Conversations With the Fat Girl (17 page)

repainted the living room is leaving the key under the mat. Today will

mark the first time I enter the house in which I will live.

"Well, then. Who can argue with that?" Domenic picks at his doughnut.

The two secret doughnuts are sitting in the pit of my stomach.

As we drive to pick up the rented moving truck, I sneak side glances at

his arms and his knees. I back the moving truck into The Sacred Driveway

right behind the bulldozer as Domenic guides me with hand signals

(backing vehicles into tight spaces is a hidden talent I have). I

believe this might finally make him like me. I mean, a girl who can back

a moving truck into a tiny residential driveway? Mother of your

children? I think so.

"Nice shooting, Tex," Domenic says.

Well, that's a nice masculine comment. Maybe he'd like to arm wrestle?

The next forty-five minutes are spent carrying various boxes from my

house, past the bulldozer, and into the rented moving truck. I watch as

my entire life is carried out and loaded into the back of a moving

truck. This is what it would look like if we moved into our own place.

I see Faye poke her two-week-old hairdo around the corner. The curl in

front looks exactly the same as it did that blessed day at the salon.

Everything else is a mangled, blown-out rat's nest. Oh no, not now. Not

in front of Domenic.

"What the hell is that?" Domenic whispers. He's standing close. Is he

wearing cologne? Those tingles are back.

"That's my ex-landlord. Please don't judge me by the following

interchange." I skulk toward Faye, who has now come out to the driveway

139 "You killed my roses," Faye dribbles.

"Of course I didn't."

"When is this going to be out of my driveway?" Faye asks, pointing to

nothing in particular.

"The truck? The moving truck?" I ask.

Faye is staring back at Domenic. "Where'd you find him? Is he a cousin

or something?" She untucks a rogue bit of bathing-suit ruffle that has

lodged itself in her abdominal rolls of flesh.

I hear Domenic pulling down the door to the back of the truck. Then I

hear him closing the front door to my house. He squeezes past the truck

and opens the door to the front cab, flipping the keys in his hand.

"No, he's not my cousin, but thanks for the back house and . ." I look

back at Domenic, who is fiddling with the truck's AM radio. "Why don't

you cover your shit up, for chrissakes." I'm waving my hand

indiscriminately around her exposed nether regions.

I climb into the cab with Domenic, give Faye the middle finger, and tell

him to drive. He puts the truck in gear. Then, and only then, do I exhale.

My relationship with my body is like that of an egomaniac with a

self-esteem problem. Mostly I think about myself and how much I suck.

But there are rare moments when I walk around for hours and think I look

amazing. Either I feel great about myself or I've decided some guy is

checking me out. Then I catch a side view of myself in a store window or

a department store mirror and I'm plunged into despair. If I could

always live in a place with no mirrors or disapproving glances, I would

think I was the prettiest girl around.

I find the key under the threadbare mat of my tiny English

140 134Liza Palmer

cottage. I stand on the little porch and see mornings with coffee and

the LA Times.

"Is this it?" Domenic stands behind me.

"Yeah, isn't it beautiful?" I hold the door open for him as I step

inside. The curtains on the many windows are a drab smoky yellow color.

Those will have to be dyed. This is a job for Stubborn Workshop-a

Thompson family phrase, meaning everything will fit and anything can be

improved with a fresh coat of paint, new drawer pulls, and some brute force.

Domenic walks in and begins milling around. He fits so perfectly it

hurts. My little Craftsman cottage and Domenic. His black flips of hair

fit so right.

"They left it pretty nice," I hear Domenic say from the other room.

"I guess," I slip.

"You guess?" His eyes are narrowed as he comes back into view.

"Well, I haven't actually seen the inside until now." "You rented a

house you've never been inside?"

"Ifs not like I never saw anything. I looked through windows. And did

you not see the outside of this house?"

"Do you know if the plumbing works? The electricity? Urn, little things

like hot water? Heater? None of this is ringing any bells, right?"

Domenic is resting his arms on the top of the doorjamb into the bedroom.

I know his mouth is moving, but I can't quite make out the words over

the roaring fantasies of him standing like that.

"Okay, urn. Once again, did you not see the front of the house? This is

a cottage. The porch is dripping bougainvillea and little purple

clematis? Did you see that? Can.you not envision for one minute a cup of

coffee on that porch?" I say

"Clematis? Can't you get that from a dirty toilet seat?"

141 "It's a type of flower. And no, I believe it's sexually transmitted."

"The flower?" He is breezily smirking. How do you learn that?

"No, chlamydia. That's what you're thinking, right?"

"Yeah, that's right. Well, let's hope the water works, so you can make

your coffee. Let's hope all those clap vines haven't choked some

mechanical system like, I don't know, the electrical service?"

"You like it."

"I like it for you. Your dog is going to love this place. Are they okay

with the dog?" Domenic turns around and opens the windows in the

bedroom. I almost fall over from my imaginings. I can see the muscles in

his back shifting in and out. Who's golden now?

"Well, we kinda had to fib a little on her size."

"By how much-and fib? What's that? Are we using words like fib now?"

"The management company doesn't have a problem with Solo. It's the

landlord who thinks dogs are the downfall of land barons everywhere. So

Mom did some research and we settled on a weight that seemed to be okay

in most rental situations. I put that number down. And fib makes it

sound a little less harmless, don't you think?"

"And how does that weight relate to your dog's actual weight?"

"Well, we put down twenty-five pounds/one small dog." I let that hang

there for a while. In our heads we are both envisioning the Hound of the

Baskervilles.

"Certainly no one will be the wiser. I'm sure you'll have nothing to

worry about. Shall we?" he says, leaving the bedroom. I explain that we

should put the contents of the moving truck toward the middle of the

house. I plan to paint the "Anchor

142 136Liza Palmer

Pieces" and dye the curtains, so we need to be able to get to them

easily. Sometime during the morning's activities, I have taken to

calling the fireplace and the built-in buffet my "Anchor Pieces."

"Are you allowed to just paint stuff?" Domenic asks as he undoes the

latch on the truck.

"As long as you have it back the way it was when you move out. I figure

I'm never moving out, so . . "

"You'll never put it back to normal," he says, pulling out a small blue

rocking chair from the back of the moving van. "Normal is such a

relative word." I smile.

It's eleven o'clock in the morning and I have officially moved.

143

He Never Threw Scissors

Watching Domenic help my mom serve lunch to the exhausted moving team

ripped out every thread I'd stitched over the pain of the other night.

The normalcy of that one simple act and how deeply it spoke to me makes

me realize how hungry I am for someone to be in my life. Outgrowing the

fantasy of white horses and long, slow gazes across impossibly formal

occasions brings me here-to the simple beauty of watching someone I have

feelings for become real. Seeing the simplicity of what it would be like

in my day-to-day life and never taking one thing for granted-not even

passing out paper plates and plastic cutlery.

My worldly belongings are bunched in the middle of my new house so they

don't impinge on my "Anchor Pieces" and their upcoming transformations.

It is now past two in the afternoon. Domenic stands on the porch talking

with Vincent about a novel they are both reading. Mom and Russell made

their appearance, brought lunch for everyone, then drove off up the

coast for an afternoon in Santa Barbara. Kate and Vincent have been a

great help. They are now getting ready to go home.

144 138Liza Palmer

"So?" Kate comes up behind me with a diet cola in her hand.

"So, what?"

"Jesus, Maggie." Kate stomps her foot.

"Did you just stomp your foot?" I ask.

"He's a little pale. Tall. Supernice, though. Pretty eyes. The girlies

love him. They won't leave him alone," Kate says.

We look to the porch where Domenic is now playing Rock, Paper, Scissors

with Bella. Bella only throws Paper. Domenic switches back and forth

between Paper and Rock. He never throws Scissors. He's squatting in

front of Bella so they can have an equal playing field. I can see his

boxers. Hula girls.

Kate calls to the girlies and tells them they are leaving. They throw

the expected tantrums and Kate tells them after choir practice they can

go to a special dinner because they were such big helps today. The

girlies gather their toys, and the exodus begins.

"Bye, crazies."

"Butterfly kiss?" Bella asks.

I buzz as close to Bella's face as possible and "land" on her smooth

face with a kiss. Her giggles and laughter are what make me know what

true love could be like. Bella doesn't care about my stupid Area. Bella

just wants her aunt to give her a butterfly kiss.

"Octopus kiss?" Emily asks.

I sneak up on Emily and pucker her face over and over. She is writhing

with delight and that open, Emily belly laugh. Kate and Vincent wave

from the minivan. I walk back to the house. Domenic is on the porch

leaning over the banister. My breath catches, and I trip over some

stupid plant I will later sacrifice to the gods of social retardation.

"I'd better be heading out." He puts his pizza plate in the sink and

drains his soda.

145 Conversations with the Fat Girl139

"Thank you so much for everything. You were absolutely amazing. Thank

you." I feel myself blushing. Damn involuntary bodily responses. "Do you

need a ride back to my house?" I still have to take this moving truck

back, and the company would be nice.

"No, my grandmother is on her way. We've got a load of dolls in the

kiln, but thanks, though." Domenic looks down and is, I believe,

snapping his fingers.

"I'd love to meet her."

Domenic and I wait the next fifteen minutes in one of our worst attempts

at idle chatter. We talk about everything except what we're both dying

to talk about-what happened the other night. I can't believe some of the

comments that come out of my mouth. I'm apparently now a big fan of

reality television and nature hikes. I don't watch television and I hate

hiking. I don't mention the Getty internship or the Marcus Aurelius.

Domenic, more than anyone else, would think this internship is exciting.

I just can't. I packed that paper in with the Pandora's box of pictures.

He continues snapping his fingers and rarely makes eye contact with me.

I feel so muted and embarrassed. He's probably as embarrassed as I am

and grateful I don't remember or think that night meant anything. Just

then, Domenic's grandmother pulls in front of the green Craftsman

archway, saving me from any more humiliating lies. He waves her over.

She is the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Her white alabaster skin

is made even more stunning by a shock of black wavy hair dotted with

flecks of porcelain. She wears an oversize flannel shirt with grubby

jeans, also flecked with porcelain.

"Gram, this is Maggie." I know by now the thrill really should be gone,

but Domenic just said my name.

"My actual name is Genevieve, but I go by Gram most of the time." Her

hands are strong and rough, and her voice is rumbly.

146 140Liza Palmer

"We'd better get going, Domenico, we have a batch in the kiln. It was

wonderful meeting you, Maggie." Genevieve looks to Domenic. Now I know

the one person who calls him Domenico.