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Authors: Joan Hess

BOOK: A Diet to Die For
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They all three looked at me. I realized some gush of enthusiasm was expected, hunted through my vocabulary for an adjective that hadn’t been used, and finally said, “That’s wonderful progress the first day.”
Maribeth was given more praise, patted on the back, hugged, told repeatedly how successful she’d been, and sent out the door with a face reminiscent of a harvest moon. Once we were outside, however, she gave me a dry smile and said, “They tend to get carried away with the positive reinforcement, don’t they? I know perfectly well that the major part of those three pounds was water.”
“That doesn’t matter,” I said. “You’re going to
stick to this diet, and pretty soon you’ll notice the inches are disappearing, too. You’ll look better and feel better and be a damn sight healthier. If it helps for the Ultima staff to stage a Broadway production every day, then why worry about it?”
“I did stick to the diet, didn’t I?” she said under her breath, then pointed at the sign above the fitness center. “This class is supposed to be for beginners. It’s low-level for the first few weeks, and the sessions only last forty minutes. Later, when we’re in better shape, the sessions are an hour and a lot more demanding.”
The only positive thing I could think of was that I wouldn’t be chaperoning her when all that happened. I muttered something and dutifully followed her through the door, nurturing vile visions of petite bodies shouting, “Burn, baby, burn,” and other encouraging remarks more appropriate to ghetto uprisings or weenie roasts.
The front room of the fitness center was large, decorated tastefully in yellow concrete blocks and a few posters of bug-eyed people contorting their bodies into gruesome bulges. The plants were plastic, as were the chairs scattered in the front of the room. There were two doors in the back, neither of which interested me. There was a short hallway on one side with several doors visible, none of which interested me. There was an enormous mirror on the opposite wall, which appalled me. Sweating was unsavory; watching oneself sweat was unspeakable. As we hesitated, two young women appeared from the hallway and began to stretch in front of the mirror. A moment later, a white-haired woman joined them. All three had the trim bodies and grim visages of Rumanian gymnasts.
“I’m not sure what the procedure is,” Maribeth said nervously. “I know I’m supposed to fill out a form, but I don’t see anyone who appears to be in charge.”
“One of those women might be Jody.”
Neither one of us seemed inclined to ask, so we stayed by the door. The older woman stopped stretching long enough to put a cassette in a jam box. Violent rock music blared, and the three began to bobble furiously to the insistent rhythm.
“Maybe we ought to try again tomorrow,” I suggested, inching backward with total disregard for the beat. “It looks as if the class has already started, and if this is a low-level class for beginners, I’m Jane Fonda.”
Maribeth caught my elbow before I could bolt. “It’s vital to the program that I participate in an exercise class three days a week. If I don’t start now, I probably never will.”
“Oh, all right,” I said ungraciously. “Let’s find Jody and get you enrolled.” I went over to the older woman, who was flailing her arms and kicking her legs like a crazed Rockette, and said, “Where do we find Jody?”
She gave me a blank look and began to prance in place, her knees threatening her chin. I realized she hadn’t heard me, and shouted, “Jody? Are you Jody?” The music stopped in the middle of my question, and my voice was considerably louder than necessary in the sudden stillness.
“I’m not deaf,” the woman said as she blotted her forehead with a terry-cloth wristband. “Jody’s in the office, through that door.” She glanced at her companions. “Again, or the other side of the tape?”
I hurried to the office door and knocked before the
music again began to blare. Over the noise I thought I heard someone respond, so I opened the door and entered the room.
Two men were standing behind a metal desk. One was short, wiry, and dark-haired, with an Italian look about him. He wore a baggy white T-shirt and equally baggy sweat pants. The other was an oversized teenager with pale shaggy hair, a bad complexion, and a sullen expression. It grew more sullen as we studied each other for an uncomfortable minute.
“I was told Jody was in here,” I said at last.
“Who’re you?” the dark-haired man demanded.
“I’m Claire Malloy. A friend of mine wants to enroll in an aerobics class; I came along to help her sign up. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. If you can tell me where to find Jody, I’ll work out the details with her.”
“Hang on,” he said, then scowled at the kid. “I don’t know how many times I got to say it, but it’s my decision and I’m the guy what happens to own the place. I warned you two, three times not to horse around on the equipment. Don’t show your ugly face around here anymore, Marcus. I’ll prorate your fee and stick it in the mail.”
The kid grunted and went out a door in the back of the office, slamming it behind him. The man came around the desk and held out his hand. “I’m Jody Delano, Claire. You goofed on account of how it sounds like a girl, no offense, and I heard about it all the time when I was growing up in the Bronx. Had to get my butt kicked a hundred times before I made my point.” His hand, unlike Dr. Winder’s, was dry and firm, and his grin was wry. “Technically speaking, I’m Joseph Delano, Jr.; I was tagged with Jody
to minimize confusion with my father. It causes confusion elsewhere, I’m afraid. Now, where’s your friend?”
We went back to the front room. During my interval in the office, several other women had joined Maribeth by the front door; to my relief, they were not of the svelte persuasion. I was asked to sign a release form absolving Jody from any liability should he push me into permanent disability. Those who intended to join for the six-week session filled out questionnaires, contractual agreements, and the same release form. I was hoping we were through for the day, but Jody then suggested we change in the dressing room for our first introductory warm-up.
The ensuing forty minutes confirmed my theory that hell was overpopulated and new arrivals were being assigned certain punishments on earth. The so-called easy warm-up was somewhat similar to transitional labor without medication, but not nearly as much fun. Jody led the class, shouting instructions, changing cassettes, and joking in an appalling display of enthusiasm. Although he was sweatless and breathing normally, the rest of us were dripping copiously and gasping by the time he told us how well we’d done and suggested a trip to the Jacuzzi, to be followed by a visit to the sauna.
I had no inner resources (such as breath or energy) with which to argue, and I followed the others to the next phase of hell on earth. The group obediently boiled in the Jacuzzi, baked in the sauna, then one by one drifted out to dress with trembling hands and flee.
Once we were alone, Maribeth said, “Jody’s a great aerobics instructor, isn’t he? He’s got so much energy and he’s so enthusiastic.”
“Kamikaze pilots were enthusiastic, too, which is why you never bump into them on the street.” I gave up on my frizzly hair and picked up my purse and a bundle of damp clothes. As we headed for the door, I said, “You looked terribly pale during the second half of the class, Maribeth. Are you sure you ought to exercise so vigorously?”
“I’m fine,” she snapped. She shoved open the front door and marched toward the car, her shoulders squared and her head erect.
I walked slowly after her, puzzled by her abruptness. Her pinched expression conveyed quite clearly that she wanted no further discussion of her fitness, or lack thereof, and I could think of no good reason to insist. The Ultima Center had done a thorough examination and had recommended she participate in the exercise class.
As we started to pull away from the curb, Bobbi came out of the diet center, waved at us as if she’d been adrift in a lifeboat for forty days, and turned back to lock the door. She then waved once again and disappeared into the fitness center, the latest acquisition for her leotard collection tucked under her arm.
“She wants to lead aerobics classes when she grows up,” I said to Maribeth.
Maribeth groaned, as did I. Even that hurt.
My knees were wobbling so badly by the time we reached the Galleston-Farber mansion that I could barely push down the pedals. I told Maribeth I’d see her the next day, and somehow managed to drive down the hill and across town to my driveway. Realizing that it would be undignified to crawl, I staggered
upstairs and flung my poor, sad body across the sofa.
I was still supine when Caron and Inez appeared. I opened one eye and said, “Did you lock all the doors at the store?”
“What is wrong with you?” Caron said. “You look like something the cat spit up on the rug. And why are my old gym shorts wadded up under the sofa?”
“You look awful,” Inez added.
“I went to an aerobics class,” I said, wincing at the memories that flooded me like scalding water.
“Why?” Caron said in a shocked voice.
“I can’t remember. All I know is that death sounds charming. A hot bath sounds charming, too, but I can’t make it to the bathtub. I couldn’t even make it to the kitchen for a drink. For the first time in my life, I’m willing to admit the validity of the phrase ‘half dead.’”
“Inez and I have begun an exercise program,” Caron said as she flopped down on a chair and studied her fingernails. “We’re going to walk miles and miles every single day—unless it’s raining too hard. Right, Inez?”
“Oh, yes. Today after we locked the Book Depot, we walked all the way up Thurber Street to the corner of School Street, and then back.”
I considered the corner in question for a moment. “I think we can rule out the insurance agency, the bicycle store, and the beauty parlor. Did this hike take you into the ice cream store?”
Caron sniffed. “We may have gone inside, but we only had single scoops of sherbert, because everybody
knows it’s less fattening. Walking burns up zillions of calories, so we came out at least half a pound ahead. I think I’ll weigh in right now. Come on, Inez; I’ll bet we can already see a loss.”
The wail from the bathroom was enough to drive me to my feet and propel me to the liquor cabinet.
T
hings calmed down over the next two weeks, although I had the unnerving sensation that I was cruising with Captain Ahab at the helm. Peter had gone jaunting with the feds, which is the entirety of what he’d told me over a bottle of burgundy. In that I’d gotten precisely nowhere regarding the major muddle, I wished him a lovely time playing footsies with the CIA, the DEA, the FBI, the IOU, the QED, or whatever combination of letters he preferred right through XYZ. He promised to bring me a bumper sticker and we left it at that.
Maribeth showed up every afternoon, battled the hordes of customers, and departed at four o’clock for her consultation at Ultima and her exercise class. Caron and Inez were working their way through every miracle diet known to civilization. They’d eaten grapefruit before every meal, swilled various liquids, gulped down pills guaranteed to make ugly fat melt away while they slept, purchased an exercise video and watched it twice, eaten nothing but protein, eaten everything but protein, and sworn off carbohydrates for life. None of these regiments had lasted more than
twelve hours, mind you; they were all determined to be “boring” or “disgusting” or “too tedious” or “playing havoc with my blood sugar level.” Both had gained a few pounds, but I lacked the courage to inquire about a precise figure.
I was scowling over some paperwork when Joanie came into the store, dropped her purse on the invoice beneath my nose, and said, “Well? What do you think about Maribeth?”
“She’s doing fine. We’re so busy she’s often reduced to dusting the racks or reading, but she hasn’t complained. Since I’m not paying her salary, I’ve no reason to complain, either.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Joanie said, unamused. “I’m talking about this new person who’s emerging from that tent dress. Haven’t you bothered to talk to her at all, Claire?”
“I say hello and ask how she’s doing. She smiles and says she’s doing great. I retreat to my office—which is the purported reason for her presence—and work on the tedious stuff. My checkbook balanced for the first time in six years, but I can see from your expression that you’re not impressed. You’re probably the kind of person who catches the bank’s errors, aren’t you?”
“I’ve found a few,” she said, continuing to frown at me. “You really ought to take a look at this new Maribeth. She’s changed enormously since her first day at Ultima. I’m terribly proud of my creation.”
“You’re not the one eating cooked squash and broiled fish. But you’re right; I haven’t stopped to talk to Maribeth.” I glanced at my watch. “Aren’t you supposed to be picking her up now? It’s almost two o’clock.”
“That’s what I’m talking about. After the first few days she worked out an arrangement with Gerald, and now she takes him back to the campus after lunch and keeps the car the rest of the afternoon.”
Joanie stopped as the topic of our conversation came into the store. As Joanie had asserted, there was indeed a noticeable change in Maribeth. Although she was hardly lean, she was clearly making progress on the Ultima diet. The tent dress had been replaced with a skirt and blouse that looked tidier. Her hair was still pulled back in a ponytail, but it was clean and shiny. She had attempted to disguise a minor patch of acne with liquid makeup and she was wearing an attractive shade of pink lipstick. Her shoes were polished.
“Hey,” she called with more animation than I’d seen before, “don’t stop talking about me unless you’re saying catty things.”
“I was saying nice things,” Joanie said.
“And I was about to add some more,” I said. “You’re looking great, Maribeth. How much weight have you lost?”
“Sixteen pounds,” she said with a giggle that reminded me of just plain Bobbi Rodriquez of spandex fame. She gave us a blank look, then shook herself and said, “Good grief, I’ve forgotten what I was going to say. Anyway, sixteen pounds thus far, and a goal of twenty by next Monday. If I make it, I’m going to treat myself to a haircut.”
“What a good idea,” Joanie said. “I haven’t seen you since you started using the car in the afternoons. What do you do before you come here?”
I expected to hear her say she shopped, or went back home to catch a soap opera, or something equally innocuous. She did not. Instead, she turned
bright red, shuffled her feet, and in general behaved like a teenager caught sneaking in/out of the house in the middle of the night.
“Oh, I don’t—oh, nothing, really,” she stammered. “I just—well, I’ve been going to the fitness center on some days, I guess, but I—nothing.”
Joanie gave her a bewildered look. “You sound as though you spend the time robbing convenience stores or carrying on with a bearded man in a shabby motel room.”
“Me?” Maribeth laughed unconvincingly. “I’m not quite ready to embark on a life of crime; a ski mask would hardly be an adequate disguise, would it? I’m going to wait until I’ve lost another thirty pounds and then try an armored car.”
I laughed unconvincingly. “It’s probably wiser. Did you graduate from the low-level aerobics class, or is this an extra session?”
“Is what an extra session?”
“You said a minute ago that you go to the fitness center before coming here,” I said gently, although I was as bewildered as Joanie, if not more so.
“I did?” When we merely looked at her, she gulped several times and said, “Oh, yes, of course I did. I’m still in the same class at five o’clock. With this much bulk, a few leaps and I’d crack my ankles. I go to the center to work out on the machines in the back room to tone my muscles. Jody developed the program for me.”
“Jody?” Joanie echoed.
I explained that Jody was not only the aerobics teacher but also an instrument of the devil, who took perverse delight in making others sweat, gasp, turn interesting shades of plum and fuchsia, and suffer
each and every second of forty minutes, and then insisted his victims simmer in scalding water and bake in the equivalent of a mobile home on an August afternoon.
“He sounds charming,” Joanie said when I ran out of hyperbole. “I’ve never cared for petty tyrants—even the peppy ones.”
“Jody’s not like that,” Maribeth said in a shocked voice. “Claire may not have enjoyed the class, but Jody’s really very concerned about his students. After the second class, he suggested I work out three times a week on the machines. I told him I couldn’t because I didn’t have transportation, but he pointed out that the car just sits all day in Gerald’s reserved parking space on campus. I haven’t driven in years and I’d let my license expire, but I practiced in Jody’s car. I passed all the tests to have my license renewed.”
“And there’s no problem about the cost of the additional sessions?” Joanie asked with the delicacy of a chainsaw.
“They’re free. In exchange, I run errands for Jody, or stay in his office and answer the telephone while he’s at lunch.” She gave me a sudden piercing look. “Why are you staring at me like that? There’s nothing wrong with running errands, is there?”
“Of course not,” I said, surprised.
The intensity vanished as quickly as it had appeared. She gave us an impish grin and said, “Sometimes when I’m leaving to drop off packages or pick up supplies from the stationery store, Jody asks me to bring back a sandwich for him and we have a picnic. I can’t eat with him, because of the program, but we talk and he’s very sweet. I consider him a personal
friend as well as my instructor. I don’t care to hear him criticized like this.”
Joanie shot me a quick look. “My goodness, Maribeth, it sounds as if you have an adolescent crush on him. Since I’m the one who convinced you to enroll in Ultima and the exercise class, perhaps I’d better check him out. I don’t want my protégée involved with someone whose intentions are not honorable.”
“Does Gerald know about this?” I added lightly, or so I thought.
Maribeth gaped at us. “What’re you talking about? Why would Gerald know anything? Has he been in here asking questions? What did you tell him?”
“I didn’t tell him anything,” I said. “He hasn’t been in for two weeks, and I wouldn’t know what to tell him if he did appear.” I decided it would be wise to change the subject before Maribeth’s eyes exploded all over the store. “Is he still attending the group support meetings?”
“He goes two or three times a week,” she said, relaxing somewhat. “I think there’s one tonight. He’s been cooperative about the diet program. He used to buy bags of candy and potato chips, supposedly for himself, and then leave them on the counter to torment me. As you can see from this body, it always worked. He also insisted on fried foods and desserts at every meal. Now he doesn’t bring anything illegal into the house, and doesn’t complain about the broiled fish and steamed vegetables.”
“It sounds as if he’s doing everything he can to help you,” I said, wondering if I’d misjudged him.
Maribeth’s explosion was verbal rather than optical, but almost as frightening. “He sure as hell ought to! After all the misery he’s put me through over the
last five years, the sleaze owes me something! He’s damn lucky I haven’t filed for divorce—and it’s not too late! Mr. International Law might find himself working in some seedy office in Hong Kong, filing reports on obscure regulations, or cleaning the commodes.”
She stomped down the aisle. Seconds later the lavatory door slammed like a gunshot. Joanie and I looked at each other for a long while, then I shrugged and said, “My goodness, that was quite a mood swing, wasn’t it? We went from giggles and picnics to panic, fury, and divorce without any transition. What do you think came over her?”
“I have no idea,” Joanie murmured. “She was always a pleasant child, even in junior high. I’ve never seen her lose her temper, much less use even the mildest profanity. Do you think she might be ill? Her eyes seemed yellowish.”
“The diet could be responsible,” I said, listening for the sound of the door opening. “Her caloric intake on the Ultima program is not very much, especially in proportion to her body weight. Do you think you ought to speak to the staff there?”
“They went on at length about the fastidious medical supervision, how they monitor the urine samples and blood pressure and watch for any side effects from the program. Surely they’d adjust the diet if it were causing this kind of mood swing.”
“They may not have seen it,” I pointed out. Before I could continue, a delivery boy carrying a long white box with a white ribbon came into the store. “Mizz Gallton?”
“No, but we can produce a Mrs. Galleston,” I said.
“Close enough,” he said, handing a pad and pencil to Joanie. “Sign there at the bottom.”
She did as requested. He put the box on the counter and left. The door at the far end of the room opened and Maribeth returned, now looking as placid as a cow in a field of clover.
I pointed at the box. “This was delivered a minute ago.”
“For me?” she gasped in the classic tradition. She untied the ribbon and pulled off the lid to expose long-stemmed roses in a bed of green tissue paper. “Good heavens, who sent these?”
“There’s the card,” Joanie said, sounding as if she were very close to snatching it up herself.
Maribeth opened the envelope and pulled out the card. She read it, then stuffed it back in the envelope and dropped the envelope in the box.
“Well?” Joanie demanded. “I’m so itchy with curiosity that I can feel the bumps. Who sent these beautiful roses? Gerald? Is it your anniversary?”
A dark look crossed her face, and her voice was gruff as she said, “Yes, they’re from Gerald. He’s never sent me roses before, or even picked a dandelion and handed it to me. Now he’s getting a little worried. After what he proposed last night, he should be.” She looked at the roses, shook her head, and turned to me with an angelic smile. “Shall I change the window display? Some of the covers are faded.”
I told her that a new display would be lovely, and Joanie left for an unspecified destination. As I started toward the office, I could hear Maribeth humming to herself as she gathered up the books in the window. I glanced at the box. The card glanced at me. If Joanie could feel bumps, I could feel welts the size of grapefruit.
I nonchalantly went behind the counter and took out the notebooks in which orders were recorded, then delicately pinched the envelope from the box. The card said
Trust me
. A most peculiar anniversary message, I thought as I returned the envelope to the box.
At four o’clock Maribeth came to the office to tell me she was leaving, then did so, her expression still bovinely serene. Three minutes later Caron and Inez came in to announce that they were going on the seven-day rotation diet. They dropped a shopping list on the counter. I appeased them with a promise to read the list and dealt with a stout matron who wanted a book of quilt patterns, a book of counted cross-stitch designs, and, when Caron and Inez finally left, an exceptionally pornographic best seller.
At the appropriate hour I locked the door and started up Thurber Street, still worrying about Maribeth. I’d decided to stop at Joanie’s, but as I came up the sidewalk I saw Gerald standing on the porch.
“Claire, I’m so glad I caught you,” he said, thus destroying any idle hope that he was waiting for Joanie or stealing my mail or doing anything other than waiting for me.

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