Part III: What Happens a Cappella? (Chapter 61)


The prelude would be simple, a blueprint for preparing my people for my great keynote address ‒ no flutes, no brass horns, no drum rolls. Then I’d just say, without fanfare, what I have to say. Still, my entrance must be carefully measured: my tempo perfect and timbre impeccable.

And if I accept the grant to France, maybe ‒

 

I’m famous, a great painter of dark psychological works, maybe a Jungian-type artist; my work appears at MOMA and the National Gallery.

My fans love me, old best friends and boyfriends call – some even stalk me – everyone wants a piece of me.

Whenever I come back home, my people flock around me, in awe. I have been placed at the head table, the seat of honor. Nothing is ever said about my weight it’s not even an issue anymore.

Brave, I show my most recent painting for everyone to “ooh” and “aah” over, a mural-sized oil painting of a fat lady me but they don’t know that because most of my people know nothing about art, and those who do learned about it in the Midwest, at small, provincial schools.

The painting’s an angular, geometric piece, almost Picasso-like, monochromatic with Prussian Blue as the base color. I’ve always loved Prussian Blue; I seem to run out of the color all the time. I like its bold darkness, its aqua qualities when I add a speck of it to white.

I unveil the painting for everyone to see, and, of course, they don’t understand its significance, but I do: every variation of Prussian Blue has meaning in my life the painting is a visual script of my childhood, my dieting, my life.

When Gwen asks me, the famous family member, to give a keynote address, I have the script before me. I get up from my place of honor my monochromatic Prussian Blue gown blending in with the visual script and take my place at the podium.

Silence prevails as eager familial faces prepare to hang on every word that will come out of my mouth.

I take a good, long look at the audience…

Then I speak

 

I crumple the paper into a ball and slide it in my pocket.

I’m not impressed with Aunt Gwen’s “Fantasy Keynote Address” idea. I guess Gwen just wants to expand on Sal’s family biography project, her idea of the creative muse hitting the Mallory family after millions of years of linear thinking. The thing is, I’m sure that Gwen expects me to long for a thin body and great beauty. How do I explain that my fantasy runs much, much deeper than that? That I just want understanding for who I am right now? That “diet” is a dirty word? That I’d rather get up in front of my people and yell “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck...” a million times before I could ever explain to them the effects of the word “diet” in my life?

 *

As I go through the buffet line, I take little dabs of tavern meat, green bean casserole, potato salad, baked beans.

I’m always a bit uncomfortable about eating at family gatherings. I feel as though my relatives are scrutinizing every bite that I put into my mouth and calculating my current weight.

If I eat anything “illegal,” Aunt Sal will invariably announce to the throng,

“Skinny’s in the ice cream!”

I have learned to take small portions. I fill up by making several trips through the line, and for dessert, I choose items that will slip easily into my pocket, like cookies and Bing Candy bars.

Right now, I feel a Double Bing bulging in my left pocket.

For later, when no one’s around.

After all these years, why am I still sneaking food?

Sheldon is sitting at the picnic table, looking at snapshots.

“Aren’t you eating?” I ask as I set my plate down next to him.

Without taking his eyes off the pictures, he says, “I’m not hungry yet.” He passes a snapshot to me. “Is this you?”

My third-grade school picture. A smiling eight-year-old, but I didn’t feel very happy that day. I was dreading the apple and lettuce packed in my brown bag ‒ and yearning for Cheetos instead.

“Yeah, it’s me.” I sigh and hand the picture back.

“Cute little kid.”

“Fat little kid.”

Shel studies the photo. “Hmmm...I don’t see it. You look pretty average to me.”

“I was on a diet.”

Sheldon shakes his head. “That’s extreme.”

I snatch the photograph back and study it again.

He’s right; the curly-haired child does not look particularly fat ‒ maybe a little round in the face, but no more than many kids that age.

About those Cheetos Nana never put in my lunch: I’m having a sudden snack attack for fake-flavored cheese curls.

In a low voice, I ask Sheldon, “Could you see if there’s any of those cheese curls around?”



“YOU MEAN CHEETOS?” Sheldon booms.

“Not so loud.” I can feel my face turning red. “Someone might hear.”

“So?”

“I just don’t want the whole world to know about it.”

“I don’t know what the big deal is...”

From the next table: “Who wants Cheetos?”

“Over here!” Sheldon says.

“One bag of Cheetos, coming up!” My cousin Jim tosses the bag to Sheldon who catches it with one hand.

“Skinny’s in the Cheetos!” Aunt Sal yells from across the room.

I can feel all eyes on me, and I give Shel one of my “looks.”

“Okay, okay,” Shel says. “I see what you mean.” He opens the bag and passes it to me.

“I don’t think so,” I say, watching Sal who is no longer paying attention to me.

“Samantha,” Shel says, shaking his head, “I just can’t figure you out sometimes.”

“You and me both.”

But I know what it’s all about. I just want respect from my people, a respect that transcends my body size.

It’ll never happen, unless I do something about it.

And maybe not even then.

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