April 22, 2001Dear SlimJim,
Strange name for a diary, especially coming from a woman who weighs close to four hundred pounds, but I like the idea of a skinny "silent partner". That's what my weight-loss counselor, Dr. Dilly, calls you. She says that keeping a record of my progress is as important as exercise and eating the right foods. So, partner, here goes:
I don't know what it's like to jot down ideas, to use words to slice through layers of fat and lay open my heart. Dr. Dilly says it will be therapeutic and I'll come to love you. I hope so. I want to love somebody.
I'll start by writing about you, SlimJim. That's easier than thinking about myself or my husband, Gator.
Your cover is peach-colored around the edges with a big sea shell in the middle. Pale greens and shades of coral swirl inside the conch making it look like some kind of unending riddle. I'm proud to put my thoughts down in such a book, even though the pages aren't lined and my loopy scrawl heads down, then rises back up, spinning like a top trying to straighten itself.
Dr. Dilly, isn't that a funny name? Makes me think of Dilly Bars, ice cream on a stick slathered with chocolate. I hate the thought of giving those up, but Dr. Dilly's so encouraging, sometimes I believe I can leave the "world of sugar and fat," as she calls it. Yep, I want to journey out of that place and hike my way into the land of lean.
She's not a real doctor, though. She told me they'd given her an honorary degree from the little college in West Virginia where she earned her R.N. because she'd made such a success of helping fat people. She even helped the dean of the college shave off fifty pounds. She was assigned to me at the weight loss clinic where my grandfather sends me twice a week in Raeford, North Carolina, about twenty miles west of Dunderach, where we live.
It's tobacco country, and Papaw owns a big chunk of the county, over three thousand acres. We farm some and rent out the rest to the lumber companies. I've been working in tobacco all my life, snapping off the suckers, stringing, nurturing each plant until we carry truckloads of the big old leaves to market. We raise a little tobacco for our own use, along with a large vegetable garden. Every other year, Papaw grows soybeans in the smaller fields out back of the house.
Actually, I don't farm any more, I haven't since I got married three years ago. But for a while, Papaw and I had a real system going.
Dr. Dilly has done some crazy things to help me get started on my program. She made me close my eyes and think back to when I was little. I was supposed to "visualize the fat-promoters of the past." I squeezed my lids tight as I could, but all I could see was fireworks going off. Then I remembered.
I wasn't always fat. My baby pictures showed a normal-sized child with straight blondish hair and a happy smile. In my favorite shot I'm sitting on Mama's lap and her chin's resting on the top of my head. She's a slight woman and doesn't wear any rings on her fingers. But she looks right at the camera, almost defiant. I'm about three years old, and that's the only picture I've got with Mama in it.
The next photo of me is in first grade and I'm already starting to fill out. Mama died before I turned four and I went to Papaw, him being my only relative. I remember waking in the middle of the night, crying. Papaw would stumble into the room, rub the top of my head with his rough hand, and give me a cookie. Sometimes I called for ten or more chocolate chips to settle me back to sleep.
I took to sweets and Papaw took to me. When the other kids made fun of me for being chubby, he'd tell me a smidgen of weight on a woman was a good thing. "If your mama'd had more meat on her bones, she might have lived through the pneumonia." Papaw said he didn't figure to lose another woman. Besides, he needed somebody big and strong to help run the farm. At least that's what he told me. I didn't realize growing up that Papaw could have hired any help he needed, that we were what some people might call rich.
We never lived wealthy, though Papaw's old farmhouse was too big for just the two of us. And Papaw, why he'd kick and fuss if he had to wear anything but his bib overalls. He didn't have any use for people who were "high-falutin'."
So I grew to suit him, tall like my no-account daddy, an equipment salesman who passed through Dunderbach on his way to the coast. He stayed three weeks, long enough to sell Papaw a secondhand cultivator and talk my mama
out of her drawers.My point is that I wasn't always fat. At the start of things, I was a normal size. I gaze at those baby pictures and think about how cute I used to be, one dimple in my chin. Not like now, dimples everywhere.
May 3,Dear SlimJim,
Dr. Dilly is pleased with my progress. So far, I've lost five pounds. Pretty fast work, she says. She makes me walk everyday, even on the days when I don't go to group sessions. The first week I huffed and puffed my way for one full mile. My heart beat like I was in a parade and my face turned red and pulpy like a Big Boy tomato. But now I'm up to a mile and a half. When you try to move 376, I mean, 371 pounds, that's work. But I hit the trail every day and the thump, thump isn't a bass drum anymore. More like a snare, lighter and more steady.
Dr. Dilly strolls with me on Thursdays and we talk, or rather she talks. I'm breathing so hard I can't get a word out. She tells me about how she lost over 100 pounds fifteen years ago, when she was in her early thirties. Her hair's cut short, bright red with a few gray streaks. She's shorter than I am, and older, but she's still no skinny-minny. Not that she's fat either. She's just right with well-muscled arms and legs.
She said as soon as I lose twenty pounds, we're going to do some exercises in the pool at the Y. When she first mentioned it, I panicked. I wouldn't want anybody to see me in a bathing suit, the white rolls of flab hanging out like lumps of dough. All the people staring.
But she said the two of us would swim for a short time, like a half hour, and we'd be the only ones in the pool. I figured that would be okay. After all, it's her job to look at fat people. She shouldn't be surprised at the rippled skin that's been stretched to its limit.
She told me to keep writing about how things were for me growing up. She said sometimes when you write stuff down, you begin to understand your life better. I don't know about that, but I'll give it a try. She's counting on me.
Papaw used to call me his own bale of cotton and I looked like one, no shape, no indentation from head to toe. But I didn't care because I was strong and Papaw depended on me, just like he would a son. I was taller than the other girls, 5'8" by ninth grade. And I was broad with shoulders perfect for hoisting tobacco or hay. Most of the boys in junior high challenged me in arm wrestling at least once. Nobody beat me, though, not until Petey Scoggins started weight-lifting his senior year of high school.
By the time I graduated, I weighed close to two hundred pounds. Not one boy'd asked me on a date, and at the church youth group, I always sat with the leader, Mrs. Cotter.
I knew what went on between men and women, though, despite my own lack of firsthand experience. Growing up on a farm you can't help but figure it out.
Papaw never said anything to me about such things. What I learned, I picked up from health class at school, the other girls, and the farm animals. The whole idea scared me, especially when I thought of being locked up with any of the boys at school. Not that I had to worry about that. I could still take most of them in a fair fight.
As things turned out, no one showed the least interest in me and I was glad. That is, none perked up around me until Gator Jones.
May 21,
Dear SlimJim,
Dr. Dilly said I might as well get on with the business about Gator. I'm doing fine on the diet and when she weighed me this week I'd lost all together almost 20 pounds. She said it would come off quick at first since I had so much to lose. Enjoy it while it lasts, she squealed when she read my weight on the scales. She gets more excited than I do.
So far, the diet I'm on hasn't been that hard to follow. But some nights right after the 11:00 news, I get real sad. I think about buttering food: corn, biscuits, toast. And how I probably won't ever again taste the salty, half-melted sweetness on a homemade roll still warm from the oven. I try to limit my thoughts to butter, but sometimes ice cream weasels its way into my brain and I cry a little. Seems like I'm giving up everything good in the world. Which brings me to Gator.
I know I've avoided talking about him. It makes me sad to remember how things were between us. But, I guess Dr. Dilly knows what she's doing, although that exercise where I rubbed myself with petroleum jelly didn't quite work. The vaseline was supposed to help the fat melt away easier, but all it really did was mess up my clothes. I'm dodging Gator again. Well, here goes:
I haven't seen Gator since the days following my heart attack. Imagine, me, twenty-one, having something like that. But, like Papaw said, I was too much of a good thing.
After the heart attack I decided to lose weight, and that’s when Gator started acting strange. He'd bring me food, the bad kind like french fries, donuts, anything sweet and gooey.
But I guess I'd better back up and explain about Gator and me. His real name's Gaither, but folks around here call him Gator cause his daddy lived in a little shack near Crawley Swamp. I'll never forget the first words he said to me the summer I graduated.
"You sure are one fine-looking woman. A little too skinny for me, but still fine." It was a hot afternoon in August when I was in the middle of putting up hay for Papaw. There I stood, balanced on the ledge of the loft, hefting a bale into place and Gator yanks my attention away from the job at hand. I almost lost my balance and teetered on the brink of the old pine plank for a second, wobbling like one of those blowup punching bag clowns.
"Shut up. Keep your pea brain on your work." He was supposed to be forking up the hay that had fallen from the bales, sweeping and raking it into a pile. No boy'd ever said anything like that to me before and I figured he was making fun of me.
"You're even cute when you're mad." He returned to his raking, the steady scrape of the metal prongs against the dirt giving me a rhythm for my work.
You can see why Gator's sweet talk rubbed me the wrong way. A runt like him (he was slim as an Oscar-Mayer weiner) would be just the kind to poke fun at me, a big, ugly girl with a face round as a cantaloupe. I didn't want him at our farm to begin with, but Papaw got it in his mind that we needed help that summer.
"Sissy, you know Gator Jones? Coupla years older'n you, I reckon." Papaw spit a wad every once in a while from his rocker on the front porch. He liked nothing better than a chaw after supper.
"Yeah, I've seen him around." The setting sun was a bright peach, the surrounding sky going red in blotches.
"I hired him to help us out." Another splat hit the dirt.
"Why? I can handle everything. Always do." I couldn't believe he'd take on another worker without talking to me first. We were partners.
"I'm close to seventy, girl. And you. You ought to be thinking about what you're going to do with your life. You're a young lady. Working this farm'll wear you out before you know it." He kept his eyes on the clouds that were moving in fast.
"I've been working like a man on this farm since I can recall. Besides, that Gator's too little to do the kind of work we do. He ain't big as a titmouse." I'd seen him down at the feed store, a small man a head shorter than me, his biceps the size of my ankles. What good he'd serve, I couldn't guess.
"How big's a man got to be to pick tomatoes or feed chickens? I ain't got in mind for him to do much real work." Papaw patted my knee and I knew he still considered me his right hand.
When Gator showed up, his blue jeans baggy as a burlap sack, I didn't take much notice of him. Sometimes I'd catch him staring at me from under the rim of his straw hat when he thought I wasn't looking. His eyes, small and red-rimmed, were pale as the early morning sky, and his skin was speckled with large freckles all the way up his arms. He had scant sideburns he pulled at in his free time and his butt was no bigger than half-risen loaves of bread.
When we'd break for lunch, Gator'd slide into the kitchen kind of sideways like a tom cat.
"Smells good." He said the same thing everyday and for weeks those were the only words I heard him speak after that first day, the day of his compliment.
We sat down to country ham and tomato slices jammed between thick hunks of homemade bread. Iced tea, brewed not instant, and potato salad, sometimes corn on the cob. Gator ate fast and quiet. Me, I liked to enjoy my food so I took small bites and chewed em up good.
Soon as Gator finished, he'd stare at me while I ate. I tried not to eat more than he did, but most days I'd have another half sandwich. His eyes would glaze over and a strange smile settled on his face every time I took a bite. It made me nervous and before long, I made sure I quit eating the same time he did.
One day in late September, he sidled up to me, hands brownish-red from working in the garden, the rim around his fingernails dark and thick with dirt and fertilizer, I guessed from the smell of him.
"I been meaning to ask you something." He faced the setting sun and shaded his eyes with his hand. Even the creases around the corners of his smile were sooty and the sweat beaded across his brow like a bad case of warts.
"Better watch it, or I'll bust you like a hickory nut." He'd got my blood up, staring at me like he was going to poke fun at my square shoulders.
"Take it easy." He seemed sincere and I almost regretted being so mean to him.
"Well, what'd you want?" I kept sweeping off the back porch, little swells of dust bubbling up into the dry air and settling down again to the step below.
"I . . .I wondered, Sis, if you'd go out with me sometime? Dancing?" A sudden gray cloud blocked the last rays of sunlight, leaving us in shadow. I couldn't see his eyes, didn't know if he was teasing or not.
"Well, I never danced a step in my life." My mouth was dry and I had a hard time speaking.
"I'll teach you. We can practice in the barn after chores. It won't take long to learn." Gator smiled at me and I noticed for the first time that it was a good smile.
"I guess we could give it a try." I turned, leaned the broom against the door frame and walked back inside the house.
That was the start of my serious eating. That strange minute when Gator and I decided to dance.
It's not easy, writing all this down. My stomach is growling hard, like I've done a day's worth of plowing behind a cranky mule. And it's only early afternoon, two more hours until my fruit snack. Thinking about Gator gives me an appetite. When I consider that man, an overwhelming urge for chocolate pound cake hits me. I think I'll take my walk. Dr. Dilly told me to work my legs when I felt weak. And right now, I'm feeble as a newborn mouse.
June 7,
Dear SlimJim,
Today was real hard for some reason. Maybe it was because it was right before my period and I felt the need, the actual need for something sweet. It got so bad that I cried during group. Dr. Dilly held my head in her lap and stroked my hair until I'd used up all my tears. Then we talked about how to handle our hormones, how to make them work for us, not against us. Every other woman in the group told about how she had cravings, just like mine. I didn't feel so bad after that. And I especially liked Dr. Dilly's touching my hair. It stirred something in me, a thing long forgotten, vague as gauze.
June 15,
Dear SlimJim,
I try to make an entry everyday, like Dr. Dilly told me. Usually I get five out of seven, not bad. I noticed after I started writing about Gator, I needed a long pause. In the between time, I realized I write more about food and how hard it is for me to wedge myself in places normal people don't think much about. Like the toilet.
At the farm, we still have an outdoor johnny, like they used to have everywhere. We have an indoor, too. Don't go thinking we're completely uncivilized just because we're country. But I use the one outside cause Papaw made it special for me. It's got an extra wide board to sit on and built-in support. I tried the inside contraption but after I passed 250 pounds I hung all over the sides and it was hard to lower myself onto that little target. In my outhouse, all I have to do is plop down and let go.
And don't forget the front seat of the car. Why do they make those so tiny? By the time Papaw helps me get settled, I've slid over to his side and he has to squinch in. It must be dangerous for him to steer all scrunched up like that.
I hate being slower than everybody else, too. When I struggle into church the ushers share a look of disgust, pure and simple. And I'm in the house of the Lord. I hate to think how folks who don't know God would act if I should waddle past.
And the pews. Who do you know with a bottom dinky enough to fit one of those hard wooden shelves?
Everything's a struggle and there's no one to blame but me. And Gator.
Gator and I went out dancing, after we'd rehearsed our two-step over and over in the late fall evenings. I worried about finding something to wear since mostly I wore overalls, except on Sundays when I wore what Papaw called my shifts. He ordered them out of a special catalogue and they made me look like a solid wall of daisies. The print was floral every time.
Not that we couldn't have gone to the mall in Raeford and found one of those shops that cater to big women. But I've never been one for shopping. It's hard to enjoy it when you never like the way things look on you. Even dresses that hang pretty on the rack don't look the same when they're stretched and pulled under those florescent lights. And Papaw hated to shop in Raeford because the snooty mall clerks'd look at him like he was straight off the turnip truck, even though he could have bought every item in their little shops.
But for my date, Papaw drove me all the way to Raleigh in our ‘54 rusty-blue truck, and, after a long search, we found a dress to fit. And it didn't have a flower on it.
That night, a cold December Saturday, Gator brought me carnations and a box of candy. I wobbled to his old Ford and tried to let myself into the front seat gracefully. My knees popped, but I don't think he heard them. Besides, I wasn't at my full weight then. I was just beginning.
Later, after the dance was over, Gator drove us to an isolated spot off the main road about two miles from Papaw's house. He cut off the headlights and turned on the radio.
"You hungry?" He turned his face to me and I could see him, a pale ghost in the moonlight.
"Yeah, but nothing's open now. We could go on to Papaw's and I could fix us a couple of sandwiches." Nervous, I twirled the long curl of my big hairdo, the one that hung like a limp piece of licorice at my cheek.
"We got this candy." Something about the way he said it made me blush.
"Okay."
Gator handed me the fancy box and watched, quiet as an apple on a branch. The white ribbon glimmered as I ripped it off. When I lifted the waxy lid, the sweet smell of chocolate filled the front seat. I offered some to Gator.
"You go first," he said with a strange waver in his voice. I didn't see any reason to be shy so I studied the contents of the first layer. The round and square shapes lined up in perfect rows, each piece in its brown crinkled cup. In the milky light, the candy shone like jewels in a treasure chest. Swirls of chocolate formed designs, every one different. Here, a crescent; here a double loop; there, a zigzag like Zoro's signature.
I picked a round piece of dark chocolate and bit the tiniest crumb from its bottom edge.
"Turn on the light so I can see what kind it is," I commanded Gator. He obeyed immediately. The dense creamy center was pink and I could smell strawberries as my teeth sank once again into the nugget, this time all the way to the middle. I felt the sweet flavors melt under my tongue and in the pockets of my cheeks. My mouth filled with a warm syrup and I swallowed. A deep 'MMmmmm' rose out of me. For a minute, all I thought of was the slick feel of the candy sliding down my throat. I forgot all about Gator until I heard him sigh.
I glanced at him. His eyes were all glassy and his face was pink; even in the night air I could see the blood flowing through his cheeks. Every tight little muscle in his body was tense, and he was staring at me the way a hungry cat eyes a mouse. Finally, he noticed I was looking at him and he killed the light in a hurry.
"Don't want to run down my battery. After all, your papaw wants you home by midnight and I don't want problems." His voice was all sugary. He handed the box of candy to me. "Have another one."
At least six hours had passed since my supper and I'd been too nervous to eat much then. Gator and I'd danced the evening through and, I admit, I'd worked up an appetite. I accepted.
Only this time, the minute I cracked into a covered cashew, Gator jumped at the sound and before I knew what was happening, he'd put his hand on my knee. I knew he might expect a kiss at the end of the evening, but this contact was a surprise. I popped the rest of the cashew into my mouth, knowing he couldn't kiss me with my mouth full. I cut him a dirty look. Instead of removing his hand, he started kneading my leg, rubbing the fat around my kneecap between his fingers.
"You got strong muscles here, Sis. Too big for a girl. You ought to be soft all over, soft and cushiony." With his other hand, he picked up a piece of candy wrapped in gold foil. I knew it was the chocolate covered cherry, my very favorite kind. They're always covered in a fancy way.
Gator unwrapped the morsel with one hand and slowly put the whole thing in my mouth at once. I didn't like to eat cherries that way. I'd rather bite a small hole in the chocolate shell, then suck out all the juice, leaving the cherry for last. But what could I do?
I chomped down and felt the sweet juice flow between my teeth. Gator was now rubbing both his hands on my leg, squeezing and poking like I was a lump he was working into something. He didn't hurt me and before I could say anything, he pulled a Coke from under the seat, popped off the lid and handed it to me. It was warm, but after three pieces of candy I needed a sip of something.
I ate the entire pound of candy that night, fed piece by piece with Gator's clumsy fingers, my mouth nicking his knuckles again and again. His hands went over my whole body, rubbing and prodding, his fingers lost, hidden in my secret places. It felt good, not nasty at all, and he never kissed me one time. Once, when his hands were mashing around my thighs, I quivered, a quick spasm in my privates. It lasted no longer than a breath and I think Gator must have noticed and felt something, too, because soon after he grunted and stained the front of his jeans.
We cruised into Papaw's driveway right on time and Gator walked me to the front door.
"I had a good time, Sis. Want to go again next week?" He swept his thumb over my fleshy hand.
"Okay, sure." I stared at the floor, then looked into his eyes which were redder than usual. We shared a secret smile.
In less than six months, Gator and I were married. By then, I'd put on fifty pounds, but he stayed the same. The bigger I got, the better he liked it. He'd bury himself in me, between my breasts, in the rolls of my belly, the folds of flesh under my arms. Anywhere he could get me to wrap around him, he'd put himself there.
Where once I'd been big but sturdy, I became soft like butterscotch pudding. Yielding, is what Gator called it. And he liked the new me, no muscles, just roly-poly. He wouldn't let me lift a finger around the house. No housework, no helping Papaw. I started to feel like a queen bee. The more I weighed, the harder it was to get myself up off the couch. I got no exercise and by summer, Papaw had to hire a couple of workers to help him. By then, Gator had decided to go to the community college to study auto mechanics. He worked days and went to school three nights a week.
He brought me food, ham and eggs for breakfast along with butter biscuits. For supper, mashed potatoes and gravy, meatloaf, macaroni and cheese. Gator spent his spare time searching out new recipes to try. I'd never seen anyone so interested in my appetite.
By the time we celebrated our first wedding anniversary, I'd gained a whole other person. Papaw told me to go see a doctor, said he was worried about me. I obeyed him out of respect but while the doctor rattled off a diet, I thought about Gator kissing me, licking me between the folds of my skin right after he'd bathed me real good.
They just didn't understand, they couldn't know the special way Gator and I felt.
July 13,
Dear SlimJim,
Then came the day of the heart attack and my life looped around like a roller coaster.
Papaw came to the hospital, talked to the doctor and stole me, took me straight home to the farm.
"That Gator's gone kill you. No doubt about it. You're as big as anything I ever saw." The words hurt though he said them kindly. I knew he was worried and I worried right along with him.
Papaw fixed a bed for me downstairs and started me on this Doctor's Weight Loss program. He'd taken me while Gator was at work, but that very night Gator came to whisk me back to our home.
"You can't steal my wife. She belongs at home where I can tend to her." Gator stood in the doorway, his hands resting against the frame. Papaw faced him, his rifle at his side.
"I know what you're up to. Feeding Sis to death. She ain't coming with you." Papaw took a step forward and raised the gun.
"I ain't doing anything but taking care of my wife. Her getting sick's not my fault. I'm good to her, real good." Gator glared at Papaw and they both seemed to have forgotten I was there. Then Gator pointed at me.
"Why don't you ask her who she wants to live with? Ask her, go ahead." I could see Gator's eyes peering in at me, sure as morning that I'd choose him. But I couldn't. That heart attack scared me, my chest caving in like a boulder was pressed on it. And I didn't like doing nothing but eating. I missed working in the soil and running the vacuum. I missed having energy for a movie or to go dancing. Gator hadn't taken me out since we married.
"I aim to stay here for a while, Gator. Just till I get my strength back." My voice was soft, but firm. He didn't say a word as he stalked off the porch.
July 31,
Dear SlimJim,
Gator dropped by again today, plying his wares. Last time it was homemade cinnamon rolls and cherry crisp. Oh God, how good they smelled, all spicy, still warm and yeasty.
Papaw was out in the barn. I don't know how he does it, but Gator times each of his visits to fall when Papaw isn't around. Hoping to carry me off, I guess.
"How you doin today? Been missing me?" He sauntered into the living room where I kept my treadmill. I like to look at it when I'm doing needle work, something I've taken up since I started the program. Dr. Dilly says it's important to have a hobby that can take the place of eating. I've lost close to fifty pounds and I can walk five miles easy.
"Don't sit on that chair, Gator. It's got my needles stuck in it." By this time, I didn't know what to say to Gator. Seeing him unnerved me and so far, each time he'd visited, I'd given in to temptation.
The first time, he took me by surprise with potato rolls and fresh honey. The second time, chocolate raspberry supreme was my downfall. I hated how I felt after eating those forbidden foods, but I couldn't seem to say no to him.
"Doin a pillow?"
"No. It's going to be a picture--The Last Supper. I aim to hang it in the kitchen." I kept my head down, intent on my business. I didn't want to see what he had in his basket.
"Want to take a break? I brought you a little snack--homemade fried pies--apple." He lifted the cover from the basket and the smell of cinnamon and apples filled the room. My stomach growled.
"No thanks. Gator, you know I'm not supposed to eat that stuff. I don't want to gain what I've lost." My mouth said the words, but I could see that special look come into Gator's eyes and I was hungry for more than just food.
"You used to be so good-looking, Sis. Why, you were the finest of all the Jones women. My brothers can't get their women as fat as I got you, honey, and every one of them is jealous. And you're bigger than Ma ever was. I used to be proud of you." His voice cracked the way it did sometimes when we made love.
Gator never talked like that before, never really opened up to me. Ours was more of a secret romance in a lot of ways. I couldn't figure out why he liked me, me being so big and all. I thought he fell in love with me in spite of my size, that somehow, he saw the real me deep inside.
He wasn't in love with the real me at all. All he cared about was how big he could get me. I was some sort of prize heifer like all the boys in 4H used to raise for the county fair.
"You ought to be proud of me now that I'm taking charge of my health. Dr. Dilly sure is." The more I thought about what he'd said, the madder I got. I was nothing to him but a body, a sex object.
"Gator, I don't want you to come around here anymore. Just get on out of here and take your fried pies with you." I didn't raise my eyes and for a minute he sat still. I still didn't look up. I just kept doing my needle work, a stitch in, then pull through. Finally, I heard him step to the door, slam it and jog down the porch steps.
I was weak and trembling. I hopped up, spilling my handiwork onto the floor. My heart was beating fast so I got up on my treadmill and began to walk. The faster I walked, the better I felt. Just like Dr. Dilly said would happen.
Something had come over me, something stronger than the desire to wrap my mouth around a bite of pie. Whatever that something was, I didn't want to lose it. I wanted to be stronger than Gator, stronger than any man. And if that meant going it alone, then so be it. After all, I still had Papaw and I still had the farm.
I remembered how much I used to enjoy thrashing those boys in school, taking down their puny arms with my hard-earned strength. That's how I felt when Gator left with his goodies and slammed the screen door in my face.
At first. But I suddenly missed him, his rubbing and mashing, the way he'd look at me sprawled across our kingsize bed, taking up most of it. I cried then, long and hard.
August 6,
Dear SlimJim,
My muscles are coming back. I can feel little risings on my arms, the backs of my legs. Some days, the desire for food, trays and trays of pie and ice cream, sandwiches with heaps of mayonnaise, makes me think I could eat and never stop, just let my self go again, the way I did with Gator. Surrender to everything. But when that happens, I use the treadmill or go for a real walk around the farm.
I never told Dr. Dilly about the sex, didn't explain how that full-to-busting stomach was the buildup to a relief sweeter than peach cobbler. But I did say Gator was the only boy ever to show an interest in me and he didn't like muscles on a girl.
Now, she's teaching me how to tell when I'm full, something every person ought to know. And she keeps saying she's proud of me. Proud of the weight I've lost, but even happier about the way I've taken to exercise.
I love the way my new body feels moving under the hot sun. I remember how strong I used to be, how Papaw could count on me before my body disappeared into a blob. Now I'm emerging from that cocoon of fat. The woman I'm spinning myself into will be made of muscle pure as gold. I may never be slim as a model, but I'll be healthy and strong, able to work toe to toe with any one. And I’ll be the size I want to be, no showpiece, no prize.
Anne C. Barnhill's first book, At Home in the Land of Oz: My Sister, Autism and Me, will be released in May, 2007. Her short stories and poetry have appeared in a variety of literary magazines and anthologies,winning various awards and grants. She holds an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from UNC-Wilmington.