Such a Pretty Face (5 page)

“Yoo-hoo! You already have an interested gentleman. His name is Zack (Shorty) Holcomb and he likes midnight walks on the beach, massage, traveling to Central America, and piloting small airplanes. He says he wants a woman between eighteen and thirty-five who is financially independent, chases the high life, doesn’t have to be attached at the hip, is cool on fast cars, and likes camping in the mountains, skiing, running, nature, and adventures.”

“He’s…” Zena paused, staring at the screen. She flicked her earring. It was long, wiry, and almost touched her shoulder. In her other ear she wore an earring, half as long, frog shaped. “Interesting. Especially if you lust for men with two chins who resemble donkeys. But let’s see who he is. All men lie, you know. It’s in their DNA. They’re all deceptive, sneaky, vague, untrustworthy. That’s why I never fall in love. I don’t believe in it. Love is simply passion unchecked. People don’t get it. They’re lustful and want a naked romp and a leg twister so they think they’re in love. Give me a break.” She clicked to another Web site, punched in some sort of pass code, and then typed in the name Zack Holcomb. Zena’s uncle is a private investigator, so she has access to his skills and tricks. She can look up anyone and get the scoop. “Let’s check this lecher out.”

This was a bad, bad day. “If you think he’s a lecher and all men are disgusting, why do you want me to date?”

For a second Zena contemplated me, cat-like brown eyes zooming right in like a target. “Because, Stevie. Now and then, when the moon is full and bluish, when the galaxy is all calm and peaceful and serenity rules and even the falling stars are falling gracefully, and the wind creates a beautiful song, that’s when you find one outstanding man. Kind. Loyal. Funny and smart, great in bed but not kinky. A lover in his head and in his body. A man who doesn’t think as a dick-obsessed monkey with a brain the size of a testicle, but one who is thoughtful and can hold his emotions in one hand and hug you close with the other. A man who is a hunky, manly man but who can talk to you like your best girlfriend, because that’s what he wants to be for you. Your best friend.”

Zena could get so poetic sometimes, so melodic, it cut right through the sarcasm. It was always a shocker.

She pointed at me with both hands. “That’s what I want for you because I love you, Sister Stevie. Now, let’s get shakin’ here.”

I sniffled. I blinked hard. I’ve known Zena for years. Everytime she tells me she loves me, I cry. I patted my touched heart.

“You’re such a baby, Stevie,” Zena whispered, then she winked, her frog swinging at me. She typed in two more passwords. “This will take a second. Damn, these computers are so slow. They’ve got condoms stuck in their hard drives. Maybe you’ll need a condom soon, too, Stevie. We can only hope. I hear they have condoms with stars on them now. Glittery, too. They have glow in the dark, that’s frickin’ hilarious. A glowing penis prancing about.”

I rolled my eyes. I could almost—almost—give sex up completely. I didn’t even like it that well. Nothing makes a woman more vulnerable than sex, and the criticism that comes with it when you’re not “good enough” is devastating. I should know. I am bad in bed, that’s what I’ve been told.

But I couldn’t help think of Jake Stockton. He could bring up some passion in me for sex again. Maybe I wouldn’t be bad with him in bed.

Maybe. But maybe not.

The computer screen flicked alive, and there we had it.

Double Chin’s mug shot.

He was a doozer.

Long history of arrests for drugs, DUI, identity theft, burglary. A court case for delivering drugs in and out of Central America was pending. Bankruptcy. Owed child support for four kids and alimony for three wives.

“Well,” I said. “Now we know why he wants adventure, likes Central America, camping outside, piloting small airplanes, fast cars, and needs a woman with money. At least he was honest about his interests.”

“Too bad neither of us does drugs. We could probably get a discount. Maybe he has coupons or something,” Zena said.

“Take me off the Web site. I beg you. I do not want to date and I do not want to do erotica or slippery toys. I do not want chocolate handcuffs in my bed. I only want a pillow.” I heard the clacking of high heels.

“That would be Crystal,” Zena singsonged. “Hey, Crystal. How are you today?”

“Shut up, Zena.”

“Aww. Now that hurts my feelings.”

“You don’t have feelings. Why aren’t you wearing one of your skull necklaces?”

“Oh, gee!” Zena pointed a finger up in the air. It was her middle finger. “I lost them when I was picking up sticks for you to shove up your butt.”

“Zena, you should spend more time working. Without a college degree, let alone a law degree, you don’t want to lose your job. You could end up driving a bus or something.”

Something flashed across Zena’s face. Fleeting, but I saw it: Raw pain. Crystal had smashed a nerve.

I stood up. “Good-bye, Crystal.”

“Don’t dismiss me, Steve. Sit down and work. I need the Compton file in ten seconds. On my deck. Clip clop.”

I have no idea why Crystal used the “clip clop” expression. None.

“Clip clop,” Zena said. “I hope you get the clap.”

Crystal glowered, then left on her towering heels.

A few days later at work I heard Crystal yell on full throttle. “Arrrgggh! Dammit, Zena!”

I peeked in Crystal’s office. Her desk was covered with sticks with a copy machine picture of Zena’s butt on top of them.

Zena is so darn funny.

We had more excitement at Poitras and Associates.

Seems that a local married businessman was a bigamist.

He had two wives; neither knew about the other. The wives were in Oregon and Washington and were uncannily similar. Both were doctors, both were slim blondes, both had two children with him, both were office holders in their elite clubs, and both were snobby and cold.

Both were beyond head bangingly angry.

We represented the Oregon wife.

Her first words to Cherie: “I want his penis on a platter.”

I took another face-plant on my walk on Saturday to avoid Jake. He likes to run and varies his route. If he didn’t, I’d hide out behind someone’s house so I could watch him and that body on a routine basis with my binoculars—not that I would stalk him. That would be creepy. I saw him coming and darted into an alleyway I used often, then hid behind these giant green recycling bins we have in Oregon. I heard him breathing past. When I thought he was gone, I came back out in time to see him in the distance. My, he had a nice bottom.

I could never converse for long with that man with the nice bottom—too scary—but I could not deny that perfect shape, those strong hips, those grippable shoulders. But I am not obsessed with him. That would be freaky.

She snickered. I saw it. Her hand covered her mouth pretty quick, but it was there.

“What?” I hastily put the red dress back on the rack.

“Oh, nothing.” Eileen turned her face away, pretending to be interested in other dresses.

I felt my throat get all tight. Silly to get a tight throat over a dress. But it was so
stunning
. It had a draped V-neckline, spaghetti straps, and a ruffle at the bottom. I had seen it and instantly sucked in my breath. If only I had the nerve to wear that red dress!

I felt the material again, my breath still caught.

She giggled.

“What? You don’t like the dress?”

“Well…”

“Say it.” I sighed. I hated that I sighed. It sounded so petulant and childish. Why do I become petulant and childish around Eileen?

“If you really want to know….” She smiled with a slightshake of her head, her real and mongo-sized diamond earrings flashing. “It’s not your style. That’s for someone…younger, very thin. Sexy. Hey! You don’t have to look all hurt, Stevie, you asked for my opinion.”

I took one last peek at the red dress, then idly flicked the hangers, one after another, pausing here and there at other dresses. All of them paled in comparison to that spectacular red dress.

She giggled, hand over mouth.

Eileen Yorkson and I have known each other since seventh grade. We were chubby then and got fatter together. Almost all of our time was spent eating, cooking, baking, eating more. We were eating partners. She ate because she had a terrible relationship with her mother and then the mother walked out when she was fifteen and Eileen refused to “ever, ever speak to her again, that loathsome bitch,” though her mother begged her. I ate because I was trying to numb my insidious grief.

To say that my operation has had an effect on our relationship would be like saying an earthquake, ranked as a nine on the Richter scale, shook things up a wee bit.

Eileen still weighed more than 300 pounds.

She reminded me every time I saw her that I had not lost the weight on my own.

I picked up a purplish-colored dress. It shimmered and shone.

“You’re not serious,” Eileen laughed, ripping the dress from my hand and slamming it back on the rack. “Try this on.” She pulled out a large bluish green shirt with white flowered buttons. Even if I was still heavy I wouldn’t have worn it. People would think I was a daisy patch.

“I don’t think that’s my style—” I said, softly, so as not to start yet another argument.

“Not your style!” Eileen exclaimed, perfectly made-up eyes open wide. She threw her shoulders back. She’s about two inches taller than me and wears $500 heels, so she towers over me. “Yes, it is. You love flowers!”

“Ummm…well…”

“You can’t wear anything tight, Stevie,” Eileen said, “because of your
chest.
” She eyed my chest, as if it had somehow leaped up, wriggled around, and affronted her that second. “That
chest!
You can cover up some of that excess fake boob with this shirt.”

“Uhhh…” I crossed my arms in front of my chest. My chest wasn’t that big. I was a 34C, not exactly bopping about uncontrolled.

“Take it.” She shoved it into my arms. “This one, too.” She handed me a shirt with swirly designs that resembled amoebas. “Come on over to this section.” She dragged me to the Women’s Section, for large women.

What do you say to your friend who still weighs more than 300 pounds: “Eileen, I don’t fit here anymore? I know we used to shop here together, but now I can’t.” Wasn’t that insensitive? Wasn’t it calling attention to her weight? But wasn’t it obvious?

She must have read my mind. She patted her short brown hair. She used gel to make it stick up on top. “You think you don’t belong in this section, but you do. You so do. Maybe not the pants.” She shook her head in pity. “I feel so sorry for you, Stevie, for all you’ve been through. You’re a little grayish, today, honey. Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“And you look exhausted.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, don’t get all sensitive on me. I’m honest, you know that.”

Why do people think they can tell someone, “You look so tired!” and get away with it with a smile? It’s the same as saying to someone, “You look terrible.”

“I know you have a problem with my being honest, Stevie, but you have to hear it sometimes. Better from me, someone who cares about you, than from someone else.”

“Eileen—”

“Eileen what?” she mocked, her face flushing. “Eileen, I’m too good for this section now? I want something that remakes me into a teenager? Come on, Stevie, it’s time someone told you that you’re trying to dress too young. Remember Mrs. Tomissan in school? Heather’s mom?”

I remembered.

“Slutty. She was slutty. She was trying to be young again. I think she was trying for sexy, but it didn’t work. So don’t be a Mrs. Tomissan.”

I felt hot and stupid. “I’m not trying to be her—”

“Good. What about this shirt?”

She pulled out a patterned, long-sleeved blouse. It looked like a puzzle squished together by ghouls. “I don’t think—”

“It’ll be flattering on you. Add some color to your face. You know, you can’t wear blah
all
the time.”

She piled a few more shirts on my arms. I hated all of them but said nothing because I am spineless. “This one will slim down those shoulders of yours, get rid of that football player look.” She smiled at me, then went back to her shopping.

Eileen Yorkson is wealthy. Her father owns an investment company and she works as the “manager.” She’s paid more than $250,000 a year. I hear about that often. She is “invaluable” to the company, she tells me. She has an expensive home in the hills of Portland, shops obsessively, and dumps tons of money, which she uses as an excuse to treat the salesgirls as one would treat contagious cholera.

I sighed again. This time, the sigh was for me and my patheticness.

“Can I help you, ladies?” a saleswoman asked. She was in her fifties, stylishly dressed with a gentle, kind face.

“Yes, thank you.” I smiled back, tentative, insecure. Shopping scared me to death. I had no clue what to buy or even the remotest hint of what would be right on me. I had been buying used clothes for almost two years, after buying only tent-sized clothing, changing them out as the weight dropped off.

“Let me see what you have there,” the saleswoman said. She examined the shirts that Eileen had pulled off the rack in my arms and held them up.

“This will be perfect with your coloring,” she told Eileen, smiling, friendly.

“They’re not for me,” Eileen snapped.

“Oh, I’m sorry, a gift then?”

“No, not a gift.” Eileen’s voice dripped derision. “These clothes are for her.”

The saleswoman held up the shirts again, huge, billowy. “Oh, no.” She laughed. “Not for her. These are way too big. Honey, this isn’t your section. You’re in the wrong one. Let me help you.”

“We’re in the right one,” Eileen huffed.

“Not at all. She’s way too thin for this section. Are you a size 10, dear?”

I smiled back at her smile. A size 10! I had dreamed of being a 10! “I’m not sure.”

“I’m Phyllis. Come with me.” She turned and I followed, as if I were following the Pied Piper of clothing. I almost expected her to whip out a flute.

Eileen’s hand yanked me back, and she hissed, “Remember Mrs. Tomissan, the slut. Do you want to be a Mrs. Tomissan?”