The Whole Bite

Shelley is an anorexic. But she is also the woman I love. One day she stopped eating and never started again. It was the day her mother told her the truth about her real father. Apparently, her father’s parents were unusually twisted and rich, and when they died suddenly in a house fire, all the surviving money needed to be divided between their two sons. Shelley’s father and his brother, her Uncle Stu, sat down to discuss the will. It was the middle of winter with a windchill below zero. And to their utter disbelief the will very plainly stated that in order to collect any money one brother would have to kill the other. This all happened when Shelley was just a baby and until that day she believed her father had died in a skydiving accident. Shelley grew nauseas and bloated with the truth. Her belly ached. She could not bring herself to touch another bite of cheese quiche, much less swallow the eggy lump already resting in her mouth like an impossible, swollen tongue. So the brothers had a very difficult decision to face. And sure enough, Shelley’s father was the one to suffer the blow. The two brothers, both terribly fond of each other, decided Shelley’s father should die and the majority of the death money would go to Shelley and her mother. Uncle Stu had no other family or friends, but he would keep a modest amount and go to China. Uncle Stu bought a gun and shot Shelley’s father, all according to plan. What they didn’t know at the time was that Uncle Stu would die that same night in a terrible collision with an overflowing dump truck. Shelley’s mother poured another glass of wine. But Shelley spit her soggy tongue-like bite on the dining room floor and has refused food ever since. Now I go visit her at the hospital, which I do every single day out of love. I didn’t understand at first why hearing this story turned Shelley into an anorexic. No one did, not even the eating-disorder specialist. But when Shelley finally opened her mouth and explained it very simply, I started to see her point. If her father’s death money paid for her food, it was like she was eating her own father. She was beautiful and stubborn, even in her shriveling, bony state. But her sacrifice was grave and foolish, and the doctors complained loudly. If Shelley continued to deny food, she would die by the end of the week. I sat stiffly at Shelley’s sterile bedside for hours as she flipped through daytime soap operas. And suddenly I had an idea. What if I go buy you something to eat? With my own money. Like a vanilla milkshake, I said. I thought perhaps she wasn’t listening. I was used to her tuning me out. But I saw the thought pass over her eyes, sending a stern shove to her belly. Or how about a hamburger and milkshake? Anything you like, I repeated calmly. She turned her head thoughtfully and nodded, which probably required all her strength. So I dashed out of the sliding hospital doors and drove as fast as I could to the nearest drive-thru. When I returned, Shelley was propped up in bed with hunger. You really love me dammit, she said. I’m sorry I was so awful to you all these years and never returned your phone calls and laughed right in your face when you brought me garden vegetables and asked me to the dance. I’m a fool, she said. Hush, I said. And I threw the burger in her lap and thrust the straw into the plastic slotted top before handing over the extra-large milkshake. She sucked on it dryly and swallowed. Her cheeks blushed a beautiful, full red. Someday I hope I can repay you, she said in a hiccup. Then she greedily inhaled her burger and sighed into the wrapper.

Trash

She loved him because he paid her in big wads of cash. Money like that was heavy. She felt it lumping around in her purse when she walked to the bank. And since he was very old and sometimes forgot to pay her, she decided to love him regardless, no matter what. Besides, he always remembered the following week and compensated her well for his mistakes. Also, it was relatively easy. The old man didn’t require much love. He had already lived a long life full of love. Which was lucky for her because she was lazy. Who could blame her for liking cashmere sleepwear and strange, imported cheese? Expensive taste is a virtue in an overcast city. Like religion. And like an honest housewife she knew when and where to spend her money. An early lesson from her mother before she died. She wondered which part of her mother’s taut, pointed finger was living furiously inside her, jabbing her shoulder blades. Tsk Tsk, could be heard echoing in her mind like a ringing phone. She had spent her teenage years trying to tune it out, among other things. When the old man died she went to his funeral after a disappointing visit to the dentist. Her flossing efforts had not paid off. Three and a half cavities, mocking her previous three. Since she was the only whore in the funeral parlor, everyone stared. No one offered an excuse for who she was. So of course she couldn’t help but feel totally shitty. Also, it meant she shouldn’t stay long. When she passed the solid oak casket where his body lay inside she didn’t resist putting her hand on his stiff chest, petting his silky green tie. Wrinkles in his fleshy make-up made him look too old. Or perhaps it was the downer lighting or the drugs from the dentist, but it didn’t matter. That night she went home and ordered way too much sushi. When the bell rang, she answered the door wearing only her bath towel and a pair of vintage flats. She tipped the young delivery boy an extra two bucks and watched from her window as he mounted his bike and rode away against traffic. It was a Monday. On Friday she received a letter in the mail. Inside the envelope clung two yellow post-its. One from an old woman’s shaky pen: “You filthy bitch. You sucked him dry.” The other in his patient, elegant cursive: “I’m sorry for this and everything else. In the end I didn’t know who I was or what I was doing.” She tore the first post-it in half and threw it away. Then she carried his post-it to the kitchen and stuck it on the fridge beneath a magnet spelling out Happy Holidays in tiny reindeer bodies.

The Gift

A butcher walks into a hospital with a large box and wants to see the doctor. Are you sick? asks the nurse. No, says the butcher. Are you in trouble? she asks. No, he says. So she goes to fetch the doctor. The doctor appears and looks very tired in his baggy slacks. Doctor, the butcher says, I have brought you a holiday ham, and he lifts the wrapped pig out of the box. Goodness, says the doctor, how thoughtful. Thank you, he adds politely, but why are you giving this to me? The butcher knew he would have to explain himself and looks away shyly, Because you saved my wife's life two weeks ago. Of course, I knew you looked familiar, says the doctor, even though it is a lie. Well, thank you, I will share it with my family. Which he does on New Year’s Eve night. And the ham is the most delicious ham the family has ever tasted. The juices run from their lips and they all help themselves to seconds and thirds. I will go tomorrow and thank the butcher again, the doctor decides. So the doctor walks into the butcher's shop and the butcher is waiting behind the counter dressed in a perfectly white apron, arms folded calmly over his belly. The shop is small, only a counter and two stools in the corner. A red tarp is pinned tastefully over the doorway that leads out back. What did the doctor expect? Bloodstains and guts? Well, if it weren’t for the sausage links hanging like fireworks over the counter, he wouldn’t know it was a butcher shop at all. It smells sweet like honey and fruit trees. Your ham was the best ham my family has ever had, thank you so much, the doctor says. You're welcome, replies the butcher, I'm glad you enjoyed it. The doctor turns to go, but asks, Where exactly did you find that pig? And the butcher is quiet before answering, I raised him myself. Ah, I see, says the doctor, like a pet? Yes, like a pet.

Air Sold Under Our Breath

It's a shame we can't
ignore our better side.
Time to spare the plastic
shades. The face in the window
so busy being a face. Staring
changes nothing.