Ugly . . .

Cucumber slices don't reduce puffiness, that's for sure. Even though the mirror's veiled in post-shower steam, I can see enough luggage under my eyes for a trip to Japan. As I'm waddling down the stairs in my bathrobe, I make a mental note to thank Oprah for that truly wonderful bit of advice, and to save the rest of the veggies in the fridge for dinner.

Guy is sitting at the kitchen table, nose buried in Computer User magazine. Not that he can tell RAM from a raisin, but he's always trying to "better himself", so that for once he won't have to come home smelling like whatever was being delivered to the Save-All that day. He only looks up when I set my waffles down beside him, but he seems more interested in my breakfast than anything else.

"You got any more of those?"

"In the freezer. Want me to make you some?"

"Nah, forget it." He inspects me like I'm an unlabelled bottle of pills found in the back of his medicine cabinet. "Whoa, Laney, is that normal for you to be gaining in your hips?"

I sit down at the table to shield him from the view. "Uh, well, I guess."

Or maybe not.

Ugly . . .Fat . . .

Of course, the three waffles on my plate suddenly become of even more interest to Guy. The second he gets that twinkle in his eye, I know what he's going to say. "Sure you should be having three of those?"

Up until a minute ago, I was. "Want one?"

He reaches over, stabs one with his fork, and releases it on a coffee-stained napkin beside his trusty magazine.

"Must have been a lot of deliveries last night," I say casually.

"I told you. I was with Charlene."

I have a bit of waffle in my mouth, and suddenly, swallowing seems impossible. I spit it into my napkin and say, "Oh."

Finally, he loses interest in my breakfast, and I get some real eye contact. It's the kind of look that would give penguins the chills. "Laney, how many times do I have to explain this? We're not together."

I'm aware of the drip of the kitchen faucet, the whirring of our neighbor's leaf-blower, the ticking of the cat-shaped clock with the roaming eyes. If only those sounds could drown out Guy's babbling. I've heard the lecture so many times, I begin to lip-sync it as he speaks. When he pauses, I say, "I know, but . . ."

"But nothing. I told you when you moved in. You're welcome to live here, but . . ." He buries his nose into the magazine again and sighs. "It just didn't work out, Laney."

"It didn't work out" might mean that I like the same flavor of ice cream as Charles Manson, or that I have teeth like Jeffrey Dahmer, or that Ted Bundy and I share a love for goose-down pillows. Who knows? Because whenever I ask for an explanation, I get a description of the current love of his life, Charlene Dumont. Torture. I bite my tongue and think of Charlene, who happens to have the lofty position of chicken cleaner at the Save-All. I've never met her, but from what I've heard from Guy, mutilating poultry isn't her only talent. She probably shares ice-cream tastes with Princess Di or something, because Guy never fails to let me know how I can't compete. The telephone book in the hallway is constantly open to the Florists page, taunting me, and when he buys her a gift, he always has to parade it in front of me. He says he just wants my opinion, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out what he's really doing.

"You didn't give it a chance," I say into my chest, staring at my belly, which has swelled almost to the point where I can't stand to look at it anymore.

Ugly. . .Fat . . .Pregnant . . .

He winces. "You know that's not true. I gave it every chance. I want what's best for that baby, but you and I . . . together, as a couple . . . it's explosive. You know that. You have to know that."

A few fireworks, here and there. That's a good thing, according to Sally Jessy Raphael. As I'm about to point this out, he holds up a finger.

"Don't even mention fireworks, Laney. For the last time, I don't care what you've learned from your damn talk shows. You want to have this baby, even though you have no family, no job, no money, no place to live. I've told you how crazy I think you are, but I can't make you do anything. I will help you take care of it. That's more than a lot of guys would do. Got it?"

He's giving me that look, brows arched, pupils like pinpoints, mouth a thin, perfectly straight line. People would say he's handsome, almost too movie-star perfect to be found lugging crates in the back of a Save-All. I'd have to agree; after all, all my time in summer school was earned because I'd spent a little too much time drooling over the "unreachable" Guy McCormick instead of
studying. I had enough romantic fantasies of him to last several lifetimes, so when we finally did get together, I thought it would be forever.

Ugly . . .Fat . . . Pregnant . . . Stupid . . .

"You look sick. Have you been outside lately?"

"Not for awhile."

"That can't be good for the baby."

I shrug. I don't know, since I missed the last doctor's appointment. Maybe the one before it, too. For some reason, Montel's offerings always seemed much more exciting. If Guy was so interested in the baby's welfare, he could have taken me to the doctor's office. Something tells me that his idea of "being there" for the baby isn't going to win him "Father of the Year."

His idea of a real relationship, too, is pretty distorted. He made the mistake of telling me the one thing he really loved about Charlene. He said that one night, after they'd finished making love, she whispered in his ear, "Honey, do you ever think about how many other couples on Earth were making love at the same time we were?" He said that she always has thoughts like that. Really deep thoughts. As if he expects me to make dinner conversation like, "Do you ever think about how many people on Earth were eating corn on the cob at the same time we were?" Please.

There's a screeching from outside, almost like fingernails trailing across a blackboard. A garbage truck. I'm counting back to the last day I checked the calendar when Guy speaks my thoughts. "It's Garbage Day, isn't it?"

Tuesday. It's Tuesday. Shit. Garbage Day.

Before I can pull my stomach out from under the kitchen table, he says, "You forgot again?"

As fast as I can, though I'm not about to break any records, I wrestle together the top of Hefty bag that's overflowing with remnants of last night's lasagna. Struggling with the twist-tie, I drag it outside, down the steps, which are covered with the leaves and morning dew of autumn. My slippers have no traction, but I manage to waddle fast enough, and wave my arms furiously enough, to catch the eye of one scruffy, white-haired trash collector.

He takes the bag from me and winks. "What's a sweet thing like you doing alone on this fine morning?"

I smile at him, wondering which supermodel might be standing nearby. He jogs off, leaving me standing in a halo of sunlight, cast down past the bare branches of the trees. Instead of hurrying back into the house, afraid of which neighbors might behold the pregnant, homely neighbor in the ratty bathrobe, I gather the courage to scan up and down the street. It's empty. Once the truck
pulls around the corner, this perfect silence cushions my ears, and the sunlight embraces me. For a moment, I don't even think of Sally, or Montel, or Oprah, and I don't even care what topic they'll be discussing today. For once, there is nobody else. All that exists is this stillness, this perfect stillness . . . strangely frightening and thrilling, all at once.

Ugly . . . Fat . . . Pregnant . . . Stupid . . . Alone?

Alone. I say the word aloud, savoring the taste of it.

Alone. But no longer lonely.

The screen door creaks open, and Guy's voice shatters the silence. "Hey, what's up? You forget your way back?"

I don't bother to answer because I'm caught up in some really deep thoughts. Like where, in Guy's disaster of a basement, I might be able to find my suitcase.

Copyright © 1999 Cynthia Balog.. All Rights Reserved.