Leonard Gardner - Fat City

Alone in the bedroom he shadowboxed before the mirror, but with no desire to return to the gym. All that seemed impossible now; there was not enough time in a day. Though he was up for hours before going to work, still he was usually late, because he could not leave Faye until the moment when he had to leave in frantic haste.

He was broody, he was amorous. While reading, he noticed a minute blizzard falling before his eyes and found himself massaging his scalp in a frenzy. He fell asleep with leaps and twitches and dreamed of being rushed off unprepared for a bout he had forgotten. He saw no one from the Lido Gym, and Ruben Luna never phoned, as Ernie had feared he would. A sense of safety, comfort, luxury, took possession of him. Only to be with Faye, to work, sleep and make love was like a reprieve, an indulgence. At times he wondered if he were losing his nerve.

When Faye bathed, he soaped her with a sense of privilege. Drying her off, he caressed her in admiration. Her short sturdy body showed no sign of pregnancy; her belly was flat except for a tilting of pelvis, a slightly rearward slope from the navel to the tuft of black hair. “You’re in great shape,” he said. “Only you’re wide open.” And squaring off, he tapped her belly. At first she responded with a tolerant smile, soon with impatience, and once with the cry: “Don’t,” her hands at her sides, her heavy breasts, nipples dark and thick, hanging incongruously before his poised fists. Hurt, he turned away thinking she had no sense of humor. That she was already growing bored with him seemed indicated by her occasional disinclination for the daily sexual regimen. He wondered if he was adequate to her needs. One day he did two hundred consecutive sit-ups.

The summer passed in waves of worry and concupiscence, until Faye took employment with the Pacific Gas and Electric Company. Ernie then slept later than ever, ate breakfast with his jaw propped in his palm, and looked out the kitchen window at oiled female neighbors lying back in the lawn chairs, their crying babies filling him with dread. He went out to his Ford and drove along the hot streets.

One day at Dick’s Drive-Inn he walked over to a low maroon car. Slumped behind the wheel, his wan pinched face barely above the door, sat Gene Simms.

“What say, man?”

“What’s happening?”

“Nothing. Where you been keeping yourself?”

“Around. What’s new?”

“Nothing.”

Gene Simms was working nights at the box factory, and the two began passing afternoons together. Driving his car or riding in Ernie’s, haggard, frowning, yawning, smoking with yellowed unsteady fingers, a blond oily lock hanging over his forehead, Gene talked mostly on the same subject, his descriptive powers arousing in Ernie a curious agitation and a fear that what he had with Faye might be of a quality below the possible or even the usual.

“There isn’t a one that don’t want it,” said Gene.

“Well, I don’t know.”

“But you got to know what you’re doing.”

“That’s right, sure, they won’t go for just anybody.”

“If the right guy comes along he can score.”

“Everybody’s got a mate somewhere.”

“I don’t care who it is. You know Eleanor MacDonald? I plugged her.”

“I know, you told me.”

“You got to understand their minds. If you can get your knee between their legs you’re usually on your way.”

Home from work in the first hours of morning, Ernie tried not to wake Faye, knowing she needed rest. Slowly he slid into bed, and as she turned to him he slipped his arm about her neck. Until she quieted he stroked her back or hair, her leg if it had fallen over him, then as her breathing settled he held her against him with a protectiveness so tender he was saddened because she was not awake to perceive it.

One afternoon, cruising Main Street with Gene Simms, he saw standing on a corner at parade rest a swarthy soldier in khakis and boots.

“By God, that’s Bonomo,” said Gene, who then yelled: “Bonomo, Bonomo! Hey, man, when’d you get back?” while Ernie drove on without a sideways glance. “Hey, stop, stop, that’s Bonomo. He must be on leave. Stop, for Christ’s sake. Hey, why didn’t you stop, man? What’s the matter?”

“Who the hell are you giving orders to? If you want to get out you can jump out.”

“Well, let’s go back. That was Bonomo.”

“So it was Bonomo.”

“Why didn’t you stop?”

“Because I don’t want to stop, that’s why.”

“Why not?”

“I said I don’t want to!”

Whether Gene understood then or remembered something Ernie did not even know, or whether simply the vigor of that bellow proved conclusive, the subject abruptly ended. In the days that followed, Ernie avoided him, and that night he did not take Faye into his arms.

He lay apart from her in anguish at her faithlessness. If with Bonomo why not with others? Was Bonomo any better than anybody else? Ernie could conceive of no one worse. He was sick with murderous despair over the liberties that had been taken with his wife. Reminding himself that it had happened before she had known him made not the slightest difference, and telling himself that maybe nothing had happened was of no use. His first interest in Faye had come at seeing her riding along Main Street pressed against Bonomo, who was not known for wasting his time.

When she sprawled against Ernie, he recoiled, and at last he fell asleep clinging to the edge of the mattress.

For days he was churlish, agitated, glum. One night he woke with a jerk.

“Ernie, what’s wrong?”

“Nightmare.”

“What a pitiful noise you made.”

“Had a nightmare.”

“Poor Ernie, what was it?”

“Nothing.”

“Was something after you?”

“What do you care?”

“Was it about me? Is that it?”

“You were in it. Leave me alone. It wasn’t anything.”

“Did I do something wrong? I can’t help it if I did. I mean because I didn’t really do anything.”

“Didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t. What was it?”

“It wasn’t anything. Somebody came up and took your hand, that’s all.”

“Just that? Was that all?”

“And you let him.”

“It was your dream. Don’t blame me. Was it just that?”

“Isn’t that enough? You did it right in front of me.”

“Well, that isn’t so bad. Maybe he was my father.”

“He wasn’t your father.”

“Did he look like him?”

“You know who he was.”

“I don’t!”

“You sure?”

“I don’t, I don’t.” She sat up, turned on the bedside lamp and looked down at him in alarm. “I didn’t do anything.”

“I’ll bet you didn’t.”

“Ernie, it was just a dream. It isn’t real, it didn’t really happen.”

“Didn’t it?”

“I don’t understand you. I didn’t do that and I wouldn’t and I don’t see why you’re making such a big fuss about it.”

“What if it was Bonomo?”

“Was it him?”

Ernie nodded, watching her eyes.

“I’m sorry, but I mean it’s not my fault. You know I went with him. You went with other girls, too.”

“I know. Don’t get the idea I’m jealous. I’m not. I just don’t see why you couldn’t find something better than that son-of-a-bitch.”

“I did. I found you.”

“Oh, come off it. What if he hadn’t joined the army?”

“I wouldn’t be with him. I never liked him.”

“That just makes it worse. How many other guys didn’t you like?”

“What do you mean?”

“Jesus, that’s really something.”

“What is?”

“Just that.”

“Not liking him?”

“And letting him have you.”

He saw fear in the gray evasive eyes. She was wearing a pale-blue nightgown and her hand rose to the ribbon threaded through the lace of the neck, then to her hair, the short fingers twisting a dark lock level with her chin.