Slim to None Read online

  So instead, I’m flying by the seat of my amply-sized pants, and hoping for the best.

  William kisses me on the head as he gets up to leave for work. "Well, I hope you have better luck with this than the Alphabet Diet."

  I choose to ignore that comment, knowing as I do that the Alphabet Diet wasn’t exactly a home-run for me as far as diets go, and wave goodbye to him as he leaves.

  On my way out the door a few minutes later I notice that William left his mobile phone on the kitchen counter. I grab it, figuring I’ll swing it by his office since I’m headed to the gym, which is only a couple of blocks away from there.

  The usual morning rush hour chaos is dizzying. I feel quite removed from it, now that I’m not going to my own office on a regular basis. It makes me feel as if I’m playing at being a city girl. It’s almost as if I don’t belong.

  I’m about to cross the street from his building when I see none other than William buzzing by on his motorcycle. Only he’s not alone. He’s got a helmeted woman with long dark hair and a short red skirt riding behind him. Not riding behind him on a separate motorcycle, mind you; she’s actually on the back seat of motorcycle. Who is this person? And why does she have her hands around William’s waist and her legs snuggled up behind his? Before I can notice anything more, they zip around a corner and disappear into a parking garage about a block away, leaving me to stand on the street corner in my black (it’s slimming) velour sweatsuit, blinking back tears. Could there be a more public venue to discover your husband with another woman, first thing in the morning, but for smack dab in mid-town Manhattan as a bazillion cars, trucks and taxis crawl by?

  I simply cannot believe it’s possible that William could be off cavorting with another woman. That’s just not in his nature. It would be like Cognac taking up with a new owner. I don’t even think a big, fat, juicy, raw steak could lure him away. And trust me, that woman, from what I saw, was serious slab of rare Kobe beef tenderloin, complete with a sauce Bearnaise. And garlic mashed potatoes, with heaping gobs of whipping cream and cream cheese, lightly browned in the oven with pats of butter.

  How can I think about food at a time like this!

  Worse yet, what am I supposed to do about this?

  First things first. I can’t assume the worst. There must be a perfectly reasonable explanation. I think I’ll just go home, get gussied up, and come back to surprise William at lunchtime. That’s what I’ll do. We’ll go have lunch at Angus Amongus, a very manly steak house that has gargantuan bullheads mounted along the walls (it appeals to all those Wall Street types). And we’ll talk over a hearty meal. That will make things better.

  As I wander toward a taxi stand, my head lost in despair over what I’ve just witnessed, I smack headlong into a bulldog of a man, someone who looks like he won’t take kindly to strange women wandering into him.

  "Watch where you’re going," he growls at me, before I’ve even had a chance to pardon myself.

  "Huh?"

  "I said watch it, you fat bitch!" I get a good look at his face and he looks like a particularly ugly member of ZZ Top: long tangled beard, eyes covered by a thicket of greasy hair. Dressed like he’s been wearing the same woodsman outfit since rescuing Peter from the wolf in those menacing Russian woods lo, those many years ago.

  He looks me up and down and no doubt can tell that I’m in shock that someone would be so ugly to another human being, right here on the streets of Manhattan. For a minute I try to speak but nothing wants to come out. But I’m not about to be intimidated by an oversized ogre of a person, one whose narrow-mindedness is so blatant he has no other conversational launch point.

  "Excuse me?" I say, mustering up just a hint of you talking to me? into my voice, for authority’s sake.

  What I really should say now is "sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me" while sticking out my tongue. But I’m too fired up, and I can’t pass up a chance to shove it back to this idiot. But not before he further insults me.

  "Hey, I know you—aren’t you—" he’s pointing at me, snapping his fingers to jog his memory, and dammit, now I know what he’s going to say. "New York Post! Fat food critic! That was hilarious!"

  He starts to laugh, a deep-down belly laugh that would almost sound funny if his aim wasn’t to humiliate. "And now you’re the one writing about how great it is to be fat. Clearly you know what you’re talking about, Suzie Q."

  "My name is not Suzie Q. And let me tell you something, you odious creature," I say to him, ready to poke him in that icky man-boobed chest of his if I must to make my point. "As you stand before me with a pot belly hanging over your soiled blue jeans, a beard that looks a bit too much like the pubic hair on the Jolly Green Giant, a florid whiskey nose that betrays your favorite pastime, and enough teeth missing that they should be pictured on the backs of milk cartons, you’re in no position to be commenting on my physical appearance."

  The guy looks at me sort of dopey-like. I figure he has no idea what some of those words I used mean.

  "Look here, you fat bitch," he repeats himself. I’m mad enough at this man that I’m ready to slug him if need be.

  I’m on the verge of tears—I mean who wouldn’t be with a creepy stranger insulting you based purely upon your weight?—when some lovely young man intercedes on my behalf.

  "Look, buddy, leave the lady alone," my knight-in-shining-trenchcoat says.

  As the creepy man starts to raise his voice above than his simple ugly name-calling, we both realize the offender is as drunk as a skunk. At nine in the morning. Charming. We both turn away from the rancid aroma of stale liquor emanating from his filthy mouth. Finally my savior manages to convince ZZ to leave me alone, I thank him profusely, then flee the confines of that imbroglio and race home.

  * * *

  I arrive home, a little shaken by the incident. I don’t get why insults about a woman’s body size are considered socially acceptable. Especially coming from someone so skuzzy. As repugnant as his appearance was, I’d never have commented to him about it out of the blue like that. I shake it off and walk over to my desk.

  I glance down at my computer and notice I have a bunch more e-mails, forwarded by Mortie. More fan mail! Who’d have thought? It’s like receiving a love letter. Just what I need after what I just experienced. A quick perusal and I see that solidarity for us bigger girls is a cause that’s needed a celeb. Sure, there was Camryn Manheim. Rosie O’Donnell. Oh, even that other Rosie, from that sitcom. But then she had all that fat sucked out of her, the cheater. Well, if I become the default spokesperson for the chubettos of the world, so be it. I’m up to the task. But now, I’ve got more pressing matters to attend to.

  I rip apart my closet searching for something flattering. I’m starting to realize flattering and flabby do not go hand in hand terribly readily. At least not in my case. All I’ve got available is camo: a closet full of chubby chick camo. Chic chubby chick camo. She sells seashells down by the seashore. I’m losing it. I’m freaking losing it.

  I wedge into my Flexees, which don’t quite seem to need a shoehorn as much as when I last donned them. This could be modest progress. Despite my stress-binging. Maybe I have something modest to celebrate! That is if my husband was just giving a damsel in distress a ride, and not zipping around with a surprise mistress.

  Christ, Abbie. Listen to yourself. Obsessing about how you look. Come on, girl. Take pride in your accomplishments. To hell with superficiality such as physical dimensions. Yeah, right. That’s all fine and good till the next caustic remark from some vulgar stranger picks open that scab of embarrassment.

  As I paint the finishing touches on my make-up, the doorbell rings.

  I run downstairs amidst the dog’s barking frenzy, and open the door to find me. Well, more like a skinny me. Only it’s not me. It’s someone who looks damned similar though.

  "Ca
n I help you?"

  The woman reaches her hand out to me. "Jane Greer. We’ve, er, met before, actually." I cock my head and squint at her like she’s a little crazy and is babbling in tongues.

  "We’ve met?"

  "Yes, yes. Only not formally. And it’s been years. Many years, in fact. I believe we share something very important to me. And I would hope somewhat important to you, as well."

  I’m hesitant to ask this woman to come into my home, because she’s spooking me. But she looks normal enough. That is, assuming I look normal enough on any given day. I hate to admit it, but "I" look much better in the thin version of me.

  "I’m sorry, but I’m a bit confused about what you’re getting at."

  "I believe you’re my half sister."

  I freeze in place, trying to process what she’s just said, and she keeps on speaking.

  "My maiden name is Cartwright."

  I feel as if space aliens have invaded my home. Like standing before me is a scary green Martian who is going to suck my brain out of my head. Damn, I wish Martians would suck the fat out of my body instead. That I wouldn’t mind so much.

  I am feeling a little faint, so without words, I motion for her to follow me into the living room, where I sprawl out on the sofa. Which, yes, gasps under my weight yet again. Where’s my fainting chair when I need it? Jane Greer sits down on the edge of a cranberry red overstuffed chair across from me, teetering on the edge of the seat, her hands propped atop her legs, which are politely clasped together, her ankles touching. I notice that her chair doesn’t even breathe a gentle sigh when she sits in it.

  "How in the world did you find me?"

  From her purse she extracts and unfolds a creased copy of the now-infamous New York Post picture, tapping across my gaping blow-job mouth with her Jersey-girl red French-tipped acrylic fingernail.

  Is this ghost gonna haunt me the rest of my days? And what is up with those nails? Why don’t they paint the bottom half of their fingernails as well?

  "My father saw this. He told me you worked at the Sentinel. He’s been bellyaching for ages about trying to talk to you, but now the doctors are extremely worried about his health, so I finally decided to just go down to the paper to find you before it was too late."

  "But I wasn’t there."

  "Right. And a nice man named—"

  "—Barry directed you to my home."

  "How’d you know?"

  "Just intuition, I guess."

  "He told me you were really good friends."

  "Yeah. Really good friends."

  I am rendered speechless, and remain so, not knowing what I’m supposed to say. Christ, it’s like I live at the missing person’s bureau or something, I’m so sought after in my own humble brownstone. And I, evidently, am the missing person.

  "So. Sis—" she begins, launching a tentative smile.

  But I don’t reciprocate, and instead stop her dead. "Oh, no. No sis anything. I don’t have any sisters. I don’t have any living relatives. I’m an only child. My mother died years ago. My grandmother, who mostly raised me, too. That man you’re talking about? Not my father." I shake my head back and forth for emphasis, my lips pursed, and wag my finger.

  "Look, Abbie, I know this is all quite awkward."

  "Awkward? No. Awkward is having your fat face plastered across the New York Post and ruining your career. That’s awkward. This? This is just plain wrong."

  Silence prevails and all I can hear is Cognac snoring now at my feet. Amazing how that dog can go from mid-bark to sound asleep like a damned narcoleptic. Next to me on the table is my dial-a-diet and I pick it up and spin the wheel around and around. Round and round and round she goes, where she stops, nobody knows. The first diet it settles upon is Gastric Bypass. Is this thing trying to tell me something? I could so not ever do that surgery. I’d be guaranteed to die on the table, which wouldn’t even allow me the pleasure of the promised weight loss. How cruel would that be? Besides, even if I did live, after that surgery, you are essentially forced into the mother of all diets: low carb, low fat, low sugar, low everything, or you’re buckled over in gastric pain. Reminds me of those prescription diet pills that cause you to lose bowel control. Um, not exactly a reasonable trade off. Thanks but no thanks.

  "Look, what do you want from me?" I ask.

  "I want you to let a dying man make his peace with you."

  I stare at her. I think she knows that what she’s asking is pretty ballsy. Especially since she looks a little like a cowering dog that expects to be spanked for eating out of the garbage.

  "Make peace with me? He wants me to absolve him of all guilt for him having thrown me under the bus the way he did? He wants me to give him some sort of special dispensation for his two-timing on my family with a whole ’nother better family? Tell me something: would you do that? If some stranger paraded into your living room unannounced, asking for such a favor, do you really think you’d agree to such a request?"

  Jane Greer takes a deep breath and exhales loudly. She puts her spread fingers to her temples as if assuaging a migraine.

  "I knew this wouldn’t be easy—"

  "Easy? You bet your sweet buppy this isn’t going to be easy. Wait, actually, I’ll make it really easy. Thanks so much for stopping by, but no thanks. I gave at the office." I wave bye-bye with my fingers.

  "Look, Mrs. Jennings. I’m not asking you to like him. I’m not asking you to respect, or even accept what he did. What he did was wrong, plain and simple. But sometimes even those who have committed the worst offenses need to be given the chance to at least admit it, to extend their apologies, even at this late date."

  "I’m not sure that I buy that argument. What’s the use in me going to any trouble to allow him to feel better?"

  She looks at me with a blank stare. The line "serious as a heart attack" comes to mind. "How about to enable you to feel better, then?"

  "For me?"

  "Yes. For your own closure," she says, her eyes locked on mine. "Look, obviously we have two entirely different takes on the man. And sure, my interest in your approaching him was for his benefit. But what I hadn’t really taken into account until now is that you deserve the truth. You’re owed answers. How could you not want to know them? I would think if for no other reason than curiosity that you’d feel a need to learn at least that."

  Would this be like seeking out dessert at different restaurant after having a particularly bad meal at another one? Like ending the night on a high note after feeling so disappointed with what preceded it?

  Once, years ago, William and I celebrated our anniversary at one of the premier French restaurants in Manhattan (which shall remain nameless). I’d looked forward to this meal for weeks—the reviewer at the Sentinel back then had heaped praises upon the place.

  Nothing seemed to go right at the restaurant. First we were seated at a miniscule two-top next to the kitchen, despite nearly half the place being empty, on a weeknight, no less. When we asked to be moved, preferably to a window seat (there were five free), the mâitre d’ rolled his eyes and promptly seated us next to the hostess station. Which is fine if you’re interested in listening to the phone ring and the hostess acting surly to reservationless walk-ins, but not when seeking a pleasurable dining experience and conversation with your partner.

  William wanted white and I wanted red, so we ordered our wine by the glass. The waiter practically had a ruler dipped in the glass for the pour, so as not to dare give us a splash too much for our money.

  When I asked the waiter to describe the lettuce sauce served atop the halibut, he looked at me as if I’d asked him what two plus two equals. "It’s a sauce made from lettuce," he said without cracking a grin.

  Our meals arrived cold, over-sauced and with fava beans frozen in a lake of congealed butter.

  At that point William a
nd I decided to cut our losses, paid the bill and left, stopping in at a neighborhood café on the way home, where we had warm chocolate cake and cheap champagne, happy that we salvaged our disastrous anniversary dinner.

  So by going to visit my ex-father, might I end up with a fresh slice of cake instead of cold lettuce sauce?

  The grandfather clock strikes the top of the hour and my uninvited houseguest glances at her watch. "Crap, Dad’s got some more tests today and I have to take him over to the hospital. I really must run. Look, Abbie, please. Consider going to see him. Give a dying man his due."

  Due schmue. How about the bill’s overdue on the therapy I needed to get over his abandonment. Not that I ever did go to therapy, but maybe I should have. And then sent him the bill.

  She takes out a notebook and pen and scribbles down some information. "Here’s where you can reach me. And here’s where you can find Dad. If there’s any way you can find it in your heart, I think you’ll be glad you did."

  I don’t even need to usher her to the door as she scurries out like an unwanted mouse who’s been discovered by the pet cat.

  Abbie’s Chicken Broth

  (it’s not just for breakfast anymore!)

  2 lbs. Chicken parts (can use all backs and necks, or can include a whole chicken, whatever you want. I prefer white meat so I use a whole chicken and add a few packages of backs and necks for flavoring).

  (FYI, I often use turkey parts if available rather than chicken as I prefer the flavor. And if you’re really adventuresome, I recommend you find a source for chicken feet and throw a few of them into the pot as well—the marrow is fabulous and good for you!)