Chapter Forty-Five
Forty-Five
I was standing staring out at a beautiful Saturday morning, a cigarette in one hand and a cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee in the other, feeling quite content and musing on what it was I would do with the day.
Now that Little Eric was gone, my house remained tidy all week long and I had no pressing laundry woes. My day was free!
Just as I was about to take another long drag of my cigarette, the phone began to ring.
“Hello?”
“Geneva Holliday?”
Bill collector, I thought, and hurriedly changed my voice. “No, no, Geneva gone away. No be back till next year,” I said, trying hard to disguise my voice.
“I know it’s you, Geneva,” the voice said.
“No speak good English—you call back next year,” I said, and was about to hang up when the voice said, “This is Miriam Baxter, director of the Upper West Side division of Calorie Counters.”
My mouth dropped open. “Who?”
“Miriam Baxter,” the authoritative voice repeated.
“Yes?” I said stupidly.
“We met a year ago,” she snapped. “I was just an enlister then, but I’ve worked my way up through the ranks to director.
Now, I have had several conversations with your support counselor”—there was some shuffling of papers—“Nadine. And she has told me that although you’ve promised to return to the program, you have failed to do so. Which in my book makes you a liar.”
“?’Scuse me, but you have no—”
“Not only a liar, but I assume since you have not returned to the program that you’re a fat liar!”
“Hey, hey, I don’t have to put—”
“A blimp of a liar!”
“What the—”
“A thigh-rubbing, waddling hog of a liar!”
I was stunned mute.
“Now, my success depends on how many women I can keep in this program. Whether you lose your blubber or not is of no concern to me.”
“I—I—”
“Shut up!” Miriam screamed. “Now, I have a ninety-eight percent attendance rate. Anything below that and I don’t get my twenty-five-thousand-dollar bonus at Christmas time, or my trophy, and I have received a trophy every year for the past four years!”
I cowered on my couch as I pressed the phone against my ear.
“Let me tell you one thing, Miss Geneva Holliday, you will not hamper my winning streak, do you hear me! You will show up at the Upper West Side office this afternoon, pay your ten dollars, weigh your fat black ass in, listen to the encouraging stories the other fat women have to share, and then come back the following Saturday and the Saturday after that, until you’ve dropped a dress size or gone bankrupt, whichever comes first! ”
My lips flapped helplessly, but no words came out.
“Am I clear, Ms.Holliday?”
“Yes, yes,” I squeaked, finally finding my voice.
“Now if your counselor reports otherwise, you’ll have to deal with me.
And you don’t want to deal with me, Ms.Holliday.
I have ten years of military experience.
Covert military experience. I will come to your place of residence, take you out, and not leave a fingerprint or a drop of your blood on your filthy carpet. ”
I looked down at the carpet that hadn’t been cleaned in months.
“So we understand each other?”
“Uh-huh,” I said, nodding my head vigorously up and down.
“Good. Have a nice day.”
I heard a click and then a dial tone.
I thought of calling Crystal, but then realized how absurd I would sound. Shit, I’d just lived through it and it sounded absurd to me. No one would believe this.
Shaken, I pulled myself up and onto my quivering legs and walked into the kitchen.
Pulling open the freezer door, I retrieved a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, walked it over to the microwave, popped the container in for five minutes, stirred the creamy liquid with my finger, and then guzzled it.