Jesus, what did I do to deserve this vendetta from the man?

  "Okay then. Mind if I ask why you’re here?"

  "Look, Ms. Jennings, I won’t beat around the bush. I want you to stop your shenanigans with my husband." Her face is heating up like a toaster oven all of a sudden. She looks downright menopausal with what can only be seen as ire. So much for her Westchester cool demeanor. "I don’t know what you’re up to, but I think you’re trying to tempt George into staying here with that food of yours. I’m trying my best to bring him back to Pound Ridge and I don’t need some, some, some food whore to be luring him away from me."

  Food whore! Me? Food whore? Why—

  I stand in my foyer, thinking I should sic my dog on this woman who is accosting the very heart of who I am. Food whore! I’m a food lover, sure. But not a whore! Big difference between the two. But I decide to remain calm. After all, I’m sure Sally’s been under plenty of stress, what with her husband going AWOL and all.

  "Look, Sally, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and presume you aren’t as rude as you’ve just led me to believe. First of all, I knew nothing about you and your family. I just happened upon your husband one night after I left a restaurant. I had all of these leftovers and I thought a hungry man living on the street on a bitterly cold night would be happier with my still-warm food than I would be. Call it the latent nurturer in me, I don’t know. I haven’t got kids, so maybe I need someone to fuss over."

  Maybe I should have some kids like William wants and then I would have someone to fuss over.

  "All I know is since you’ve worked your magic on George, he’s perfectly happy to remain here. I can’t see what else would keep him living this lifestyle, sleeping on park benches, scrounging for food and pushing around a shopping cart." To emphasize her comment she’s randomly pointing around my first floor. As if my home is decorated with park benches or something!

  "My magic? I haven’t got any magic! My intentions were all completely honorable. I’m sure that nothing I have said or done has kept George sleeping on the streets. Have you ever thought that maybe he doesn’t see a huge need to go home?"

  "How could he not? We have everything at home. And here, he’s got absolutely nothing."

  I look at her in that "no duh" way, my head tipped down as I look up at her. I’m tempted to ask her if she’s daft, but I just won’t stoop to her level of attack.

  "Haven’t you figured out that he doesn’t want anything? Isn’t that what this is all about? He said as much last week! He had everything, but it didn’t seem to do it for him. Maybe you need to figure out what it was that was lacking in his life."

  "Such as?"

  "Such as relationships? Look, Sally, I don’t know you. And I barely know your husband for that matter. I just feed the man occasionally. But certainly in the conversations I’ve been privy to, he’s made it abundantly clear that he didn’t feel wanted or needed back home. He figured he was just as well living on the streets as living in the lap of luxury. Seems to me that if someone feels so disconnected from his family that he’s willing to run away from them, well, then, maybe that’s a big fat red flag that you ought to figure out how to bring him back into the fold."

  As I’m saying this something is stirring deep within my primitive brain. I’m pretty sure it’s not the lizard, though, since I’m not exactly hungry or looking to kill anyone. Something about this message hits home a little too closely.

  Sally simply looks miffed at the suggestion. "I can’t even begin to figure out what you expect me to do about that. That’s George’s problem."

  But I’m starting to hatch an idea. Speaking of hatching, I need to meet up with my farmer friend tomorrow—I schedule clandestine meetings with him in town where I score my stash of farm-fresh eggs for the week. I like to do this in ironic locales, like Washington Square, where other people are scoring products for their addictions as well. Just me, my dealer and a discreet exchange of cash for merchandise.

  "What if..." I start to say, tapping my finger against my lip while I think out loud, "When we met you mentioned dinner. At your place. What if you set up a big family dinner? George mentioned your anniversary’s coming up, right?"

  Sally nods her head but grimaces. "For what it’s worth."

  "Stop. We’re going to think positive thoughts here. What if I can bring George back to Pound Ridge for a family anniversary dinner?"

  Sally puts her hands together in a steeple as she drums her fingertips together. "I think you’re brilliant! I can assemble the kids, we can all be together. It’ll remind George of what he’s been missing. And Gretl can prepare one of her famous feasts—"

  "Even for me?"

  She pooches her lips together, lost in thought. "Maybe I just won’t tell her. It’ll be our little secret. But what makes you think you can get him back there?"

  Hell if I know. But I ca
n’t tell her that.

  * * *

  Cognac and I are just returning from a long walk when the phone rings. I run to grab it hoping it’s William.

  "What up beyatch? How’s Operation: Crash Diet going?"

  It’s Jess, obviously wanting to joke around, but I’m in no mood to elbow anyone in the ribs right now. At least not any adulterous women who tried to get me involved in their extramarital flings. Instead of laughing, I’m silent.

  "That bad, huh? What’s the matter, Abs? Cat got your tongue?"

  "Huh. Certainly not in the same way Dex had your tongue."

  "Uh-oh."

  "Uh-oh is what you say to the toddler who spills a cup of milk. I’d say you’re way past the spilt milk stage, Jess."

  "Whaddya know? Who told you?"

  "You told me, you imbecile! In plain sight of half of Manhattan, no less. Nothing like a shameless exhibition of PDA in Central Park to tell the world you’re engaged in yet another extramarital affair. Did you really think nobody would spot you? So is he married too, or are you the only betraying spouse in the equation?"

  "Sheesh! If I’d have known this was going to be the Inquisition, I’d have called someone else instead. Maybe dial-a-friend or something."

  "Look Jess. Of course I’m your friend. But it really doesn’t sit well with me what you’re up to. I know this isn’t the first time. But it’s the first time I feel embroiled in it, and I don’t like it."

  Broiled. Asparagus. Sprinkled with a little lemon juice and dusted with just a hint of white pepper. Topped with lemony Hollandaise sauce, made orange with the sunny yolks in the eggs of a free-range hen. Well, crap. I’d better dream of the diet version of this: topped with syrupy, tangy-sweet balsamic vinegar. Not that soupy excuse for vinegar mass-produced and pawned off as authentic in the grocery stores. I mean the real stuff: aceto balsamico. Tapped from a cask in some elderly nonna’s attic off of a cobbled street in a small village in Emilia-Romagna. Aged longer than me, my husband and my dog combined. That’s the only kind of balsamic vinegar worth ingesting.

  Although today is the Letter M day, so perhaps it would have to be topped with mustard, which just won’t be the same.

  "God, Abbie. Talk about an about-face. You’ve known all along about my husband and what he’s put me through. I thought you were sympathetic to the cause."

  "I understand about that. And I have been empathetic. But it just feels really wrong: you, your doctor. My doctor. Isn’t this against that vow thingy they make with the hippos—what’s it called, the hippopatic oath?"

  "That’s Hippocratic. And there are no hippos involved."

  "Uh, Except me. I’m the big hippo who he weighed on the scale, remember? And you know exactly what I mean. Isn’t it illegal or immoral or unethical for him to do the clientele? Besides which, what if he’s married, too? What about his wife? What about his kids? Did you ever think about that? What might he now be putting his family through, thanks to you?"

  "His marriage is on the skids. He told me so."

  I laugh minus even a hint of humor. "Oh, ho, ho. Of course he’s going to tell you that. What do you think he’d tell you—that he loves his wife and that things are just hunky dory between them? That’s not how these things work, in case you were too busy with your heavy petting to notice."

  "Heavy petting?"

  "Yeah. Heavy petting. I should’ve directed the two of you over to the Tisch Zoo where petting is encouraged."

  "Oh, aren’t you the punster. So funny I forgot to laugh."

  "Affairs don’t happen in a happy marriage, Jess."

  "And you’re the foremost expert on this? Perhaps because your own husband is so displeased with your anti-baby stance that he’s practically missing in action? Maybe you think he’s out doing it with some tramp like me?"

  "I didn’t call you a tramp. And way off base to bring William into the conversation. I just don’t feel good about this. Any of it."

  "Look, I really don’t want to talk about this anymore. Call me once you get off your high horse, or when you take a happy pill, whichever comes first."

  Food is the most primitive form of comfort.

  Sheila Graham

  Truss Feelings with Butcher’s Twine, Steep in Juices

  Well, that didn’t go too terrifically, did it? Get off your high horse? I’m not on any high horse. In fact I’d hardly fit on a horse. It would be like a horse hauling a cow. Unwieldy, that’s for sure. I’d never force that sort of torture on any animal. Hell, I won’t even do that to my hot pink Vespa.

  Besides which, I’m perfectly happy, thank you very much. Sure, I might be feeling a little uptight, but who wouldn’t be under the circumstances? I mean, in one of those Glamour Magazine stress test, I’d be off the charts right about now. First I lose my coveted job, then my absentee father shows up out of the blue—in the midst of dying, no less. Then my husband decides to tighten the screws by forcing the breeding issue. My former colleague—with whom I thought I was on good terms—is waging an all-out campaign against me and I know not why. I have an argument with my best friend, who is having a very public affair with my doctor, and if nothing else I could never double-date with them! I mean, my God! He knows my weight! He’s seen me in a hospital gown! If anyone knows my Achilles’ heel, it’s that man. Seems the only really uplifting thing in my life right now is my dog. And I can only walk him so much before he’ll start refusing to cross the threshold of the door, his legs will be so tired out.

  Right now I’m still reeling from that phone call with Jess. The more I think about Jess and her marriage-busting behavior, the more I think about my father and his marriage-busting. And maybe that’s why I can’t seem to let go of my anger toward her right now.

  It was hard enough that my father left us the way he did. But then when I found out he’d had another family—his good family—all along, well, that was more than I could bear.

  I don’t like to talk about that day. I’ve never even told William about it, it’s so raw to me, even still. My father had been gone a few months at that point. My mother whiled away her days submerged in gloom beneath her down comforter in the shade-blackened living room. Grandma Gigi tried to keep me from the house as much as possible, so she’d decided to take me to the shopping mall. We’d gone there because her rubbers had sprung a leak. No, not those sort of rubbers. The kind little old ladies and dentist-types used to wear, the ones you’d pull over your shoes to protect them in wet weather. Her rubbers were letting in water and the forecast was for continued rain, so when I got home from school that day, Grandma Gigi and I hopped the 22B bus and rode it to the mall.

  We’d just come from Sears Roebuck, the store’s usual odor of new tools, lubricants and hard work still lingering on my nose. I was carrying Grandma’s bag with the new rubbers. We were talking about my schoolwork, and Grandma Gigi was asking if I had any new friends at school. I hated that it even mattered to anyone whether I had any friends. At that age, I just wasn’t the kind of kid that the other kids really wanted to be friends with. I wore thick glasses back then, and I wasn’t very pretty. I never seemed to wear the right style of clothes and I don’t think I really cared that much, to tell the truth. But it mattered to others that I was a loner. I guess that comes of being alone in a family like I was.

  I heard a commotion up ahead and saw a man who was pushing a stroller with a bitty baby inside swoop down and scoop up a girl of about five from his side who had been crying. Next to him was a tall, thin woman with elegant legs and smiling eyes. She could’ve been a model. He leaned over and kissed her, then turned his face so I could see more clearly. It was my father. And in that instant I knew. I just knew. It was too obvious to pretend anything other than that he’d had another family long before he’d left us forever.

  I watched, my eyes unblinking, as my father sat down on a bench with his good family,
and interacted with them like a father should do. He bounced the baby on his knee. He reached over to an older girl who had been helping to push the stroller and started playing slapsies with her. She looked so much like me, who mostly favored my dad’s looks, that I thought for a second someone was playing a trick on me. Then he took a playful lick of the middle girl’s ice cream and they both giggled. This man was everything a girl would want in a dad in a shopping mall.

  My grandmother looked over when I stopped walking and saw where I was staring. All of a sudden she pointed in the opposite direction of my father.

  "Lookie there, baby. There’s an Orange Julius! Your favorite! Why don’t we go take a look over there and see if we can get you an Orange Julius for helping your dear old Grandma today? Okay, honey?"

  She grabbed my hand and tried to pull me away, but my feet remained planted in place. I watched as once again he leaned over and kissed the pretty long-haired woman, the woman who looked so in love. The woman who let her daughter eat ice cream without spanking her. And I tried to imagine that was me playing slapsies with my father instead of my anonymous twin. But I knew I didn’t get to play slapsies ever with my dad. He must’ve been too busy playing it with his favorite family all along to bother with me.

  I wish I could say I was too strong to cry. I wish I could say I went with Gigi and drank an extra-large Orange Julius and we smiled and laughed about it, and she reassured me that I was imagining things, that it wasn’t my father at all, and then I helped Grandma Gigi pull on her new rubbers for the trip home in the rain.

  But I’d be lying if I said that. Because instead, I ran to my father and tried to jump into his arms. The pretty woman, the one who smiled and laughed and looked so in love, stared, aghast, at me. And my father, instead of reaching out for me, pushed me off with an extended arm, like a policeman stopping traffic, and then reached for the middle girl, the ice cream girl, who’d started crying again. He picked her up and stroked her hair and soothed her with his calm voice. And the woman looked at him and asked him what was going on. While I stood there, my eyes pooling up with tears so full I felt like my eyeballs would float away. And I gasped and cried out "Daddy!" again and again and my grandmother tugged on my arm while she reprimanded my father, saying "Richard, how could you?" and the pretty woman kept yelling "What is going on?" and my father was silent while he fathered his three girls, his three happy girls who didn’t know what was happening but were secure with their soothing father who loved them so.