Fatty O'Leary's Dinner Party (14 page)

Her survey of Fatty completed, the nurse now invited him to accompany her to meet Dr. Meyer, who would take a full medical history and who would prescribe his
treatment over the next two weeks. Meekly, Fatty followed her down the sterile corridor to the door ominously marked with the Meyer name.

“Just knock,” said the nurse. “Dr. Meyer is expecting you.”

Fatty raised a trembling hand to the door and prepared to knock, but at that precise moment the door was opened from within and he found himself confronted by the man whose photograph he had seen on the clinic's pamphlet: Dr. Herbert H. Meyer, M.D., Ph.D.

“Mr. O'Leary?” said the doctor, stepping aside to allow Fatty to enter the room. “It is a great pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Fatty shook hands with the doctor, feeling his thin, cold hand in his and catching for a moment the scent of cloves.

Dr. Meyer gestured to a chair and invited Fatty to sit down.

“You walked directly from your room?” Dr. Meyer asked. “From Wing B?”

Fatty nodded. “With the nurse,” he said. “She told me you were expecting me.”

Over the next fifteen minutes, Dr. Meyer took Fatty's medical history and quizzed him about his eating habits. The latter involved searching questions and, on occasion,
direct challenges to the veracity of Fatty's estimates.

“Only one helping of dessert, Mr. O'Leary? Are you sure of that?”

The tone was that of a skilled interrogator or a persistent prosecutor breaking down the defendant's story.

“And cake? Mr. O'Leary? What about cake? Up to seven hundred calories per slice?”

At the end, Fatty, sweating with anxiety, noticed that his hands were shaking. Dr. Meyer was watching him closely and suddenly announced that he would have to leave the room for a few minutes to check on one of the other patients.

“Nurse Maggio will come in,” he said. “She will look after you while I'm out of the room. She will offer you an herbal tea.”

He pressed a button on his desk and after a few moments the nurse who had accompanied Fatty from his room came through the door. Fatty accepted her offer of herbal tea, and while she prepared the infusion she talked to him in a gentle, friendly fashion.

“Dr. Meyer's been asking you about food?” she said. “That's what he usually does.”

Fatty nodded. “Searching questions,” he said. “Fairly intimidating.”

“Dear, dear,” said Nurse Maggio. “I wish that he would be more gentle with the patients.”

Fatty smiled. “It's his job, I suppose,” he said.

Nurse Maggio handed him the mug of camomile tea.

“And cake?” she said casually. “Did he mention cake?”

“Yes,” said Fatty ruefully. “He mentioned cake.”

The nurse laughed. “And I suppose you told him that you always only had one slice rather than two? And you said that you had never heard of Betty Crocker?”

“Yes,” said Fatty. “I suppose that I rather misled him on the cake. I said–”

He stopped. The awful realisation, vivid and overwhelming in its implications, had just dawned on him. He had fallen for the oldest trick in the interrogator's book: the nice cop, nasty cop routine. The hard questions come from the nasty cop who is then replaced for a while by the nice cop. The suspect, relieved at the sympathetic tone of the nice cop's remarks, lets slip the truth, just as he had now done. Now it was too late! He had told the nurse the truth, and that would get right back to Dr. Meyer.

“I see,” said the nurse. “Two slices? And chocolate? Did he ask you about chocolate?”

Fatty said nothing, but took a sip of his camomile tea. He did not have to reply. He could keep silent, as the
constitution allowed him. Or, he could turn the tables on his interrogators and ask them about themselves.

“Let's stop talking about me,” he said at last. “Tell me about yourself, Nurse Maggio. Do you like chocolate?”

The nurse stiffened.

“Chocolate?” she said, her voice strained. “Why would you think I should like chocolate?”

Fatty narrowed his eyes with cunning. It was clear that his question had wrong-footed her.

“Because most people do,” he said. “If they're honest, they'll admit to liking chocolate.”

“Not here,” said Nurse Maggio. “We don't encourage chocolate in the clinic. For obvious reasons.”

“Oh, I can understand that,” said Fatty. “But what about at home? Do you not eat chocolate at home?”

The nurse now began to look flustered. She turned her head and looked at the door.

“I might eat chocolate to some extent,” she said. “Not being an overweight person, I am able to indulge a taste for chocolate now and then. You can't.”

Fatty bristled with indignation. Who was she to tell him what he could or could not do?

“Why not?” he said loudly. “Why should I not be able to enjoy myself like anybody else? Why should I be made
to suffer?”

“Because of your weight,” said Nurse Maggio primly. “I'm sorry to have to say this, Mr. O'Leary, but it's because you're greedy. You've just admitted to me that you like to have more than one slice of cake. You said so yourself. I heard you.”

“Ah!” said Fatty. “So you weren't just making conversation, were you? You're working for him through there, aren't you?”

Nurse Maggio laughed. “Of course I'm working for him. That's my job.”

“Disgusting,” said Fatty. “You try to trick your patients into admitting to things and then you run right back to him, to that miserable calorie counter, and tell him his patient's secrets.”

Nurse Maggio's jaw dropped. “You mustn't call him that,” she hissed. “You are a very rude man, Mr. O'Leary. And, what's more, I could tell you something about yourself. Oh, I could tell you.”

“You tell me something about myself?” said Fatty angrily. “You? You've known me for twenty minutes at the most, and you think that you can tell me something about myself. Well, let's hear it then. Come on!”

Nurse Maggio pointed a finger at Fatty.

“All right,” she said. “Since you ask, I'll tell you. You know what?
I don't think that you really want to become thin
.”

The bombshell released, she sat back in her chair and waited for its effect.

Fatty said nothing for a moment. Then, leaning forward, he placed the mug containing the rest of his herbal tea on the desk and rose to his feet. As he did so, Dr. Meyer silently re-entered the room. Nurse Maggio saw him come in, but Fatty, who was facing the other way, did not.

“You're right!” said Fatty, his voice raised in defiance. “I have no wish to become thin. I am a fat man; that's what I am. I am proud of what I am, and unlike so many people these days, I have no intention of trying to be something I am not. God, Nurse Maggio, made fat men and he made thin. He also made some in-between. I am a fat man. I am a happy fat man who enjoys the pleasures of the table. I enjoy the smell of steak, and I enjoy eating it. I love large portions of apple pie with whipped cream. I love pistachio nuts. I enjoy red wine. I could go on: there are many other sorts of food. I am happy. This is my nature, and I am not – I shall not be – ashamed of it. And I shall not allow any calorie-obsessed doctor and his sidekick to make me feel unhappy. I shall not! Not now! Not ever!”

No Roman orator could have spoken with greater dignity, but Cato himself would never have felt such conviction as did Fatty. For a moment, there was a silence such as that which must have followed the address at Gettysburg. But even if Nurse Maggio was, in spite of herself, impressed, this was not so with Dr. Meyer, who took the silence as his signal to reveal his presence. He had been standing quite still, but now stepped forward to refute the heresies to which he had been obliged to listen.

“So!” he said, his reedy nasal voice raised, but nowhere near the strength of Fatty's stentorian tones. “So, you do not want to become thin! And not only that, but you laugh at those of us who are the correct weight. You even manifest your defiance with insults, which, needless to say, I treat with complete contempt. You stand there and say these things in this very office where I have helped so many people like you. You stand there and roar defiance. How dare you, Mr. O'Leary? How dare you?”

Fatty glanced at Nurse Maggio, who was smirking with relief at the arrival of reinforcements. She was a mere foot soldier; Dr. Meyer was the heavy artillery in the ranks of the thin.

“Hah,” said Fatty. “You want me to admit to eating too much. Very well, I do, and I say to you: So what? Now, what
about you? Why don't you admit to being hungry? Go on. You certainly look it. Why don't you admit to loving the idea of a slice of cake? Wouldn't you feel satisfied if you ate something like that? Wouldn't it give you pleasure, just as Nurse Maggio here said that she found pleasure in chocolate?”

Nurse Maggio gasped. “I would never say that, Dr. Meyer! He's twisting my words. I never said anything like that.”

“You said it,” said Fatty. “And I heard it. And if Dr. Meyer were honest, he would say the same thing himself. But he won't. Oh no, we won't get the truth from a person like him.”

Dr. Meyer suddenly clapped his hands together sharply.

“Mr. O'Leary, you have gone far enough. I would be prepared to take a tolerant view and allow you to remain, but I must bear in mind the morale of the other patients. I cannot allow a man like you to undermine our efforts here. You will please leave.”

“With pleasure,” said Fatty. “Once you have refunded my nine thousand dollars.”

Dr. Meyer ignored him for a moment, walking briskly round the room to his desk, where he took up his position in his chair.

“Impossible,” he said. “The terms of the clinic are very clearly stated in the agreement which you signed on your admission. In the event of misconduct requiring a patient to be discharged, nothing is refundable. I'm very sorry.”

Fatty now spoke very quietly, but his words were clearly articulated. “In that case,” he said, “I shall stay and I shall inform the other patients of our little exchange. I shall inform them, over lunch, or over lettuce, that Nurse Maggio here admitted to me that she likes chocolate. I shall inform them of your real opinion of stout people. I shall urge them to stand up and fight back. I shall urge them not to accept the reign of terror of the thin. I shall urge them to be themselves and not to worry about it. In short, sir, I shall undermine you! And then …”

When this unfinished threat was made, Nurse Maggio gave a start, and took a few steps to place herself more firmly in the shelter of her employer. For his part, barely flinching, Dr. Meyer stared at Fatty through narrowed eyes.

“You are a very dangerous man, Mr. O'Leary,” he said. “You are highly calorific.”

“Yes,” said Fatty. “I am. Now please will you give me my refund?”

Dr. Meyer stared for a moment at his hands. Then he opened a drawer in his desk and took out a cheque book.
He scribbled a few words and figures and then handed the cheque over the table to Fatty. Fatty glanced at it, nodded, and put it away in his shirt pocket.

“Goodbye,” said Fatty, rising to leave. “I wish you a pleasant day. I myself shall go out for lunch when I get back to Fayetteville. Then, this evening, I shall go out for dinner with my wife, Betty. We shall have a very good time.”

“You'll regret this,” said Dr. Meyer. “You'll have an ischaemic event one of these days. You will probably die, you know.”

“We will all die, you spiteful man,” said Fatty. “Sorry to have to be the bearer of bad news, but we are all going to die. You. Me. Nurse Maggio over here. All of us.”

He turned round and left the office, nodding to Nurse Maggio as he passed her.

“Not too much chocolate!” he said, wagging his finger at her.

Outside, while he waited for his cab to arrive, he felt the warm sun on his face and he breathed in deeply. Several other patients were sitting on a bench outside the front door, taking the air.

“You just arrived?” asked one.

“Just arrived, and just leaving,” said Fatty. “Going back
to Fayetteville to have a big lunch.”

“Oh!” said one of the patients, a large woman in a loud, floral dress. “You lucky man!”

Fatty chuckled. “Why don't you folks come too?” he said. “There'll be plenty of room in the cab.”

The three on the bench looked at one another. Then one of them nodded, and the others rose to their feet.

“Well done,” said Fatty. “Italian? Mexican? French? Where shall we go?”

“Italian,” said the woman in the floral dress. “I've been dreaming about pasta ever since I came.”

“Then Italian it will be,” said Fatty.

T
WO WEEKS AFTER HIS SUCCESSFUL
escape from the Meyer Clinic, Fatty received a letter from Lord Balnerry, enclosing a dollar draft for the equivalent of fifteen thousand Irish pounds. In the letter, Lord Balnerry explained that he had sold their horse on, at a considerable profit, to a trainer in Kerry. This was Fatty's share of the profit, added to the seven thousand pounds that he owed him from the original purchase.

“I so enjoyed meeting you and Betty,” wrote Lord Balnerry. “We all had such a good time together. So don't wait too long before you come back over to Ireland. My door is always open. Remember that.”

Fatty and Betty reflected on their good fortune. It was not just the money, of course; it was the warmth of the invitation. Ireland seemed rosy now, and perhaps they would go back, not just now, of course, but in a year or two. Even Rupert O'Brien held no terrors for Fatty now; he would be able to deal with him, even without any help from Lord Balnerry.

Fatty thought about his good fortune. He had a loyal and supportive wife, a woman who loved him, in spite of everything. To Betty he was simply the most important
person in the world; he knew that, as he had known it from the very beginning of their courtship and their marriage. And to him, she was his world; his inspiration, his companion, his reason for living. And he had good friends too: Tubby and Porky, for all their little differences of opinion, would give him the shirt off their back, their last cent, if he ever needed either. And he would do the same for them.