Slim to None (17 page)

"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 and 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!)

1 handful basil leaves

2-3 sprigs fresh thyme

1 long sprig fresh rosemary

1 handful parsley

2 tbl. peppercorns

1 large onion, rough cut

2-3 leeks, ends trimmed, sliced lengthwise and rinsed thoroughly, then rough cut

6 stalks celery, rinsed and rough cut

3-4 carrots, rinsed, peeled (optional) and rough cut

salt, salt and more salt (Kosher), using 1 tbl. at a time* at each phase of the cooking process

4-6 chicken feet (optional)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Rinse and pat dry chicken, then place in roasting pan. Sprinkle with salt and pepper, brown in oven for 1-2 hours (it doesn’t need to cook through, just want to get it to brown up a bit, bring some flavor out of the bones, and get those fabulous brown drippings at the bottom of the pan).

With tongs, transfer chicken to stock pot, being careful not to burn yourself.

In the meantime, drain the fat from roasting pan, while keeping the drippings in the pan. Once grease is drained, put pan on medium high. When hot, deglaze pan with 1/3 c. white wine, stirring up the brown drippings. Add this to the stockpot after it’s been brought to a boil (then turn down).

In large stockpot, cover with water 2" above chicken and add 2 tbl. salt. Bring to boil on high heat on stove. Just as it starts to boil, skim scum off surface of water and turn temperature to medium low. Then add rest of ingredients, simmer for several hours (3-4-ish), until meat is falling from bones, stirring occasionally.

Cool pan in ice bath in sink to bring temperature down quickly. Strain ingredients, then strain stock through finer sieve to remove impurities. Pick meat from chicken, place in separate container. Separate out carrots, cut into bite-sized pieces, place in separate container. Discard all other ingredients. Season stock with more salt and pepper at this point if necessary, to taste. Refrigerate stock etc immediately until use.

*I like to layer the salt into the stock by first salting the chicken before putting in oven, then salting the water before brought to a boil, then adding maybe a tablespoon of salt when throwing all ingredients into stockpot. Then adding a tablespoon or so more after stock has been separated from ingredients and strained. At that point salt and pepper need to be gradually added to taste.

If you keep the stock refrigerated, it can last for a week. Just re-boil it every few days. You can also freeze leftover stock for use at a later date. Whatever you do, don’t keep the stock on the counter at room temperature, since it’s a protein and will foster bacteria growth quite readily.

Distill Intentions, Mix with Confusion

Honey! What are you doing here?" I catch William before he’s disappeared for lunch.

"Oh, nothing," I lie. "Well, actually, here." I hand him his phone.

"My phone?"

I try to glean whether he sounds guilty when he says that. It’s really hard to determine complicity in the tone of voice of a two-word sentence.

"You left it in the kitchen. This morning. The phone, that is."

"I hadn’t even noticed it missing."

We look at each other, two sumo wrestlers sizing each other up. God, the sad thing is I can almost visualize me in a sumo diaper and it’s not a pretty sight. Nor does it seem far off-base. At least those sumo wrestlers don’t get booted for their weight—instead they’re revered for it.

When William and I are around each other at home, we’ve been able to gloss over the underlying friction of late by doing our own thing. But here in public, where I can’t busy myself with food in the kitchen nor William by diddling away in the basement, well, it’s awkward. Fact is, we’ve had a hulking elephant in the corner of our figurative living room for weeks now, and it’s awfully hard not to acknowledge the elephant’s undeniable presence. Particularly when the elephant has company, in the form of a mysterious beautiful woman with long dark hair. Who may or may not be having an affair with my husband.

I rub my hands together and then wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt. "I thought you might want to go to lunch."

"Lunch? Sure. Just lemme make a quick call."

I wait in the reception area for William to make his call, cranking my neck around the corner searching for
her
, though don’t see a soul.

Twenty minutes later we’re enveloped in the clubby warmth of the dark restaurant, enormous bull’s heads eyeing me with malice from above. Can’t say that I blame them. If I was on the menu I’d be a little ornery, too.

"So," I start off, grabbing a breadstick as a prop, "Anything new going on?"

I take a bite without thinking. So much for that South Beach diet I was working on. I wonder if I can think of a diet in which breadsticks might be acceptable. Maybe I can slop on some low-fat cottage cheese, sprinkle cinnamon atop and pretend it’s whole wheat bread?

William opens the mammoth menu and begins to scan, even though I know he’ll order his favorite item on the menu—the gluttons special. I’ve never known him not to order
The Stampede to the Shore:
a 32-ounce T-bone steak and a lobster tail, served with baked potatoes and an iceberg salad. Yet he is studying the menu as if he’ll be tested on it.

"Huh?" he asks, not looking up at me.

"New? Anything new to tell me about?"

He throws in a few cursory sentences about some deal he’s negotiating, about his secretary expecting her second baby, and then signals to me he’s got to focus on his extensive menu-cramming.

The waiter finally takes our order, and I surprise even myself by order the tuna steak and a side salad. Call me crazy, call me desperate to compete with the woman with long, dark hair, I don’t know. But something small and light sounds perfect.

"What’d you do this morning?" he asks after closing up his menu.

"This morning?" Well, er, I saw you with some dark-haired femme fatale atop your Vespa but aside from that...

"Oh, a little of this, a little of that. I started off going to the gym, and then I changed my mind—"

"Oh, yeah? Why?"

"Why?"

"Why’d you change your plans?"

"Just wasn’t in the cards, I guess."

He shrugs.

"Back home I found your phone so I figured I’d shower and bring it down to you when I had an unexpected caller."

He takes a sip of his drink. "Who was it?"

For the next twenty minutes I proceed to tell him the whole sordid tale about my thin twin. The whole father salvation gig I’m so not into. I figure he’ll be completely behind me in not wanting to bother with it.

"When are you going?"

"When? As if!"

"I’m telling you, honey, you’re making a mistake if you don’t go. Seriously. Soon he’ll be dead then it’ll be too late. Mystery never solved. Do you really want to be left dangling forever?"

The waiter serves our food and I can focus on my tuna steak instead of the stake in the heart this feels like with even William pushing me toward my non-dad. Can’t we all just let that sleeping dog lie?

Before I know it lunch is over and I haven’t drummed up the courage to ask about her. I haven’t the faintest idea how to without stirring up problems. He’ll think I was spying on him or something and I’ll look pathetic and after all I’ve been through, the last thing I want to do is look pathetic.

Up until now I’ve managed to remain completely un-pathetic with William, in fact. No use in working my way down that path any more than I’ve gone since being demoted. Besides, surely he’s not carrying on with that woman. That’s so not like William.

He grabs my jacket and helps me into it and we leave the restaurant hand-in-hand, which makes me feel better about things anyhow.

We window shop for a block or two, with William checking out a suit here, a pair of pants there that he’d like to try on. I can’t help but notice outfit after outfit in the windows of women’s clothing stores that will never grace my hangers, let alone my figure. It’s a frustrating thing, knowing that I can’t just pop into the Gap or Ann Taylor and buy an outfit. Sometimes I think I’d give my eyeteeth to be able to fit into a pair of pants from Banana Republic. But I’m a realist, and I know that even under the best of circumstances, chances are good that those clothes, made for vastly slimmer humans, are not ever going to be on this girl’s clothing menu.

We stop outside of Victoria’s Secret while William answers an email on his phone, and I wince at the window display. I think I’m even too fat for Vicky’s perfume, if that’s possible. God, I can’t imagine the day that I could wedge myself into anything they sell at this store. I’d look like Hyacinth, the ballerina hippo in Fantasia. Though she did had a certain panache in her frilly-wear. Plus that amorous alligator sure loved her in lace, girth or no girth. The idea of me in lace—even reallllly stretchy industrial-strength lace—does not conjure up the concept of sexy. Ever. More like laughable. Humongous. Pathetic. And we’re not going there, remember? Like it or not, me, Victoria and her secrets will never be BFFs.

William notices the sad look in my eyes.

"What’s wrong, Abbie?"

I sigh. It’s one of those sighs that, if measured in words, would be about as long as an article in National Geographic. And no one would want to hear my lament any more than they can usually take the time to read an article that long.

"I don’t know," I start out. "I guess I’m feeling sort of left out."

He throws me a quizzical look. "Left out of what? Your job?"

"Job, life, Manhattan, women’s fashions, the human race, I don’t know," I say. "Everything feels really wrong. I feel like I’m reinventing so much of what I knew about me, and it makes me feel uncomfortable. Anxious. Wondering where I’ll end up after everything’s said and done."

William reaches out his hand and links it with mine. "That might not be such a bad thing, you know. I’ve been wondering how to bring this up again, waiting to see if you’ve given it any more thought—"

Oh, Lord, here comes the baby speech. Why is it that men always find the most vulnerable moments to bring up vulnerable subject matter?

"William, I can’t talk about that right now. Now’s not the time for me to have a baby." I have this particular look every time William brings up the baby thing—one of those
Mommy’s-going-to-spank-you-if-you-won’t-keep-your-voice-down-and-sit-still during church
looks. Not surprisingly, it doesn’t sit well with him, judging by the glare he shoots back at me and the way he releases my hand from mine as if he burned it on the coils of an electric stovetop.

"When
will
be, Abbie? Sometimes I think you’re just putting it off until it’s too late and the decision is made for you, and then you’ll have one more thing to regret having missed out on."

I fixate on a pink demi bra in the window to avoid eye contact with my husband. A hot pink demi bra with black polka dots.
Pink
. I can only wear black (gargantuan) underwear; it’s slimming, they say. My undies cover not only the essentials, but pretty much everything else you can cover up while still being able to breath unrestricted. Sexy, they are not. The mannequin, a perfect reproduction of Barbie, circa 1964, has the sexiest pair of boy shorts undies on. If she wasn’t made of some sort of synthetic material but rather flesh and blood, I’m certain she’d have a pierced navel and a Certs-with-retsin smile. Her friend, Skipper—no wait, I think she’s Francie—has a low-cut pink and black cami tank top on, with low-riding tie-string bikini panties. The front says "Think" and I can assume, based on her fiberglass friend, Midge—who’s bent over a beach ball so I can see the back end of her undies, which say "Pink"—that Francie’s panties repeat that mantra on the back as well. Although maybe Francie’s getting a thong wedgie from her panties, with no room for words there. Ha ha, I’m thinking of an old jump rope rhyme:
I see London, I see France, I see Francie’s underpants!
As little of them that exist.

"Did you know you can actually shop by
swell
for your Victoria’s Secret bra?" I say to William. I learned this from Jess, who indeed, can shop by swell. Not that she’s got much of a swell, being as thin as she is. But she’s thin, which qualifies you for membership in that club. "God, if I shopped by swell at Victoria’s Secret, I’d have to order the Tsunami."

William laughs, forgetting for a minute that he’s angry with he. "Swell!"

"Ha, ha."

"Seriously, sweetie, you’d look gorgeous in one of those bras."

I blanch. Ohhh, blanched white asparagus with a Hollandaise sauce is springing to mind, the spargel I loved so much when I apprenticed in a boulangerie in Paris and traveled to Germany for the highly-anticipated spring asparagus harvest. "Don’t make me laugh. I’d look about as good in something in that window as you’d look in a man thong."

Oh, God, do you think he’s worn a man-thong for the black-haired lady? Who no doubt is at the same time wearing her
Think Pink
undies—if that—and probably one of those sexy-as-all-get-out cami tops that I couldn’t fit over my bicep, let alone the core of my body. I begin to cry at the mere notion of it.

"Sweetheart, what’s wrong
now
?" William appears exasperated with me.

"
I
want to wear sexy underwear like the lady with the black hair. I want to be able to walk into Victoria’s Secret and not have to know that every sales clerk is snickering about my mere presence in the store because I’m too fat even to buy the perfume. I want to be like every
normal
woman—look at them," I point to ten different women who are walking down the street, no doubt full after having eating salad with fat-free dressing for lunch. They are all waif thin and walk on high, narrow heels in pencil skirts. Heels that would fold like origami under the burden of my weight. I’d need a pencil skirt for each thigh. Nothing about those women betrays even the slightest existence of an appetite or any hint that at some point in their lives they might have ingested actual
food
. "Is that so much for me to want? To be a normal, thin woman. One with a gratifying job. And I just want to feel happy in my own skin, like they are, dammit."

I lean against the window, Barbie mocking me with her perfect 36-22-36 proportions, cellulite-free and toned like any self-respecting Barbie-ish mannequin would be. I don’t know who I’m kidding—my little piddling weight loss after barely attempting to cut back on food intake will never get me anywhere in this life. That’s like dropping a quarter in the church collection box on Sunday morning. Token gesture and little else. At this rate I’ll be able to wear Victoria’s Secret panties oh, in my grave. If someone put them over my head, maybe.

Why can’t we be happy with who we are? But then again, why
should we
be happy with ourselves when we know deep down that we can improve upon ourselves? And why should I be happy with myself when I’m sabotaging my own attempts at rectifying wrongs done?

"Abbie, Abbie, Abbie, honey, calm down! Everything will be okay. You need to stop being so hard on yourself, baby." William has wrapped his arms around me and is stroking my hair. "And who is this woman you mentioned with black hair?"

I mentioned the woman in the black hair out loud? I thought I only thought that thought.

I can’t even bring myself to look in his face. I’m blubbering (literally, with boogers streaming down my face, and figuratively, if you’re talking about my figure) all over the side of my husband’s well-groomed hair.

"I saw you with her," I sob. "On the motorcycle. This morning. After you left for work."

"Shelly Hunsinger?"

I stop sobbing for a minute. "Shelly from your office? The one whose husband left her for a 23-year old?" Sweet Jesus, I’m screwed if her husband left someone who looks that hot on a motorcycle for a younger version. Leaves no hope for the likes of me.