Fit to Die Read online

  Lindy looked down at her cart guilty. “It’s for my students! Look, I still have some curves,” she added sulkily, “but we don’t all have your kind of bone structure. I have always had a very full-figured build.”

  Veronica finished paying for her purchases. “Of course we’re not all the same,” she said soothingly, pushing her cart out of the way so that Twix Lady could check out. Veronica then approached Lindy as if she were a lost puppy in need of adoption, her face a perfect mixture of sympathy and friendly concern. “But you can still have the curves of Jennifer Lopez instead of the fat rolls of Jabba the Hutt. Why, with that gorgeous hair and those huge chocolate eyes, you could have men lined up for miles just to get your phone number!”

  Lindy’s jaw seemed to have come unhinged as her face burned red with embarrassment. Veronica seemed oblivious to the emotions she was provoking. “Here, just take my card. I’m giving discounts to all those who sign up for the six-week plan during my Grand Opening.” She bent to retie the shoelace on one of her spotlessly white running shoes. “But I’ve got to warn you. You won’t be eating any candy with me as your food advocate, so you may as well get out of this line and put it back on the shelf. That’ll show you just how much you want to change your life. Go on, darlin’, put it back. You don’t need that candy to make you happy.”

  James waited for Lindy’s Brazilian half to raise its hot-tempered head and verbally reduce Veronica Levitt into a smoldering pile of ash. Customarily, Lindy was an easygoing and fun-loving person, filled with a positive energy that seemed to infect all those who spent time with her, but on occasion, she could have a fit of rage not unlike a two-year-old throwing a tantrum in the toy store. Lindy always blamed these infrequent bouts of passionate wrath on her Brazilian mother, a former supermodel. Lindy claimed that the traits she had inherited from her mother were limited to her skin tone and her ability to pitch a fit when backed into a corner. But amazingly, Lindy’s temper remained completely checked. She simply nodded her head in silent agreement, scooped up the bags of candy, and left her place in line in order to return them to their proper shelf.

  As a dumbfounded James began unloading his cart, Veronica appeared at his side and gave him the once over with her calculating green eyes. She placed a pair of tanned hands on her nonexistent hips and offered him a flirtatious nudge in the side.

  “So you’ve been on a diet for six months, too?”

  James slapped a heavy carton of copier paper onto the conveyer belt. “Yes.”

  Veronica smiled with encouragement. “You’d do so well on my program. Men always do.” She reached out an arm to help James empty his cart. He stared at the appendage. It looked more like a jungle vine, sinewy and leathery in texture, than a part of the human anatomy.

  “You know, you’ve got a good frame and a real handsome face hidden beneath all of that cushion,” Veronica said, tossing a very weighty carton filled with printer paper onto the belt as if it were a box of Kleenex. “I bet you were a looker in high school and college, weren’t you?”

  James was amazed by her strength, considering her overall lack of body mass. He was more than a little intimidated as well. He felt more comfortable with women who had softer bodies. He liked curves and solid limbs and dimples in the cheeks. Suddenly, he had a vision of Lucy Hanover, another supper club member who worked for the Sheriff’s Department. The only thing sharp about Lucy was her mind. The rest of her was all softness, like a warm and cozy chair that one longs to sink into at the end of the day. A flash of her sunlit, brown hair, eyes the shade of bachelor’s buttons, and a pair of plump lips that he had dared to kiss just once a few months ago made James forget all about Veronica’s presence.

  Veronica was not the type of woman to be ignored, however. She shoved a business card into James’s hand and then patted him on the protruding mound that formed his belly.

  “Let me help you. We can change you from looking like Santa Claus to looking like one sexy …” she eyed his empty ring finger, “bachelor.” She smiled again as James shifted uncomfortably. Veronica traced the curve of his cheek with her finger and then moved off to collect her cart. “Hope to see you next week, handsome!” she called over her shoulder as she exited the store.

  James flushed as he noticed the other shoppers gawking at him. He quickly balled up Veronica’s pink business card and shoved it deep into his jeans pocket just as Lindy reclaimed a place in the checkout line. James waited for her by the exit, standing close enough to the outside doors to note that the cold March rain had ceased and the formerly congealed clouds were finally showing signs of thinning.

  “I thought you needed that candy for your students,” James said as Lindy pulled her cart next to his.

  She shrugged. “I’ll have to get them something else as a reward. Truth is, I would have eaten half of that stash if I had it at school.”

  James shook his head in disbelief. “How could you listen to a sanctimonious woman like that? She’s part cheerleader, part used-car salesman, part Dr. Phil.”

  Lindy paused in the middle of the parking lot and turned to look James in the eye. “I don’t know, James. But let’s face it: we haven’t done so well on our own. Maybe it’s time we seek professional help.”

  “But she’s … she’s like Richard Simmons on speed!” James spluttered in protest.

  Lindy unlocked her car, a red Chevy Cavalier with a sizeable dent in one of the rear door panels, and began loading her boxes into the trunk. “Exactly! That woman will get our energy levels up and get us to be more honest about ourselves. We haven’t been accountable to one another. When was the last time we even shared our weight loss progress?”

  James fidgeted with his key chain. “At least two months,” he admitted.

  “That’s ’cause there hasn’t been any! It’s time that someone coerced us to get back on a scale and made us exercise. If it means that Veronica’s going to be the Head Diet Cheerleader, so be it. We need someone to champion us, someone who truly cares about our health and happiness. Tomorrow night, during our dinner, I’m going to suggest we all go to her Grand Opening. It’s time to face the fact that we’ve slipped.” Lindy opened her car door and squeezed inside. “The Flab Five is about to get back in the swing of things and Veronica Levitt is just the woman for the job.”

  James groaned. There was something about the fitness instructor that he didn’t like. His instincts were warning him not to trust her, but he couldn’t explain his feelings to Lindy, let alone come up with a good argument as to why they shouldn’t join Veronica’s program.

  On the way back to Quincy’s Gap, he stopped at a Food Lion and bought himself a large bag of cheese puffs.

  “You got another one of your social dinners tonight?” Jackson Henry asked grumpily, dissecting the tuna casserole James had cooked for him earlier in the afternoon. The elder Henry probed beneath the layer of paprika-covered cheddar cheese in order to ascertain whether the pasta used in the dish was that of a shape he favored. “Is this some kind of new-fangled noodle?”

  “No, Pop. That is elbow macaroni,” James sighed with impatience. “It’s the same kind you’ve had in your tuna casserole for the last twenty years. I followed Ma’s recipe to the letter.”

  Jackson furrowed his bushy white eyebrows. “Except you didn’t use that ole orange casserole pot. The cheese broils better when you use that pot. Gets all nice and crispy. You could snap it in two like a twig. I suppose you’ve gone and used it makin’ some fancy meal for your friends.”

  James rolled his eyes. “The pot’s in the freezer, Pop. I used it to make you shepherd’s pie last week, remember? You said there were too many peas in the pie and that you’d eat it when you felt in the mood for peas.” James couldn’t help but add a sarcastic tone to his voice.

  “Well, I ain’t in the mood for peas. Matter of fact, I might never be.” Jackson sulked childishly as he flipped through the worn pages of his TV Guide.

  James refused to be provoked any further. “I’ll see you later,
Pop.”

  “Wait just a minute.” Jackson grumbled loudly. “You gotta stop at Goodbee’s first to get me my pills.”

  James looked at his watch. He was already running late and he’d be even later if he had to pick something up at the pharmacy before heading over to Bennett Marshall’s house.

  “Pills for what, Pop?” James asked suspiciously. His father was notorious for trying to ruin any chance of his son acquiring a healthy social life. Jackson never took messages when people called and ripped open all of the mail, whether his name was on it or not. He dumped all the bills on the kitchen table, read his son’s personal notes, and carelessly crinkled each and every page of any magazine, newspaper, or catalogue as he read them while watching hours of game shows.

  Recently, he had accidentally smeared peanut butter all over James’s treasured copy of The New Yorker, which Jackson considered unequivocally snobby and written in a manner impossible for “simply country folk” to read. He even complained about the cartoons, grumbling that not only were the artists untalented, but they were also missing any trace of a sense of humor. James would normally read such a magazine at the library, but the limited budget of his branch did not allow him to order magazines according to his own taste. Instead, he ordered subscriptions to Better Homes and Gardens, Outdoor Life, and NASCAR Illustrated, as those were the publications his patrons were interested in reading.

  “Pop,” James prodded. “I’m not going to be late going over to Bennett’s unless it’s over something important. What are the pills for?”

  “That’s my own business. Can’t a man get some privacy?”

  “You get plenty of privacy. Too much, if you ask me!” James retorted, crossing his arms over his chest. His father was practically a recluse. Ever since his business, Henry’s Hardware, had been bought out by one of the country’s larger home improvement chains, Jackson had begun to sink into a depression. When his wife died suddenly of heart failure a year ago, Jackson stopped going out altogether.

  At the time of his mother’s death, James had been a professor of English Literature at the College of William and Mary in Williamsburg. James was living the good life. He had a tenure-track position, a quaint brick townhouse, and a lovely wife named Jane. But one day, after James returned home from his afternoon lecture on William Faulkner, Jane had announced that she wanted a divorce.

  “I’m sorry, honey. You’re just too dull for me,” his wife of two years had said. A few months later, James’s mother went to sleep at her usual ten o’clock bedtime, never to wake again. James resigned his position as a professor, the only thing that still brought a fraction of happiness to his life. He grimly moved back to his childhood home of Quincy’s Gap in order to take care of his ill-tempered and reclusive father. At first, James considered that his new job as the head librarian of a small town library branch was a step down in his life, but he was pleasantly surprised to discover that his new career suited him well. He loved being surrounded by books and enjoyed his co-workers. Most of all, the friendship James had forged with the members of the Flab Five had made his relocation an unexpectedly positive change.

  Every time James even thought about one particular member, Lucy Hanover, his heart began to race like a marathon runner spotting the finish line. If only he weren’t so shy and insecure. Months after their first kiss, he had yet to ask her out on an official date. Plagued by fears that the dullness his wife had hated would destroy any possibility of Lucy remaining interested in him, James had withdrawn inside his shell. Now, he treated her like all the other supper club members. Lucy had responded by following his lead. Even though they never discussed the kiss, they still threw each other significant looks from time to time. But it was as if their fall from the diet wagon had also stripped them of the courage to pursue a romantic attachment. So with the exception of his weekly supper club meetings, James had no social life. He came home every night to his dilapidated childhood home and his irascible father.

  “I thought you were in some kind of hurry?” Jackson asked, raising one of his bushy eyebrows in amusement.

  James snapped out of his stupor, stomped off to his truck, and tore down the gravel driveway, leaving an irritated cloud of dust in the wake of his old white Bronco. Goodbee’s pharmacy was due to close in a matter of minutes, so James drove fifteen miles over the speed limit and barely paused at one of the town’s four-way stops in order to get in the door before closing time.

  Mr. Goodbee raised a kindly, freckled face from a pile of paperwork to greet James.

  “Sorry to stick my foot in the door at the last minute, but my father said he had a prescription waiting here.” James paused to catch his breath. “Though I don’t see how. He hasn’t been to a doctor in years.”

  The pharmacist laughed. “Oh, he called me with this very creative yarn about how his doctor told him he could call in his own prescriptions from now on. Luckily, when he described his symptoms—bloating, pain, and a feeling of pressure in the lower belly—I knew what was wrong.”

  James leaned over the counter. “Which was?” he asked anxiously.

  “No need for concern,” Mr. Goodbee rifled through a box containing prescription envelopes. “Your father has gas. Pure and simple. Now, I know a lot of old folks feel better about gettin’ their medicine in old-fashioned and official-lookin’ types of pill bottles instead of packages from the shelves, so I went ahead and dumped a batch of Gas-X in one of my vials and typed up the Latin name on the label.” Mr. Goodbee chuckled as he wiped his glasses off using the corner of his white lab coat. “Works every time.”

  “You sure know your customers,” James said with admiration as he paid for the pills. “Pop had me thinking this was some kind of emergency.”

  “Well, that man should see a doctor. Someone his age should be checked out on a regular basis. See if you can talk him into visitin’ Doc Spratt sometime soon.” Mr. Goodbee wagged a finger at James. “Just tell him it’s for his own good, Professor.”

  Everyone in Quincy’s Gap called James “Professor” even though he no longer taught any students. James knew that vanity prevented him from correcting the townsfolk or suggesting that they simply call him Mr. Henry. He had worked hard to earn the title of Professor and he was reluctant to let it go.

  James shook his head helplessly. “For a physical, I assume? I’ll try, but there’s a better chance of an iceberg forming in the Sahara than me getting my father to a doctor without him being knocked unconscious.”

  “No problem. I’ve got pills for that!” Mr. Goodbee teased as he walked James to the door.

  “There are plenty of times when I could use ‘knock-you-unconscious’ pills for Pop,” James mumbled as the door was locked behind him. He glanced at the orange pill bottle and then at his own reflection in the pharmacy door. His pouch hung out over his pants like a hot air balloon trying to squeeze out of a narrow cave opening. The double chin that had shrunk so nicely during the fall was filling itself back up. James shook his face from side to side and could see an unhappy resemblance between his fleshy neck and a pelican with a bill loaded with fish. He sighed as he headed back to his truck. “And there are times I could use them on myself.”

  “Oh, here’s James!” Lindy exclaimed. “I was just telling everyone about our encounter with Veronica Levitt. I stopped by her fitness center and peeked through the window today. She had some brochures sitting in a display case outside so I grabbed a couple. Here, take one.” Lindy slid a pink brochure across the table to James. “We can look them over while we eat.”

  The brochure, which looked as though it had been created by a printer with low toner, was covered with illustrations of smiling red hearts lifting free weights. The text on the front panel read:

  ARE YOU READY TO GROW

  • FITTER?

  • LEANER?

  • STRONGER?

  • MORE TONED?

  • SEXIER?

  ARE YOU READY FOR

  • A NEW CLOSET OF CLOTHES?

  �
�� CONFIDENCE?

  • A LONGER LIFE SPAN?

  • A CHANCE TO TAKE CONTROL?

  • HAPPINESS?

  JOIN WITNESS TO FITNESS TODAY!

  “I’ll take sexier.” Gillian O’Malley giggled, patting her orange cloud of hair. Gillian was barrel-shaped and tried to draw attention to her shapely legs by wearing billowy shirts. A few months ago, she had begun wearing rather form-fitting tops that were more flattering to her figure, but recently she had resumed wearing the blouses James secretly called her “circus tent tops” due to their voluminous shape and brilliant hues.

  U.S. Postal Service employee Bennett Marshall examined his brochure cautiously. “I’d like to be stronger, but offering happiness to another person by puttin’ them on some diet seems like a bit of a stretch if you ask me.” He stood and cleared the remainder of their meal, which had consisted of cheddar burgers (without buns), spinach salad, marinated mushrooms, and ricotta cheesecake. As he cleaned off a water ring from beneath a tumbler filled with diet soda, Bennett cast suspicious glances at the brochures scattered across the surface of his dining room table.

  “I, for one, am pretty sick of eating the food we’ve been eating,” Lucy said as she gestured at the pile of dirty plates stacked near Bennett’s sink. “I love your company, you guys. You have become my closest friends, but … well, I haven’t been honest with you lately. See, I haven’t been eating this kind of stuff on my own any more. I think I got kind of burned out on it.”

  Lindy nodded in agreement. “It’s been hard packing the right lunches to bring to school, too. I’ve had to eat the same things week after week. For the last two months I’ve started eating cafeteria food again. Stuff that we shouldn’t have like macaroni and cheese, garlic bread, and even those crispy, seasoned fries every now and then.”

  “Stop!” Lucy shrieked. “Please! I’ll run right out to McDonald’s for fries this instant if I think about them too much.”