Fatty Patty (A James Bay Novel) (29 page)

The house is dark and quiet. I fling my coat on the bench, the words I spit at Sam still fresh on my tongue as I stumble into the kitchen. How could I have said it? How could I have done it? I lean against the sink, massage the back of my neck. My temples throb and there’s a stabbing ache behind one eye. Headaches are a luxury reserved for Priscilla, but I can’t stand the pain. I snatch the aspirin bottle from the shelf near the sink, swallow two pills with a glass of water. I lean against the counter and my gaze falls on the refrigerator.

Have a little something to eat
, Mama always said. Maybe eating will help. I only had one slice of pizza at the bowling alley. I yank open the refrigerator door and peer inside. Lettuce, orange juice, carrot sticks. I slam the door and head for the pantry, ransack the shelves and finally unearth a jar of peanut butter stashed behind two cans of tomato juice. Something else winks at me from behind an unopened box of macaroni. A small bag of gourmet cookies Priscilla keeps hidden.

Sam’s favorites.

I head back into the kitchen with the peanut butter in one hand and the cookies in the other. Snatching a spoon from the drawer, I dig deep into the velvety peanut spread. It’s thick and pasty and glues to the roof of my mouth, but it doesn’t fill the void inside. I polish off my makeshift dinner with two glasses of milk quickly chugged over the kitchen sink. The hypocrisy isn’t so easily swallowed. How could I have done it? I ruined everything tonight, screaming at Sam the way I did. And the things I said? I cringe, thinking about how cruel and spiteful I was… how petty and mean. I treated him exactly the way I hate to be treated. I know better. I know what it feels like.

I lost a friend tonight. A good friend, a dear friend.

I lost more than that. I lost myself.

I stare at the cookies. Priscilla bought them for Sam but after tonight, it’s a safe bet he won’t be joining us for dinner on Friday nights anymore. Priscilla will be furious when she finds out what I’ve done. I grab the cookies and shuffle through the darkness into the living room. The twinkling lights of the Christmas tree and Sam’s gaily wrapped box containing Priscilla’s turkey platter are a grim reminder of what I’ve done. How am I going to face her tomorrow morning? How will I answer all her questions that are sure to follow? I have to come up with some plausible excuse why Sam will no longer be coming around. I don’t dare tell her the truth. Priscilla will kill me. She loves Sam. He’s like the brother we never had.

But I never thought of him as a brother.

I sink on the couch and fumble for the TV remote. It’s buried on the coffee table amidst crumpled wrapping paper and an empty velvet box. The television drones in the background as I think about what I’ve got left. An empty box, an empty neck, and empty arms. No one to hold me on New Year’s Eve. And it’s my own damn fault.

I rip open the cookie bag and dig deep, cram the cookies into my mouth one after another. Who cares about crumbs? I’m all alone. Priscilla and Dr. Brown won’t be home for at least another hour. No one cares what I do, how much I eat. No one.

Including me.

Salt mingles with the sweet taste of chocolate as I turn up the volume to muffle the sound of my tears.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Sure I can’t convince you to come with me to the basketball game?” I rinse my plate, focus on the steaming hot water swirling down the drain. It’s already a given that she’ll tell me
no
, but I have to try. This impasse between us is driving me crazy. “Please, Priscilla? I hate going alone.”

“Looks like you’ll have to.” She marches to the sink. “I need to finish the medical transcript I started this afternoon.”

“Since when did you start working in the evenings?”

“Since when did you start going out on school nights?” She shrugs. “Never mind, I know the answer. Basketball season starts tonight.”

“Forget I even asked,” I mumble.

“I’ve got a question for you.” She throws me a hard stare. “Who is Bill Walters?”

“I don’t know.” I shift on my feet. The name is unfamiliar. “You tell me.”

“He works for Sam.” Priscilla pulls an envelope from her pocket and slaps it on the counter. “And from what I understand, he’s taken over our account.”

My heart rate jumps as I stare at the envelope. Emblazoned in the right-hand corner is the letterhead imprint of Samuel J. Curtis, P.C.

“Since when did you start opening my mail?” I stammer.

“If you take a good look, you’ll notice that my name is on that envelope, too.” Her voice quivers. “Sam was handling things personally. Why did he give our account to someone else?”

“Maybe he’s busy. Maybe he doesn’t have time.” I snatch the envelope, stuff it in my pocket. Knowing Sam has written leaves me hot and flustered and I’m dying to see what’s in his letter, but I don’t dare read it. Not in front of Priscilla.

“What did you do, Patty? Why is he mad?”

“What makes you think I did something?” The hair prickles on the back of my neck. What exactly did he say in that letter? “You’re looking at me like I’m guilty or something.”

“Guilty? You said it, Patty, not me.” Priscilla’s eyes blaze as she loads the dishes at a furious clip. I can take the silence and tears, but her sudden anger scares me. With Sam at the dinner table, Friday nights quickly turned into family nights—something we haven’t had since Mama died. He and Priscilla get along famously. She kowtowed to him and he teased her like she was his little sister. Priscilla loves Sam, and she’ll never forgive me if she finds out what I did. I’ve got to win her back. The two of us have always been a team. She’s stuck with me through thick and thin—though mostly through thick. The last few weeks haven’t been kind and the scales don’t lie. My weigh-in last night wasn’t pretty. All this inner turmoil over cookies, candy, ice cream, potato chips… for one lousy pound.

“Please, Priscilla, can’t we work this out? I hate what’s happening between us. Tell me how I can make things right.”

She whirls around, blue eyes flashing. “You can start by telling me why you broke up with Sam.”

“But I didn’t break up with him. You can’t break up with someone if you were never dating.”

“Quit playing word games,” she snaps. “You know what I mean. You need to fix this, Patty. Sam is the best thing that ever happened to you. Probably the best thing that will
ever
happen to you. The two of you belong together.”

“No, we don’t.”
Especially after what I said
.

“Call him,” she urges. “Pick up the phone and call him right now.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” Her eyes soften slightly. “It’s not too late, Patty. It’s never too late.”

My heart catches. Is she right? Would he forgive me? Is it possible to fix things?

Never too late. Never too late. Never too late.

The hallway clock chimes the quarter hour. “It’s too late.” I toss the last few forks in the dishwasher. “I’ve got to go. Nick’s game starts soon. I promised him I’d be there.”

Priscilla’s face goes flat. “So, that’s the way it’s going to be? Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Some things never change.”

I fold the dishrag, drape it carefully over the sink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You wouldn’t want to disappoint him by not showing up. How would Nick manage without you?”

I gape at my twin. Sarcasm has never been Priscilla’s style, but blaming Nick is wrong. He’s got nothing to do with any of this. “If you think it’s him that’s keeping me from Sam, you’re wrong. This isn’t about Nick.”

Pots and pans bang as Priscilla jams them in the dishwasher and slams the door.

“Honestly, he has nothing to do with this.” I can’t tell her the truth about the fight Sam and I had about his weight problem. She’d never forgive me. Never. Especially since she’s tried so hard to help me lose weight. Dear God, I nearly called him fat. “What have you got against Nick? Everyone else likes him.”

Priscilla’s face tightens as she punches the start button and the dishwasher jumps to noisy life. “Have fun at the game.”

I stand there gaping as she storms out of the kitchen without another word. A few seconds later, I hear the slam of a bedroom door from above.

So much for any hope of a January thaw.

Cold day, cold night, cold heart
. I bundle up in my coat, pull on my hat, slap my hands together in a pair of thick woolen mittens. The temperature’s hovered in the single digits all day and the weatherman is predicting below-zero temps tonight. I brace myself for a long night as I head out the door. Nick had better appreciate this. I’ve got no business going out tonight. I’ll still have papers to grade once I get home. And if I don’t draft Thursday’s math test tonight, I’ll have to do it tomorrow during lunch hour. Plus I need to start prepping for my interview with the judging committee for Teacher of the Year. My time slot is scheduled three weeks from Saturday. Nick’s up for the award, too. How does he manage to get it all done—coaching and teaching? And today is only Tuesday. There’s another home game this Friday night. I’ll be sitting in the stands on a hard vinyl bench instead of at the kitchen table, laughing over low-fat lasagna with Priscilla and Sam.

I can’t face the thought of empty Friday nights.

I can’t face Sam. I can’t face myself.

Gusty winds hit me as I plod through snowdrifts building across the driveway. It takes a minute before the car finally groans to life. I pull Sam’s letter out of my pocket as I wait for the engine to warm. How bad is it? My fingers and heart are numb as I flick on the overhead light and muster up the courage to scan the crinkled page.

Three short paragraphs cover the thick creamy stationery. I suck in a deep breath and start reading. I read through the whole thing twice, letting the impersonal words sink in. It’s a letter of introduction from Bill Walters, an associate accountant who works at Sam’s firm. No wonder Priscilla was furious. Sam didn’t even bother to write the letter himself. We’ve been handed over to Bill Waters like we’re merely customers in a grocery-store line. I skim the letter one last time. No matter how nice he is, I already don’t like him. Bill Walters isn’t even a C.P.A.

And he isn’t Sam.

Icy snow pelts the window. I flick on the wipers and give the defroster a chance to work. I must be crazy, going out on a night like this. And I’ll be sitting alone in the bleachers. I’ve always hated doing things by myself. So why am I doing it? Especially since I’ve always hated basketball.

Slamming the car in reverse, I skid out of the driveway.

# # #

“Sure you don’t want some? I can’t eat all this popcorn by myself.” Ruth’s bag brims with popcorn purchased during half time.

“No, thanks, I’m not hungry. I already ate.” The lie sticks on my tongue. One look at Priscilla’s Tuesday-night tuna casserole served on a Friday night was all it took for me to skip dinner. I know she did it just to spite me. She’s mad, I’m starving, and the popcorn smells delicious. But I can’t give in now. I’ll never stop eating.

“Thanks again for inviting me.” Ruth glances around the crowded gym. “Perfect timing. Jack’s gone off to South Carolina on a golf weekend with his buddies and I was feeling rather lonely.”

“I’m glad for the company.” When it comes to loneliness, I can relate. I’ve hated sitting through these stupid basketball games all by myself the past couple weeks. I shouldn’t even be here tonight. I have an interview tomorrow at ten a.m. with the Selection Committee, who will ultimately decide who wins the award Teacher of the Year. I should be home prepping, studying my résumé, doing my nails, conditioning my hair… anything and everything I can do to impress them.

“I was going to curl up with my recipe books tonight,” Ruth said. “Some of the partners in Jack’s law firm are having a progressive dinner party next weekend and we’re hosting dessert.” She picks at her popcorn. “I’m trying to come up with a new recipe that’s tasty but not too rich. Something low-fat. Now the holidays are over, everyone seems to be on a diet.”

Her bag of popcorn is merely inches away. I’ll bet each fluffy kernel has at least thirty calories. I breathe through my mouth, try not to inhale the rich buttery scent. “You should call Priscilla. She has lots of low-fat recipes.”

Ruth beams. “Why didn’t I think of that? Priscilla loves to cook. By the way, why isn’t she here with you tonight? Doesn’t she like basketball?”

I’m the one she doesn’t like.
“She’s out with Dr. Brown.”

Ruth’s eyebrows twitch in amusement. “This sounds like it has the makings of a serious romance.”

“They went to a movie.” I think about the two of them together in a darkened theater holding hands. Somehow I can’t imagine Dr. Brown trying to steal a kiss. He’s much too staid and proper. What Priscilla sees in him is beyond me. Maybe she needs to get her eyes checked.

Maybe I need to get my own checked, too. I can’t keep them off the coach.

Nick stands directly in front of us, hands on hips as he stalks behind the thick black line on the glossy wooden floor. The line is the only thing separating him from the five young boys courtside playing their hearts out… and losing the game.

“He’s certainly passionate about this, isn’t he?” Ruth says. “Not at all like when he’s at school.”

I nod thickly. Nick, so casual and laid-back at school, is a different man courtside. Deep, determined lines etch his forehead and he rarely smiles as he paces the line and shouts at his players. He rides his team hard and scowls at the three refs dressed in black-and-white stripes, working their whistles as they careen up and down the court.

“Go, Justin, go! Take it, take it! Shoot!” Nick balls his fist and slaps it against his hand as the boy goes for the shot. The ball hangs in the air, rolls around the rim, then finally skitters off the side. The crowd groans and Nick’s glare deepens. The scoreboard doesn’t provide much hope. Fourth quarter, down by ten points, two minutes left in the game.

“Jack loves basketball, any type of sports,” Ruth says. “I don’t dare let him have the remote. He flips back and forth between the channels, trying to catch the latest scores. It drives me crazy.”