Size 14 Is Not Fat Either (10 page)
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“I don’t know,” Patty says. “It’s the in thing to go now. According to the Styles section in theTimes .”
“Whatever,” I say. “I haven’t been stylish since the nineties. Why should I start now? You’re not going, are you?”
“Are you insane? Of course not. But, Heather, can we please talk about what happened in your dorm today? I mean, residence hall. Did you know that poor girl?”
“Yeah,” I say, picking a stringy chicken piece from between my teeth. Fortunately we’re not on video phone. “Sort of. She was nice.”
“God! Who would do such a thing? And why?”
“I don’t know,” I say. I break off a chunk of thigh meat for Lucy, after making sure it contains no cartilage or bone, and give it to her. She inhales it, then looks at me sadly, like,Where’d it go? “That’s for the police to figure out.”
“Wait.” Patty sounds incredulous. “What did you just say?”
“You heard me. I’m not getting involved in this one.”
“Good for you!” Patty takes the phone from her mouth and says to someone in the background, “It’s all right. She isn’t getting involved in this one.”
“Say hi to Frank for me,” I say.
“She says hi,” Patty says to her husband.
“How’s the new nanny working out?” I ask, since the two of them have just hired a real British nanny—a middle-aged one, because Patty swore what happened to Sienna Miller was never going to happen to her.
“Oh,” Patty says. “Nanny is fine. We’re both terrified of her, but Indy seems to adore her. Oh, Frank says to tell you that he’s very proud of you. Leaving the murder investigation to the police…this shows real growth on your part.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Magda doesn’t agree, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“She thinks the cops are going to blame the victim. Which is probably true. I mean, even Reggie said something about what happened to Lindsay looking as if it might be retribution for something she did.”
“Reggie…the drug dealer onyour street corner ?” Patty asks, in an incredulous voice.
“Yeah. He’s going to ask around. You know, find out the word on the street for me.”
“Heather,” Patty says, “I’m sorry, I’m confused. But when you say things like that, it makes it sound like you really do plan on getting involved in the investigation.”
“Well,” I say, “I’m not.”
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There is a masculine mumble in the background. Then Patty says to Frank, “Fine, I’ll ask her. But you know what she’s going to say.”
“Ask me what?” I want to know.
“Frank has a gig at Joe’s Pub next week,” Patty says, in a tense voice. “He wants to know if you’d like to join him.”
“Of course I’ll come,” I say, surprised she feels like she has to ask. “I love that place.”
“Um, not come to the performance,” Patty says, still sounding tense. “He wants to know if you’ll join him onstage.”
I practically choke on the piece of chicken I’m swallowing. “You mean…sing?”
“No, perform a strip tease,” Patty says. “Of course sing.” Suddenly Frank’s voice fills the phone.
“Before you say no, Heather,” he says, “think about it. I know you’ve been working on your own stuff—”
“How do you know that?” I demand hotly, although I know perfectly well. Patty’s mouth is even bigger than mine. She just doesn’t tend to stuff hers with as many Dove Bars as I do mine, which is why she’s a size 6 and I’m a 12. And growing.
“Never mind how I know,” Frank says, ever the loyal husband. “You haven’t been up on a stage in years, Heather. You’ve got to get back up there.”
“Frank,” I say, “I love you. You know I do. That’s why I’m saying no. I don’t want to ruin your gig.”
“Heather, don’t be like that. You got burned by that asshole Cartwright. Senior, not junior. But don’t listen to him. I’m sure your stuff is great. And I’m dying to hear it. And the guy’s’d get a kick out of playing it. Come on. It’ll be a fun crowd.”
“No, thank you,” I say. I am trying to keep my tone light, so he won’t hear the panic in my voice. “I think my songs are a little too angry-rocker-chick for a Frank Robillard crowd.”
“What?” Frank sounds incredulous. “No way. They’ll love you. Come on, Heather. When else are you going to get a chance to play the pub? It’s a perfect venue for angry-rocker-chick stuff. Just you, a stool, and a microphone—”
Fortunately, at that moment, the call waiting goes off.
“Oops,” I say. “That’s the other line. I have to grab it. It could be Cooper.”
“Heather. Listen to me. Don’t—”
“I’ll call you back.” I click over to the other line, my relief over my narrow escape palpable. “Hello?”
“Heather?” a semi-familiar male voice asks hesitantly.
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“This is she,” I say, with equal hesitance. Because not that many guys I don’t know call me. On account of I don’t give out my home number. To anyone. Because no one ever asks for it. “Who is this?”
“It’s me,” the voice says, sounding surprised. “Your dad.”
7
The fog in the park
Reminds me of my heart
How you blocked me out
Filled me with doubt
What was that about?
Why won’t you die?
“Just Die Already”
Written by Heather Wells
I sit there in stunned silence for maybe three seconds.
Then I go, “Oh! Dad! Hi! Sorry, I didn’t recognize your voice right away. It’s—it’s been a really long day.”
“So I heard,” Dad says. He sounds tired. Well, you would, too, if you were serving ten to twenty in a federal prison for tax evasion. “That’s the dorm where you work, right? The one where they found the girl’s head?”
“Residence hall,” I correct him automatically. “And yeah. It was pretty upsetting.” I’m frantically trying to figure out why he’s calling. It’s not my birthday. It’s not a holiday. It’s nothis birthday, is it? No, that’s in December.
So what’s the occasion? My dad has never been the type to just pick up the phone and call for a chat.
Especially since—even though he’s serving time at Eglin Federal Prison Camp in Florida, one of the cushiest federal prisons in America—he’s still only allowed to call collect, and then only during certain set—
Hey, wait a minute. This isn’t a collect call. At least, no operator had asked if I’d accept the charges.
“Um, Dad,” I say. “Where are you calling from? Are you still at Camp Eglin?”
What am I talking about? Ofcourse he’s still at Camp Eglin. If he were being released, I’d have heard about it, right?
Only…from whom? Mom doesn’t talk to him anymore, and, now that she lives in Buenos Aires with my money, she doesn’t talk to me all that much anymore, either….
“Well, that’s the thing, honey,” Dad says. “You see, I’ve been released.”
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“Really?” I check to see how I feel about that. I am surprised to find that I feel…nothing. I mean, I love my dad, and all. But the truth is, I haven’t seen him in so long—Mom would never take me to visit him, of course, since she hated his guts for losing all his money and forcing her to have to work (as my agent and promoter).
And once I got old enough to go by myself, I was too broke ever to make it to Florida. Dad and I were never that close, anyway…more like polite acquaintances, really, than parent and child. Thanks to Mom.
“Wow,” I say, looking in the cardboard box to see how much dark meat is left. I am determined to save the breasts for Cooper, since they’re his favorite. “That’s great, Dad. So, where are you now?”
“Funny you should ask. I’m actually calling you from down the street—the Washington Square Diner. I was wondering if you wanted to get together for coffee.”
Seriously. I just don’t get it. I go for months—literally—where nothing at all unusual happens to me. My days are a blur of dog-walking, work, andGolden Girl reruns. And then WHAM! In one day, I find a head in a pot on a stove; get asked to play my songs at Joe’s Pub with none other than super-mega-rock-star Frank Robillard; and my dad gets out of jail, shows up in my local coffee shop, and asks to see me.
Why can’t things happen a little at a time? Like one day I find the head; another day Frank asks me to jam with him onstage; and another day my dad calls to let me know he’s out of jail and in my hometown.
But I guess we don’t get to choose how things transpire.
Because if we did, I definitely wouldn’t have eaten all that chicken before going to see my dad. Because the sight of him sitting there in that booth—before he notices me, so I have a chance to study him before he knows he’s being observed—causes my gut to twist. Not in the same way it twisted when I saw Lindsay’s head in that pot—that was horror. The sight of my dad just saddens me.
Maybe becausehe looks sad. Sad and thin. He’s not the robust golf player I knew from two decades ago—the last time I saw him outside of Camp Eglin’s visitors’ center—but a sort of shell of that man, reed-thin, with graying hair and the even whiter beginnings of a beard and mustache.
Still, that face transforms when he glances my way and finally notices me in the doorway. Not that he is overcome with joy or anything. He just plasters a grin on his face—a grin that doesn’t reach his sad, tired eyes—every bit as blue as my own.
And every bit as cautiously guarded.
What do you say to the father you haven’t seen for so long, with whom your relationship has always been…well, nonexistent, even when you lived together?
I say, “Hey, Dad,” and slide into the booth across the table from him. Because what else am Isupposed to say?
“Heather,” he says, and reaches across the table to squeeze my hand, once I’ve stripped off my gloves.
His fingers feel warm against mine. I squeeze back, with a smile.
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“So this is a surprise,” I say. “When did you get out?”
“Last week,” he says. “I thought about calling you then, but…well, I wasn’t sure you’d be too happy to see me.”
“Of course I’m happy to see you, Dad.” Dad’s not the one I have a beef with. Well, not really. I mean, it wasn’t exactly cool of him not to pay taxes all those years. But it wasn’t MY money he wasn’t paying taxes on. Or, in the case of Mom, stole. “When did you get here? To the city, I mean?”
“This morning. I took the bus. Lovely way to see the country.” The waitress comes up as he’s saying this, and he looks at me questioningly. “Have you had dinner?”
“Oh, yes,” I say. “I’m good. Just hot chocolate would be nice”—I say this last to the waitress—“with whipped cream.”
Dad orders chicken noodle soup to go with his coffee. The waitress nods and goes away. She looks distracted. She’s probably worrying about the impending snowstorm, which a weatherman on New York One, playing on the TV hanging over the counter, assures us is due at any moment.
“So,” I say. “The bus.” For some reason I can’t stop thinking about Morgan Freeman’s ride to freedom on that bus in the movieThe Shawshank Redemption . Well, I guess it isn’t too surprising. Morgan Freeman had been a prisoner, too. “Isn’t that like a parole violation? I mean, for you to leave the state of Florida?”
“Don’t worry about me, kiddo,” Dad had said, patting my hand. “I’ve got things under control. For a change.”
“Great,” I say. “That’s great, Dad.”
“So what do you hear from your mother?” he wants to know. I notice that he doesn’t make eye contact when he asks this. He busies himself adding more half and half to his coffee.
“Well,” I say, “you mean since she took off for Buenos Aires with the contents of my bank account?
Not a whole heck of a lot.”
Dad purses his lips and shakes his head. Now he makes eye contact. “I’m sorry about that, Heather,”
he says. “You can’t know how much. Your mother isn’t like that. I don’t know what could have come over her.”
“Really? Because I have a pretty good idea,” I say, as the waitress comes back with his soup and my hot chocolate.
“Oh?” Dad digs into his soup like it’s his first food of the day. For such a skinny guy, he has a pretty good appetite. “What’s that?”
“Her meal ticket lost her recording contract,” I say.
“Oh, now, Heather,” Dad says, looking up from his soup. “Don’t say that. Your mother loves you very much. She’s just never been a strong woman. I’m sure it wasn’t her idea—taking your money, I mean.
I’m positive that Ricardo character put her up to it.”
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And I’m positive it was the other way around, actually, but I don’t say so, because I don’t feel like getting into an argument about it.
“How about you?” I ask instead. “Have you heard from her?”
“Not in quite some time,” Dad says. He opens one of the packs of crackers that came with his soup.
“Of course, given the way I let her down, I don’t suppose I deserve to.”
“I wouldn’t beat yourself up over that one, Dad,” I say, feeling that twinge in my stomach again. Only this time, I realize the twinge is actually north of my stomach. It’s more in the vicinity of my heart. And it appears to be pity. “She hasn’t exactly been Miss Parent of the Year herself.”
Dad shakes his head over his soup. “Poor Heather,” he says, with a sigh. “When they were handing out parents up in heaven, you certainly got the short end of the stick.”
“I don’t know,” I say, surprised to find myself prickling a little. “I think I’ve done all right for myself. I mean, I’ve got a job, and a nice place to live, and…well, I’m getting my BA.”
Dad looks surprised…but pleasantly so. “Good for you!” he says. “At New York College?”
I nod. “I get tuition remission through my job,” I explain. “I have to take this remedial math course before I can start taking real courses, but—”
