Charles De Lint - The Ivory and the Horn

"I don't know why she's so fixated on her weight," Wendy said. "She thinks she's humongous, and she's really not."

Jilly shrugged. "I've given up trying to tell her. She's like your friend Andy in some ways."

"Andy's a hypochondriac," Wendy said.

"I know. He's always talking about what's wrong with him, right?"

"So?"

"So Brenda's a little like that. Did you ever know her to not have a problem?"

"That's not really being fair," Wendy said.

Jilly looked up from her painting and shook her head. "It might not be a nice thing to say," she said, "but it is fair."

"Things just don't work out for her," Wendy protested.

"And half of the reason is because she won't let them," Jilly said. "I think she lives for extremes."

Putting her palette and brush down on the wooden orange crate that stood beside her easel for that purpose, she dragged another orange crate over to the window and sat down.

"Take the way she is with men," Jilly said. "Either nobody's interested in her, or she's utterly convinced some guy's crazy about her. She never gives a relationship a chance to grow. It's got to be all or nothing, right off the bat."

"Yeah, but—"

"And it's not just guys. It's everything. She either has to be able to buy the best quality new blouse or dress, or she won't buy it at all. She either has to eat five desserts, or not have dinner at all."

Wendy found herself reluctantly nodding in agreement. There were times when Brenda could just drive her crazy, too.

"So does it bug you?" she asked.

"Of course it bugs me," Jilly said. "But you have to put up with your friends' shortcomings— just like you hope they'll put up with yours. Under all her anxieties and compulsive behavior has got to be one of the nicest, warmest people I know. What's saddest, I suppose, is that she doesn't know it."

"So what should we do?"

"Just like we always do— be there for her when she needs us."

"I suppose," Wendy said. "You know, I hate to say this, but I think what she really needs is a man in her life— a good, solid, dependable man who cares about her. I think that'd straighten up half the problems in her life."

"I think she's got one," Jilly said. "That is, unless she screws this one up by going to the other extreme and suddenly playing too hard to get."

"What do you mean?"

Jilly leaned forward. "You know the guy she met at the bus stop?"

"Jim?"

"Uh-huh. Well, it turns out he works at the Newford School of Art."

"He's an artist?"

Jilly shook her head. "No, he works in admin. I dropped by to see how the registration was coming along for that drawing class I'm going to be teaching next semester, and he started talking to me about Brenda."

"How'd he I know you knew her?"

"She'd talked to him about us, I suppose. Anyway, he was wondering if I knew when she'd get back and I almost blew it by saying I'd just run into her on Yoors Street that week, but I caught myself time. Turns out, he thinks she's out of town on business. She calls him every few days— supposedly from this hotel where she's staying— but she's been very evasive about when she's due back."

"That s so not like Brenda," Wendy said.

"Ignoring a nice guy who's showing some interest in her?"

"That, too. But I meant lying."

"I thought so, too, but who knows what's going on with her sometimes. Did you know she quit smoking?"

"Go on."

"Really. And that last time at the restaurant— before you showed up— she was telling me how she was finally taking your advice, to heart and wasn't going to throw herself all over some guy anymore."

"Yeah, but she always says that," Wendy said. She swung her legs down to the floor and hopped down from the window seat. "I'm going to give her a call," she added.

Jilly watched her dial, wait a moment with the receiver to her ear, then frown and hang up.

"She didn't leave her answering machine on?" she asked as Wendy slowly walked back to the window seat.

"The number's not in service anymore," Wendy said slowly. "Her phone must be disconnected."

"Really?"

Wendy nodded. "I guess she didn't pay her phone bill. You know how she's always juggling her finances."

"I don't get it," Jilly said. "If she was that short of cash, why didn't she just come to one of us? We're not rich, but we could've helped out."

"Has she ever asked you for a loan?"

Jilly shook her head.

"Me, neither. I think she'd die before she did that."

Wendy packed her notebook away in her knapsack. Turning from the window, she added, "I think I'm going to go by her apartment to see how she's doing."

"Let me clean my brushes," Jilly said, "and I'll come with you."

17

Well, I didn't have to ask Rob if I could get a leave of absence from the paper for a couple of weeks. After I left work last night, it came out how I'd been using In the City's Visa card. Rob confronted me with it this morning, and since I couldn't tell him when, or even if, I'd be able to pay it back, he gave me my pink slip.

"You've been impossible to work with," he told me. "I realize you've just quit smoking—"

I hadn't told anybody, wanting to do it on my own without the pressure of feeling as though I were living in a fishbowl, but I suppose it was obvious.

"— and I can certainly empathize with you. I went through the same thing last year. But I've had complaints from everyone and this business with the Visa is just the final straw."

"No one said anything to me."

"Nobody felt like getting their head bitten off."

"I'm sorry— about everything. I'll make it up to you. I promise."

"It s not just about money," Rob said. "It's about trust."

"I know."

"If you needed a loan, why didn't you come talk to me about it?" he asked. "We could've worked something out."

"It... it just happened," I said. "Things have been getting out of control in my life lately."

He gave me a long, considering look. "Do you have a problem with drugs?" he asked.

"No!" That was one of the few areas of my life where I hadn't screwed up. "God, how could you even think that?"

"Because frankly, Brenda, you're starting to look like a junkie."

"I'm on a diet, that's all."

The concern in his eyes seemed to say that he genuinely cared. The next thing he said killed that idea dead in the water.

"Brenda, you need help."

Yeah, like he cared. If firing me was his idea of compassion, I'd hate to see what happened if he really started to be helpful. But I was smart this time and just kept my mouth shut.

"I'm sorry," was all I said. "I'll pay you back. It's just going to take some time."

I got up and left then. He called after me, but I pretended I didn't hear him. I was afraid of what I might say if he kept pushing at me.

I was lucky, I guess. He could have pressed charges— misappropriation of the paper's funds— but he didn't. I should have felt grateful. But I didn't walk out of there thinking how lucky I'd been, I felt like dirt. I'd never been so embarrassed in all my life.

That was Friday. I'm trying to put it behind me and not think about it. That's easier said than done. I've been only partially successful, but by this morning I don't feel as bad as I did yesterday. I'm still a little light-headed, but I'm down another couple of pounds and I still haven't had a cigarette. Day twenty-nine into my new life and counting.

I've moved into The Wishing Well, in unit number twelve— that's the last one on the north wing. I didn't bring much with me— just a few necessities. A few changes of clothing. Some toiletries. A sleeping bag and pillow. A kazillion packages of popcorn, a couple of heads of lettuce and some bottled water. A box of miscellaneous herb teas and a Coleman stove to boil water on. A handful of books.