Читать книгу Hungry for Happiness - James Villas - Страница 10

Sometimes I don’t know why I go out of my way to be nice to my sister since she don’t seem to really appreciate anything I do for her and Rufus and the children. Take the other day when I glazed a whole goddamn ham with molasses and brown sugar and mustard and dropped it off just so they’d have something to eat besides all that junk food they live on. Well, Gladys takes one look at the beautiful ham and, without so much as a nod of thanks, says, “Sis, I thought you knew the one thing these kids won’t touch is ham—not even the potted stuff on crackers.”

“That’s news to me,” I said, “but that don’t mean you and Rufus can’t enjoy it. That glaze is pretty amazing, if I say so myself.”

“Hon, you know I’m trying to watch my weight,” she commented next as she grabbed a knife on the counter, and hacked off a thick slice of the ham, and wolfed it down without saying yea or nay. She then let out a quick laugh. “And sometimes I think the only things my children really love are Double Whoppers with mayo and fries.”

I don’t waste my breath anymore telling Gladys for the millionth time that all four of those poor kids are already dangerously overweight and just following in their parents’ footsteps just the way me and her did Mama and Daddy—and Rufus himself must now tip the scales at about 275. I mean, I know if I dare criticize any of them, all Gladys will do is accuse me of trying to be holier than thou, and tell me how healthy the doctors says they all are, and repeat she’s not about to put Rufus on some cruel diet the way he works his tail off five days a week hauling lumber out to big construction sites all over town. You’d think after that awful operation she had to go through to replace that knee, Gladys would have seen the light by now, but even when we were kids, nobody could ever tell Gladys anything, and she always did just as she pleased.

Not that me and Gladys were ever rivals or anything or that Mama and Daddy treated us differently, though I do think she’d get a little envious when me and Mama would spend lots of time in the kitchen together, or when Daddy would take me out to Texas Jubilee while Gladys was up the street watching horror movies on TV with her more grown-up friends. Of course we were both fat as pigs, but, so help me God, I don’t think the weight ever fazed Gladys one iota, even when we were older, and that eating anything and everything we wanted was just another privilege she thought we both deserved. Myself, yeah, I remember it really did embarrass me not being able to wear anything but cheap tunics and shifts and stretch leggings and to be called all those awful names by the other kids, but what was I supposed to think or do at that age when my own older sister was as convinced as Mama and Daddy that we were all normal and nothing was ever going to change?

Maybe nothing bothered Gladys since she’s strong as an ox, and could be tough as nails, and always knew exactly how to handle herself and even look after me when trouble was brewing. Like the time in middle school when Bobby Wainwright and Leo Schwartz and another guy scotch-taped a drawing of a cow with huge utters on my locker and began mooing at me and called me horrible names when I went to get my math book for Mrs. Devereaux’s class. Well, I could hardly keep myself from crying all through class, and afterwards at lunch in the cafeteria, I showed the humiliating picture to Gladys, and told her what had happened, and the next thing I know she’s spotted Leo and marched up to his table with me right behind and told him to come outside a minute on the flagstone terrace so she could show him something.

“Leo, I see you and your buddies like to play games with Loretta here,” Gladys says to him as she holds up the disgusting drawing, then begins to tear it into shreds.

Leo backs away against a ledge, and peels the wrapper off a piece of gum, and says, “Oh, shit, Gladys, we was just having a little fun.”

I notice Prissy Killian and Marge Cunningham almost hidden at the other end of the terrace hovering over a cigarette, and they’re watching us and giggling.

Gladys is a year older than Leo and about double his size, and she stands in front of him with her hands on her broad hips and says, “Don’t put that gum in your mouth yet, bud.”

“Why not?” he asks.

“’Cause you gotta eat something else first,” she says as she holds up the handful of shredded paper.

“Whatcha talking ’bout?” he asks next, like he’s either dumbfounded or kinda scared.

“You say you and your buddies like to have a little fun,” she goes on, “so I think it’s me and my sister’s turn to have our own type of fun by watching you eat your funny picture.”

Well, Leo’s now got this real nervous look on his face, and pushes himself up from the ledge, and says, “Hey, I’m outta here.” But no sooner has he budged than Gladys knocks him back with one stiff blow of her other hand, which almost makes him lose his balance.

I look around to see if anybody else but Prissy and Marge is watching, then tell Gladys, “Let’s not get in any trouble, hon. Let’s just forget about it.”

“The hell we will,” she almost explodes. “Our friend here thinks he’s man enough to stick up ugly pictures and call somebody big names, so let’s see if he’s man enough to eat his words.” She then holds out the paper. “Eat it, bud, and swallow it.”

“You crazy or something, Gladys?” he mutters like a scared cat as he tries again to get up. “I’ll report you.”

She shoves him back to the ledge with a single thrust and says louder, “You do that, you jerk. You go report us to anybody you like, and while you’re at it, tell ’em how many students saw that filthy drawing and heard what you and your buddies were calling my sister. Now, eat the paper or I’ll cram it down your goddamn throat.” Like I say, Gladys could be tough as nails when her dander was up.

I could still hear Prissy and Marge snickering as they sneaked puffs on their cigarette and watched as Leo took pieces of paper out of Gladys’s fat hand, and stuck them in his mouth, and tried to chew while she repeated, “Swallow it, jerk.” For a minute, I thought the guy was actually gonna start crying from the humiliation and felt sorta sorry for him, but all Gladys uttered when she finally stood back with her hands on her hips and watched him slink away was “Baaaaa!”

Okay, I guess that was pretty cruel of Gladys, but experiences like that did teach me I didn’t have to put up with all the crap and that actually size could be to my advantage when having to deal with blowbags like Leo Schwartz and Bobby Wainwright. What’s kinda funny is how, as time passed, Gladys seemed to tame down some while I became the one who could take the bull by the horns if anybody—including Mama—insulted me or her and tried to make us feel stupid or something. This didn’t happen very often, but if it did, Gladys knew for damn sure I’d step up to the plate for her the way she did for me.

The truth is, Gladys was always more social than I ever was and, for some reason, had lots more friends and dates. Oh, I suppose any other sister would have been jealous, but how could I be jealous when my grades were so much better than Gladys’s, and I won prizes for my sax playing in the band, and nobody but nobody could beat me at ping-pong tournaments or arm wrestling?

Of course everything changed for good when Gladys married Rufus and they started breeding like chickens. Now she no longer had the time or energy to go swimming out at Suttles Park, or play ladies pool on the team every Friday at Bigalo’s Parlor, or drive over to LaMarque to watch drag racing, or do lots of the things we used to do together when she wasn’t working a shift at Roy Rogers and me at Otto Glass and Aluminum. Then I met Lyman one night at Lucky Strike, and the problem there was that Lyman and Rufus couldn’t have been more different and just didn’t get on very good. Well, needless to say, with four kids to support and a mortgage to pay and Rufus on minimum wage at the lumberyard, it’s about all the two can now do to make ends meet. No social life to speak of, no special church activities, no celebrations in restaurants, not even many ball games—I mean, sometimes I think the only things Gladys and Rufus do is fool around with those rotten kids and stuff themselves with chicken McNuggets and deli takeout and frozen pizzas round the clock.

Not that I’m one to talk, but I can boil an egg and do know the difference between real country sausage and a pig-on-the-stick. And unlike Gladys, I finally did take a big step to pull myself out of the gutter and improve my image and health.

“Oh, Miss Goody-Goody now thinks she deserves a goddamn medal,” Gladys lambasted me during one of her foul moods not long ago in the car when I told her how much weight I’d lost.

“Honey, I don’t think anything of the sort, and you’re just being a bitch,” I shot back at her.

“At least I still got a husband who gives a shit about me, not to mention a fine boy and three precious girls.”

“Yeah, till he drops dead like Daddy from a massive heart attack, and you gotta have the other knee replaced, and…boy, sister, you can still be as hard-headed as you ever were.”

“Let, why don’t you worry ’bout yourself and stop sticking your nose in my business?”

“’Cause, honey, whether you believe it or not, I do worry ’bout you just the way I worry ’bout Mama.”

“Whatta we gonna do about Mama?”

And with that sudden question, our little fight was over with—almost like the pointless arguments we had as young girls and then forgot about. I know Gladys is probably never gonna change her ways, but after all, she is still my sister and it’s only natural for me to care about what happens to her. No matter that sometimes I could choke her to death.