Shipping Sharon Page 3

  Upon reaching a whopping two hundred and seventy pounds, something finally snapped--besides the pine legs of a kitchen chair during dinner one night. A bloated, lethargic caricature of her former self, Maisy was desperate to recapture her sanity. Guffawing at her announcement that she was enrolling in travel school to become a travel agent, John offered his good wishes. Who the fuck do you think is going to make any travel arrangements with a whale like you? he'd asked. Hey, if they've got a chair wide enough to accommodate your big fat ass, then go ahead and knock your socks off, Moby Dick.

  It was a Tuesday night, Maisy remembered--computer training night at the Persimmon School of Travel. The computers were down and the class was rescheduled. Arriving home about two hours earlier than usual, Maisy heard what sounded like the television coming from her bedroom. She couldn't imagine why John was up there watching TV instead of downstairs in his study. Huffing and puffing the way she always did, lumbering up those damned stairs, Maisy realized that it wasn't the television, but John's voice that she heard. John's and someone else's--a woman's. Reaching the doorway to her bedroom, she saw them. Some toothpick with chili-pepper-red hair half way down her spiny back was straddling John and they were . . . well, they were screwing.

  Her heart vaulting into her throat, Maisy froze. "John, what the hell is going on?" Her booming voice trembled with a complexity of emotions.

  Jerking around to face Maisy, the anorexic redhead fell from John as he scrambled to sit up. Maisy immediately recognized Sharon Chaney, who worked in the same office as John, from her top sales associate photos in the newspaper. Her reputation throughout the real estate industry as a barracuda--cutthroat, aggressive, morally and ethically bereft--was unequaled.

  "What the fuck does it look like, you fat, dumb bitch?" John said, clearly startled and pissed off my Maisy's unexpected intrusion. "I thought you were supposed to be at school. What are you doing, spying on me?" Snorting, he took a swig from the half-empty Jack Daniels bottle on the nightstand.

  "Shit. Who the hell is that?" the redheaded twig asked, giving Maisy an incredulous once over. "Christ, don't tell me that's your wife?" Sitting there, entwined in the brand new set of 280 thread-count Laura Ashley eyelet-trimmed sheets Maisy had just put on her bed this morning, Sharon didn't even having the decency to cover up her perky little bee-sting breasts. Maisy knew she'd never be able to look at another set of Laura Ashley sheets again--much less sleep on them--without envisioning the bee-stung twig.

  John bobbed his head. "Yeah, that's the little wart hog, er, I mean, little woman," he snickered, "in the flesh. They must have sent her home because they can't afford to have any more chairs fractured by her big fat ass." Amused by his pernicious quips, John reveled in base laughter.

  Eyeing Maisy as if she were Jumbo the elephant, Sharon said, "I know you said she was a whale, John, but . . . holy shit." The naked twig then had the further indecency to erupt into laughter, with John immediately following suit.

  "What did I tell you, baby? It's like living with Moby Dick for chrissakes." John pulled Sharon back to his side, offering her a swill of Jack Daniels, which she eagerly sucked back. "Here," he said, defiantly fondling one of Sharon's tiny breasts as an aghast Maisy stood paralyzed in the doorway. "Is this what you came to see? Well, get an eyeful and then get the fuck out of here, you fat, disgusting wart hog. You're cramping my style." He and Sharon broke into maniacal laughter, and Maisy thought her shattered ego would join in a suicide mission with her pummeled heart and burst right through her chest.

  Her vision blurred with tears, Maisy turned and was about to head downstairs--with the intention of drowning her sorrow in a couple of Whoppers, fries, onion rings and a chocolate shake. But, this time, a tiny voice buried somewhere deep inside stopped her. No, I'm not the one in the wrong here. I will not allow him to do this to me. Ten years of pent up fear, hurt, anger and frustration churned in her stomach and hammered at her temples. Suddenly Maisy heard herself shouting with authority and conviction. "I'm not the one who's going anywhere, you goddamned, miserable bastard. I want you packed and out of this house in ten minutes--you and your little slut girlfriend."

  Bolting out of the bed, John stood there with all his flaccid, masculine glory hanging out. Thumbkin had shrunk to the size of a peanut. "Hey, who the fuck do you think you're talking to, huh? Have you forgotten that I'm the one who says what goes around here," he jabbed the air with a pointed finger, "not you, you lard-assed, mealy mouthed idiot. Go stick your fat face in a pig trough and drown yourself."

  Bringing her full girth into the room, Maisy stood, arms akimbo, at the foot of the bed. "Your grisly reign as Attila the Hun, head-honcho, and chief decision maker has just come to an end, John. I'm divorcing you." She glanced at her watch. "Now you've only got eight minutes. If you're not out of here, I'll call the police first and then the newspaper. Let's see how the conservative president of Henshaw Realtors might feel about the smarmy, extra-marital affair of his branch manager and his little hot-shot saleswoman plastered all over the papers." Flashing a victorious smile, Maisy held her head high as she jabbed the air with an outstretched finger. "And don't think for a minute that I won't do it. Any pride I once had is long gone, thanks to you. I've got nothing to lose--except for you, you rotten, stinking, vile, amoral sonovabitch." Reclaiming the reins to her life, Maisy felt distinctly exhilarated.

  Hearing Sharon mutter something under her breath, Maisy turned her vengeance on the twig. "As for you," Maisy said, glaring at Sharon. "Unless you want your name plastered all over the papers with that philandering fuck of a husband of mine, you'd better get your bony-ass out of my bed and cover those puny pencil-eraser excuses for breasts before I come over there, grab you by that hennaed mop on your head and drop-kick you down the stairs." God that felt good! Maisy felt twenty pounds lighter and less encumbered than she had in years.

  An eye-popping, drop-jawed expression across her reddened face, Sharon let out a whopping growl. "John, are you just going to let that walking can of Crisco stand there and talk to me like that?"

  Standing flabbergasted and motionless for a moment, John looked toward Sharon. "Just get your clothes on and get out of here," he said, scrambling into his pants. "I'll meet you back at your place." Heaving a gargantuan sigh of frustration, Sharon shrugged and rapidly complied, whispering the words, fat bitch, to Maisy as she slid past her, ran down the stairs and slammed the front door behind her. Galloping down the stairs, John said, "You'll pay for this, Maisy. Mark my words, you'll be sorry."

  Maisy trudged down the stairs behind him. "Hah. That's a laugh," she said breathlessly as she tried in vain to keep pace with him. "Believe me, John, there is nothing--nothing--in the world you could do to make my life any more miserable than you already have these past ten years. You've pushed me around for the last time, buster."

  Stopping dead in his tracks, John turned to face Maisy. His fist raised, jaw twitching, and eye's blazing, he stepped towards her, causing her to catch her breath. Awaiting the worst, Maisy stood her ground with her chin--both of them--held high. This was it. John was going to kill her. She'd be a tsking, laughable finale to the evening news on TV. And on the lighter side--after a fatal jab to the stomach, an obese woman exploded all over the walls and floor of her Schaumburg townhouse tonight. An overpowering odor of chocolate was said to be emanating from the remains. Reportedly busy celebrating his good fortune by screwing his red-haired, perky-breasted, toothpick of a slut, the deceased's husband couldn't be reached for comment.

  Much to Maisy's amazement, John pulled back and turned away, mumbling a string of creative expletives under his breath. In a matter of minutes he had stuffed the clothes from the bureau in his study into a suitcase, all the while fuming and ranting. Gathering John's perfectly starched and pressed dress shirts from his closet, Maisy hurled them to the floor and kicked them towards her husband. "Here, bring these to your skinny little playmate and tell her the laundress job is all hers from now on." Maisy's face beamed with tri
umph as she spoke. Instead of heading for food once John was out the door, Maisy sat down and designed a healthy plan of action for herself. Bound and determined to drag herself out of the chocolate-coated pits of despair that had become her daily existence, she made a commitment to herself that there would be no more bingeing.

  "And," Maisy said at the recollection, "I kept that promise for a full year and a half--until yesterday's chocolate fiasco."

  "Ms. Morganfield? ... Ms. Morganfield? We're sorry to bother you, but they told us we could come back here to see you. Rob Lyons and Dawn Farley--we're here to pick up our travel documents."

  The young man's eager voice snapped Maisy back to the present moment to find the engaged couple standing at her desk. "Oh," she laughed a little, "you're not bothering me a bit. I'm sorry, my head must have been up in the clouds somewhere." Waving her hand Maisy motioned upwards. "Preferably first class on a 747, heading for someplace exotic." She offered a wink and cordial smile. They were so young and adorable ... so innocent looking. Heaving a sigh, Maisy flashed her best smile at the kids. "I've got your packet right here. So when's the big day?"

  Linking arms, the young couple gazed dreamily into each other's eyes. "A week from this Saturday," Dawn said, "and then I'll be Mrs. Rob Lyons." There was such love and admiration in her voice as she hugged her fiancé's arm. Maisy sighed again.

  "You're going to love your cruise. We've had great reports from our clients sailing on the Dawn Princess--she's a breathtaking ship." Maisy reached under her desk and retrieved a Persimmon Travel carry-on. "Here's a little something for after your cruise, to help keep the memories vivid. There's a couple of embroidered Princess bathrobes, and a memory book for your photos and such. I want to wish you both every happiness as you begin your lives together."

  Running around to Maisy's chair, Dawn reached down and pulled her into a hug. "Oh thank you, Ms. Morganfield. You've been so great helping us plan our honeymoon cruise." Echoing his fiancée's sentiments, Rob offered Maisy a vigorous handshake.

  Returning the hug and handshake, Maisy's eyes brimmed with tears as the young couple bounced out of the agency. God, she felt old. She glanced at her watch. Eleven o'clock. Three hours had past since she arrived and she'd accomplished absolutely nothing, other than to wallow in painful memories and bathe in the depths of self-pity. Drawing a resolute breath, and slapping her hand on the desk top, Maisy said, "Enough already, Mazel Lynn Morganfield. It's time you got your shit together and moved on with your life." Turning to face her computer monitor, she proceeded to check her active client files.

  "I see the job's got you talking to yourself, huh Maisy?"

  Maisy glanced up at Norman Stanley, owner of Persimmon Travel, who had propped his ample behind on the edge of her desk. "Nah, it's not the job, Norman ... it's just my life." Flicking her hand in a dismissive fashion, Maisy laughed and shrugged her shoulders. "Seriously, it's no big deal. John's wake just opened a lot of old wounds that I thought had healed eons ago."

  "It's a damn shame he couldn't have seen you looking the way you do now." Norman placed his hand over hers as he spoke. "You've become a positively ravishing creature since that day you came in here and signed up for my travel school. Look at you." He shook his head and tsked. "Maisy, my dear, you're utterly delicious . . . spectacular . . . breathtaking." Gesturing broadly, Norman tossed each word into the air with all the drama and gusto he could muster. "An absolute vision of loveliness."

  Scrunching her features into a twisted smile, Maisy patted her boss's chubby fingers and smiled. "Oh, Norman, I love you. Now if only I could find a man who felt the same way about me, and had all of your wonderful qualities, and ... oh yeah," she chuckled, "wasn't gay--I'd be all set." Winking, she squeezed his hand.

  "It's gonna happen for you, Maisy. Just last night I had another one of my psychic flashes about you," Norman said in a conspiratorial tone as he leaned towards her.

  Resting her elbow on the desk, Maisy cupped her chin with her hand and groaned. "Norman, Norman, Norman," she said, shaking her head and nursing a smirk. "You and your psychic flashes. What am I going to do with you?"

  "No, really, Maisy, I swear to God." Norman emphasized his words by crossing his heart. "Come on, you know how perceptive my psychic flashes are--especially when they involve my very best friends." Closing his eyes, he put his fingers to his temples. "There's a man coming in to your life." He paused a moment, peeking at her with one eye. "Yes, he's straight." Winking, Norman laughed and closed his eyes again. "I see splendid things happening for you ... romance ... love ... travel ..."

  "Oh, please, Irene Hughes, spare me," Maisy said, laughing and cutting Norman off in mid sentence. "And just how many times have you had this very same vision of some great romantic breakthrough coming my way since I started working here? Ten, twelve, twenty times?" Maisy peeked under her desk. "Nope, no gorgeous hunks under here." Craning her neck, she scanned the office. "And, the office is definitely hunkless . . . except for you, of course, Norman." Maisy winked as she patted his knee. "Now," she tapped her finger against her cheek, "where could that psychic vision of a dream-man be hiding, hmmm?"

  "Such a comedienne." Norman folded his arms across his chest. "What you fail to understand, smarty pants, is that the repetitive value of this psychic vision only substantiates it all the more. Each time I get one of my flashes about you it's stronger, and last night was the most powerful of all--I had dreams about it all night."

  "I told you to lay off those pepperoni pizzas, Norman."

  "You know," Norman said, wagging a finger at Maisy, "ESP is a very real phenomenon. Ever since I was a little boy living in that apartment on Clark Street, right upstairs from Sally John's Lounge . . ."

  Dropping her head into her hands, Maisy interrupted with a pained groan. "Yeah, yeah, I know, I've heard this story about a gazillion times, remember? Every time old Norm senior wanted to slosh down a few brews, he brought his kid into the bar so the too-artsy little boy could rub shoulders with some manly men." Maisy hung invisible quotation marks in the air. "And . . ."

  "Mmmm, I still remember some of those big brawny shoulders, too." Norman jiggled his eyebrows and winked.

  Smirking, Maisy ignored Norman's interruption and continued. ". . . and learn how to become more of a real man. And, all the besotted, beer-bellied, old geezers would humor the cute little kid by having him read their palms."

  "Ugh, that sounded so vile," Norman said, rolling his eyes skyward. "How can you take my dramatic, colorful, soulful little slice of life and make it sound so lackluster and mundane?" He tsked.

  "Okay, how's this," Maisy said, smiling. "Each evening, the manly, patrons of Sally John's Lounge zealously awaited the arrival of Norm senior's cherubic little, blonde-banged, clairvoyant boy, Normie. Tethered in ropes of cigarette smoke, the brawny men sat mesmerized as the towheaded wonder-boy gazed into their rough-hewn palms, revealing tantalizing tidbits of their future." Maisy laughed and shook her head. "Better?"

  "Now that's more like it," Norman said, nodding as Maisy collapsed in laughter. Feigning hurt feelings, Norman pouted and folded his arms across his chest. "Sure, go ahead and laugh . . . you'll see. Sally John's bunch were scoffers too, until my predictions started coming true." Wagging his finger, Norman nodded again. "Uh-huh. Then they came back, begging for more. Of course, I made them pay." Winking, he hopped down from Maisy's desk.

  "So you were an entrepreneur at the tender age of ten, huh?"

  "Actually, I was a kept man."

  "At ten?" Maisy raised her eyebrows with interest.

  "Uh-huh. They kept me in bar snacks like pizza, Slim-Jims, beef-jerky, cheese-curls and best of all, they let me suck the foamy heads off of their beer glasses." Norman laughed. "My first decadent foray into gluttony."

  "Tell you what," Maisy said. "If your prediction comes true and I find myself swept into the powerful, waiting arms of an irresistible, straight," she wagged a finger for emphasis, "manly-man, I promise to ply you with bar snacks and let
you suck the foam from my beer."

  Flashing a boyish smile, Norman winked. "Deal," he said, and headed back to his office.

  Maisy truly did love Norman. The gregarious, good-hearted man had befriended Maisy at the lowest point in her life. It was Norman who repeatedly injected her with confidence and positive motivation. And, as her body whittled down in size, it was Norman who employed his snappy, classy sense of style to help teach Maisy how to dress to best showcase the emerging, womanly attributes so long hidden under mounds of fat. And, best of all, it was Norman who brought laughter back into Maisy's life again--and who let her cry on his shoulder when she needed to. This funny, warm, nurturing, gay man had become her closest confidant and best friend.

  "So Norman sees a man coming into my life, huh?" Maisy said, sorting through her mountain of paperwork. Steepling her fingers, she looked skyward and whispered, "As the saying goes ... from his lips to God's ears."

  * * *

  Chapter Three

  A week after Maisy attended John's wake, she and Norman lunched at Chowder Bay, a trendy new seafood house just down the road from Persimmon Travel. "Okay, help me out here, Norman," Maisy said as she scanned the expansive menu. "In my continuing quest to become more cosmopolitan," she raised her eyebrows and smiled, "I've decided to start ordering a glass of wine with lunch instead of the usual Diet Coke. As my mentor, tell me what goes good with salmon?"

  Norman regarded Maisy over the rim of his reading glasses and smiled. "Well, if you remember, at the wine tasting I took you to a couple of weeks ago, they said not to worry about the old red wine with red meat and white wine with fish or chicken rule. Salmon's a very hearty, flavorful fish and I think you'd be safe with just about any kind of wine. Personally, I like a good Riesling with salmon. I think the spicy sweetness offsets salmon's sturdy flavor nicely. And, after a steady diet of Coke," Norman laughed, "you'd probably prefer a wine that's not too dry."