The Secrets We Kept(70)

Mama responded by adding bacon fat to everything: to schi, borscht, pelmeni, beef stroganoff; to blinis and omelets. I even caught her tipping grease from a frying pan into the plain oatmeal I ate for breakfast. She insisted I have seconds of every meal and watched my plate as she’d done when I was a child.

On the weekends, she’d bake multiple cakes, saying she was testing which to make for the wedding—honey, drunken cherry, Neapolitan, bird’s milk, even a two-tiered Vatslavsky torte. She’d force me to take multiple slices of each, often spooning vanilla ice cream on top.

Mama wasn’t the only one to notice my dwindling figure. Teddy asked if everything was okay so many times I told him if he didn’t stop asking, things wouldn’t be. He said he wouldn’t ask again but hoped I wasn’t trying some crazy new fad diet. He said I was perfect just the way I was, and his sincerity filled me with an inexplicable rage.

The typing pool also noticed. Judy asked what my secret was and said my waist was as tiny as Vera-Ellen’s in White Christmas. The rest of the Pool acted like Mama and left doughnuts from Ralph’s on my desk.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to eat; I just had no appetite—not for food, not for anything. It was hard to sit through a movie. It was excruciating to be in crowds. I began walking to work instead of taking the bus, just to be alone. At parties, I didn’t even attempt to make polite conversation. Even at the Sunday Company gatherings, where I used to enjoy the intellectual sparring and the feeling I was getting insider information, I chose to stand next to the wives instead of Teddy, where I didn’t have to say much of anything except that I liked the confetti dip.

Teddy tried to pull me out of whatever I’d fallen into. He tried and tried, and I almost loved him for the effort. I tried to love him, I really did. He loved me more than anyone ever had. So why wasn’t it enough?

I saw Sally twice during that time. Had she made herself scarce for my sake? Had she even thought of me for one minute? The first time, I was leaving the office and she was standing in the lobby as the elevator doors opened. I stepped out and we almost collided. I stepped right, then left. She mirrored me, then we awkwardly repositioned. She said hello and smiled, but I saw her looking me up and down, and I knew from her expression that I must’ve looked terrible.

The second time, Sally didn’t see me. I’d seen her sitting in the booth by the window at Ralph’s, across from Henry Rennet—there in the front booth, at the window, for the world to see, midday on a Tuesday. And the world did see. When I returned to the office, it was all the typing pool could talk about.

“Think they’re dating?” Kathy asked.

“Lonnie said she thinks they’ve been dating since New Year’s. Saw them together at some party. Someone should warn her what an asshole he is.”

“I’ll volunteer,” Norma said.

“Is it true, Irina?” Linda asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, Florence over in Records said she saw them whispering in the stairwell,” Gail said.

“When?”

“I don’t know. Few weeks ago?”

So that was it. She’d been interested in Henry the whole time. I was nothing but a passing fancy at best. The thought repulsed me. I could take not being with her, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to stand seeing the two of them together.

Unbeknownst to Teddy or Mama or anyone, I spoke with Anderson that day about the possibility of a foreign posting. “Aren’t you getting married?” He looked at my ring finger.

“This is a hypothetical question.”

“Hypothetically, it’s none of my business. But I’m sure we’d find a place for you.”

“Keep this between us?”

He pretended to zip up his lips.

That evening, as the sun bathed E Street with that orange late-afternoon glow, I thought maybe by that time next year, I’d be walking down the streets of Buenos Aires or Amsterdam or Cairo. I relished the notion of shedding who I was, shedding everything, and becoming someone new. It was a delicious feeling, and for the first time in a long time, I smiled.



* * *



—

When I got home, the smell of bacon fat didn’t greet me at the door. Mama was sitting at her sewing machine not sewing. She had a full cup of tea in front of her, the water black from her having failed to remove the teabag. “What’s wrong, Mama?”

“I can’t rewind my bobbin.”

“That’s all?”

“I’ve tried for hours.”

“Is it broken again?”

“No. My eyes are.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t see out of the left one.”

I went to her side. Looking into her eyes, I failed to see anything wrong. “What? When did this happen?”

“I woke up like this.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I thought I could fix it.”

“With what?”

“Garlic.”

“We’ll get you to the doctor first thing tomorrow.” I took her hand and felt it tremble. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” I said, trying to believe it.

The next day, I took Mama to an eye doctor, who she complained wasn’t Russian and therefore would be biased. “Biased how?” I asked her. “Dr. Murphy is Irish.”