Woman of Substance (2 page)

“All right. I will.” She turned to leave.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Robin Smyth,” she replied loudly.

“Oh. Pretty close to Robbie Smith, though you certainly don’t look like her.” Mrs. Mitchell adjusted her eyeglasses tighter to her eyes.

“No, I don’t. I’ll give Robbie the message.” Robbie continued down the stairs and crossed the street before she heard Mrs. Mitchell’s door close firmly.

Now I’m committed. Three people know me as Robin Smyth.
She would have told Mrs. Mitchell the truth if she had opened the door and showed any sign of recognition.
I’ll call Mrs. Mitchell later and tell her I have company staying with me or one day I’ll open the door to our men in blue because she will have counted the times a so-called-friend unlocked my door.

Robbie rummaged at the bottom of her jacket pocket and found her keys. A quick twist and the deadbolt slid away.
Home safe
. She stepped across the threshold and collapsed onto the stool. People accepted her and didn’t question her appearance. All the time, energy, and money she had invested in her disguise for her master’s thesis and just putting her head down and doing the work appeared to pay off today.

After kicking off her shoes and hanging up her coat, she slowly climbed the stairs to her bedroom.
Ha! I’m going to have to work harder to be stronger.
She slipped off the sweatshirt, threw her slacks into the hamper, then reached around, unhooked the bra, and unzipped her body suit. She let out a sigh of relief as she slid the last of the heavy padding from her arms.
Much better.
Now she knew that she’d need the cooling packs when she was indoors. Seeing body parts, the polyester torso with careful stitching around foam pendulum breasts, an apron belly, and the stuffed and dimpled leggings, strewn on her bed was creepy. She arranged her wig on the stand, removed the latex neck roll, and finally rolled the wax away from around her gums and discarded the wet mass into the wastebasket. She felt the hot furnace air against her neck, then pushed her fingers through her sticky hair and reached for her dressing gown.

For months, she had felt something was missing from her research about women’s weight and body image. Then Nadine, her professor’s office administrator, challenged Robbie when she said, “You can research all you like, but you’ll never understand what it truly means to be fat. You’re tall, slim, with that cute short hair and amazing hazel eyes. It’s different in your world than it is for some women.”

Later on the same day, Robbie had opened the heavy door and pressed the bell for the meeting room. The security door had unlocked. She could still see the light reflected on the high-waxed tiles. The three women had been seated at a round table. Robbie had slumped into her chair at her meeting with the women who had volunteered to be part of her study. She looked around and said quietly, “A friend told me today I won’t understand what it’s like to be fat until I am.”

Mavis shook out her shoulder-length sun-streaked hair and nodded. “Hello to you, too.”

Sharon sighed and shrugged her shoulders, then crossed her thick calves and ankles, wearing her ever-present white socks and runners.

Margaret’s fashion ring flashed while she drank from a glass of water before she said, “We agree. We just didn’t know how to tell you.”

“Sorry. Hi, thanks for being here.” Robbie held her palms up on the table. “What am I going to do? I’m too far into this, and I need to defend this thesis by December.” She thought about the hours of interviews, the writing and rewriting of her thesis statement.

“I’ll wear one of those listening devices just like a PI, and you can hear what some people say to me,” Mavis suggested as she flipped her hair behind one ear.

“Thanks, but you really can’t count on someone being rude or insensitive every day.”

The women looked at each other. “Oh yes, we can,” they said in unison.

“But according to all of you, I still won’t be close enough.”

“How about you eat a lot?” Sharon asked. Sharon had been the first woman to volunteer. She wore white v-neck T-shirts and jean Capri pants even on the cool days.

“I couldn’t gain enough weight in such a short time.”

“How much do you like ice cream and brownies?” Mavis offered. “Baking is my passion.” Her bangle bracelets chimed as they rode around her wrist while Mavis pretended to stir a mixture in a bowl.

“What about dressing up to look like you’re fat? Men do it all the time. The movies are full of those characters. Whenever there’s a costume party, men seem to find triple D bras and stuff them.” Sharon stood and struck a pose showing off her assets. She flipped her chestnut braided hair across her shoulder and the end tipped toward her cleavage in the V of her shirt.

“I’ve been at those parties and watched the movies, too. It could work. Where would I start?” Robbie brought out her pen and paper from her backpack.

“You know you’d be doing something unusual, don’t you? Women don’t usually dress to look bigger,” Margaret pointed out. She always appeared with full makeup and color-coordinated jackets, pants, shoes, and purse.

“I wonder why we don’t want to take up space. They used to in the past. Remember bustles on skirts.” Robbie tapped her pen on her teeth.

“But how about corsets? Haven’t you been listening? It’s hard in our world.” Sharon stuffed her hands into her jean pocket.

Margaret leaned forward in her chair. “Or the new shape garments as they’re calling them today. Have you ever seen a robust woman model one of those elastic numbers? The other day on a runway show, I could see the model’s pelvic bones through the so-called shape wear and don’t tell me they are designed for models. But you know I was tempted.”

“Skinny wasn’t exactly easy either. I was called chicken legs. Hmmm, is that why I took up running?” Robbie lifted her pant legs up showing how her childhood legs had been replaced by firm calves.

“Yeah, try fatty, fatty two by four can’t get through the bathroom door so she pooped on the floor.” Margaret mimicked a child’s voice. Her blue eyes seemed brighter than minutes ago.

“Or, ‘save some food for Biafra,’” Mavis added.

“Okay, it was harder for some of us than others. If I’m going to do this, I need to get started. My defense is the end of this semester. Any ideas?”

Sharon laughed. “We can lend you clothes but we have to brainstorm how you will fill them out.”

Robbie sat straighter and leaned forward. If anyone could help her solve this dilemma, Mavis, Sharon, and Margaret would. They were talented and had many years of experience as plus-sized women.

“For your height, you could add another seventy-five pounds and still move around comfortably,” Sharon suggested. “Watching the different women at the gym, you could be that size easy.”

“Adding the appearance of over seventy pounds would bring me up to approximately two hundred and ten,” Robbie calculated.

“Perfect. You start throwing around numbers over two hundred and people cringe,” Sharon said, flipping her braid down her back again.

“I’d give my eye teeth to be two hundred and ten,” Margaret added, snapping the closure on her black patent purse.

Robbie’s cell phone alarm rang. “Time. I promised I wouldn’t ask for more than two hours a meeting, and we’re there.”

Sharon rubbed her hands together. “This will be fun. We’ll call the project, ‘Fat like Me.’” Sharon paused. “I suggest we all go home and email Robbie our ideas. On Friday we can compare notes. I’ll use my lunch hour for a little research.”

Friday came and Margaret, Sharon, Mavis, and Robbie sat around the table in the meeting room and discussed their findings.

“How bad do you want to do this? It could be quite expensive,” Sharon said. “I’ve found places where you can order a custom-made body suit by the same people who make the costumes for the sitcoms. They’re not cheap.” Some of her chestnut hair had escaped from her braid and she started to unwind it.

“I’ve found something closer to home. The costume department at the Globe Theatre has a line on a female robust torso we could alter. But it will cost,” Margaret offered. “I asked Hubby if we could contribute to the project. He said he’d think about it, if you need extra.”

“I’ve been researching as well, and I’ve decided if we can find a place to rent a suit, I’ll spend my inheritance from my godmother. She hoped I’d use it for a trip after I graduated, but I can’t graduate if I don’t pass,” Robbie said. “Thank you, Margaret. That is very kind of you to offer.”

“Looks like we have a plan,” Margaret said. “Do you want to call the Globe Theatre or should I? I might have an in, I used to volunteer on opening nights.”

“I will call and if I have trouble I’ll get back to you, Margaret. I’ll keep you up-to-date until our next meeting with emails. Thank you for using your time for this.”

“Are you kidding? It’s our pleasure. This is as important to us as your grade is to you. This may be significant to many women out there. You never know who you will touch with just a little thing like putting on a pair of panties others would sneer at when they see them hanging on a clothesline or in a department store,” Sharon said. The others nodded in agreement.

In the alcove, which had housed a buffet in her house’s earlier days, Robbie typed in her password on her computer and transferred money for the project into her checking account. Then she called the Globe Theatre’s costume department who were helpful and completed the order for the woman’s torso and added speedy delivery. Robbie squeezed the alteration appointments into her busy schedule. The leggings had to be made to her height and the torso fitted at the shoulders and buttocks. The drama makeup students at the University of Regina helped create a latex chin roll. The ‘Fat like Me’ group booked a special meeting and shopped for a wig at The Hair Affair Salon.

“You should get a long wig. It would distract from your chin.” Mavis plucked a blond wig from the mannequin.

“I disagree. I’ve been reading about people who disguise themselves to do undercover work, and they keep close to the truth, if possible. So I think a wig, similar to your own hair, but of course, fuller to balance your body.” Margaret held a curly auburn wig over Robbie’s head.

“Allow me to assist you.” The salesclerk positioned the wig.

“Will it breathe? Do I have to have it styled?” Robbie asked. “I don’t have a lot of time.”

“This brand is very light, and you just have to shake it out and fluff it with your fingers. The curls bounce into shape.” The clerk scrunched the curls between her fingers.

Sharon’s white runners squeaked against the tiled floor. She handed Robbie dark-framed eyeglasses. “These are a fashion statement, no magnification. This salon has everything.”

Mavis’s bangle bracelets clattered when she twirled the chair and inspected Robbie from every angle. “Too bad you didn’t have brown eyes. You would be perfect.”

“I know people often comment on my hazel eyes,” Robbie said. “Okay, time to brainstorm again.”

“Your budget still okay?” Margaret asked. Her diamond rings shone in the store lightening.

“I’m okay. I’ll have to buy some plus-sized clothes, of course,” Robbie said.

“Would you consider splurging on a pair of tinted contacts?” Mavis glanced at a pamphlet from the counter.

“Good idea. I’ll check with an optometrist and get some advice.”

“You be careful. You wouldn’t want to hurt yourself for this,” Margaret called from the settee.

“I will. It isn’t necessary. It’s just an added dimension, right?” Robbie repositioned the glasses on her nose. “Maybe I’ll get fitted frames, too.”

“A common eye color and a pair of fabulous glasses with a little bling would synch the disguise.” Robbie stepped back tilted her head.

“If something is a little off, people may just ignore it if you look put together,” Margaret added, smoothing her navy colored jacket.

“A woman once said to me she’d never met a fat pair of eyes.” Margaret pushed herself out of the grips of the valor cushions, glanced into the mirror, then applied lipstick and blotted her lips with a tissue.

Robbie stood behind Margaret and scrutinized Margaret’s blue eyes in the mirror. “She was right. Eyes show many things, but body weight is not one of them.”

Robbie swiped her debit card, keyed in her PIN number, and paid for her fabulous wig.

After they left the shop, Robbie said, “Mavis, Sharon, Margaret, you’ve been terrific. Anyone want to go for coffee?” The fall wind scattered the leaves piled in the corner of the entrance.

“There’s an English Tea House on Second Avenue. We can meet there.”

“Mavis, you’re always in the know.” Sharon opened the car door.

“Anyone want to ride with me?” Robbie asked.

“We’re good. We all came together. We’ll just meet there,” Margaret called from the back seat of Mavis’ van.

On a Friday afternoon, the vehicles moved steadily through the traffic lights.

Robbie parked next to Mavis’s van. She opened the door of the Tea House where flowered teapots and china were displayed on cabinets and shelves. She inhaled the exotic aroma of spiced teas and fresh scones.

“Mavis, how did you beat me here?” Robbie asked.

The three women each had a bone china teacup and a teapot covered in a tea cozy in front of them.

“Good karma. I hit all of the green lights.” Mavis brushed her fingertips on her shoulder.

“It’s too bad Erin and Nicole couldn’t be here,” Sharon said, unshed tears glistening in her brown eyes.

Sadness drifted over the table.

“I know we’re doing this for all the Erins who die trying to be thin,” Sharon said, picking a piece of scone from her chest.

“I just know Nicole will come back and look us up again someday.” Mavis tried hard for her expression to match her sun-streaked hair.

“We can hope.” Margaret looked out the window as if the possibility existed that Nicole would walk across the parking lot at this very instant. “She’s my friend on Facebook. I receive updates on her timeline. She seems to be just going along as best that she can without her best friend.” Margaret dabbed a spot of tea from her silk scarf.