Chapter 1 - A dry heat

The leaden sky refused to storm, refused to provide any relief from the late September heat. Everything was dry, the leaves, the grass, the wood creaking under Maggie’s feet. Everything but Maggie herself was parched. Her skin was drenched with sweat and splashes of water and sealed with a shimmer of grease and grime on top. Though she cleaned all day, and the Bondsville Boarding House for Working Men was sparkling, she was decidedly not.

“Ain’t you done yet? The men will be home in five minutes.” Aunt Nora sniped at her from the doorway. She crossed her thin, wiry arms over her narrow chest and squinted. Glasses? She insisted she didn’t need them, but the wrinkles around her eyes were deeper by the day. “And if dinner’s late, they’ll try to pay their damn rent late too, and I can’t be having with that.”

Maggie carefully kept her lips sealed closed lest a stray truth come flying out. *Aunt, if you helped me, even just to peel a potato or scrub a plate, the meals would be out on time every time.*

She was lucky to be here, to have such a generous aunt. Every night, she slept dreamlessly, ground to the bone with chores. But, she slept in a bed, on cotton sheets, with a roof over her head and a bit of food in her stomach, and the food was usually decent quality at that. She shouldn’t complain. It could always be worse.
She said that phrase to herself so often that it was practically her motto, or her most fervent prayer. Shouldn’t complain, it could be worse. Can’t complain, it could always be worse.

Out loud, she settled for apologizing meekly. “Sorry, Aunt. It will be ready in just a moment, Aunt.” Despite her aunt’s griping, Maggie worked miracles in the kitchen on the scale of the loaves and fishes. Somehow Aunt’s stingy budget multiplied under Maggie’s care into trays full of hearty casseroles full of roasted vegetables and savory meats. Freshly baked bread graced the table at every meal. Maggie took great pride in her work. The kitchen was truly the heart of this boarding house, and radiated warmth through the building and its people, even if she, its lifeblood, was often left cold.

She chanted her motto over and over as she ran each heavy pan full of delicious victuals over to the sideboard. The men arrived, just as she set down the second tray, each one weary from his day and ravenous. “Evening, miss” was the sum of the conversation they could muster. They ate with a singular focus, too tired to do anything else.

Soon, they finished dinner and the last drops of gravy had been wiped up with sweet brown bread. Aunt dug into her portion while Maggie cleaned up. She preferred to eat when it was quiet, once everyone else had retired and the kitchen was hers and hers alone.

It was only after she brought the first load of dirty dishes into the kitchen that she noticed she had a shadow, a tall, gangly intruder into her kingdom. “Mister…” What on earth was his name?

“Nowak, Miss Driscoll, Jim Nowak. I was thinking I could be a help to you now and again, if you should like it,” he beamed down at her, a gawky young man of six feet or more. He was supposed to be handsome. Maggie wondered why she felt nothing when she looked at handsome men — or beautiful women for that matter. The old pair of schoolmarms living up the road had, by quiet example, shown Maggie there were more kinds of love than were commonly discussed. They seemed quite happy whenever Maggie brought a pie over, and she’d wondered if maybe she might prefer her own sex’s company.

But no one had ever caught her eye. Neither men nor women seemed to interest her. At least she had cooking, and the occasional melodrama, in print or, even more rarely, at the nickelodeon. Why did those interest her, when real people didn’t?

Right now, she needed to get away from Jimmy’s well-intentioned intrusion. “It’s quite all right,” she said, “I am more than capable of handling my work by myself.” His face fell. Oh dear, it seemed she said that a touch more sharply than she meant.

“I know you can, miss, I didn’t mean to imply you were anything other than a good housekeeper!” She shifted nervously on his feet. “I was thinking that perhaps we could chat, get to know one another a bit.” He scratched the back of his neck. Maggie tried to avoid noticing the dirt under his nails.

“I’m afraid you simply can’t because of… “ Drat her impulsive tongue. What could stop a man set on a woman? “The insurance man!”

“Pardon?” he asked, suddenly looking irate. “Has he been bothering you?”

“Oh, Jim, I don’t mean like that. He came by the other day and told me a terrible story of a… an injury in the kitchen, and warned me not to let anyone but family in. If anything happened to one of our tenants, goodness! We’d be ruined!” It sounded plausible to her, if a bit stupid, but Jim looked alarmed.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want that! Perhaps we’ll catch up after church on Sunday.”

“That sounds lovely,” she said, strict and polite, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. He departed with a yearning look, as if he expected her to call him back at any moment.

Her escape complete, she pulled out her own plate from where it warmed in the oven. Three cookies, wrapped in a napkin, would be her dessert, enjoyed out under the stars while Maggie pondered the world outside the Pioneer Valley. Surely there was more in life than cooking and cleaning and reading, but she hadn’t found it yet.

Above her, she heard her aunt’s door slam shut and the many locks click into place. She retired with a stiff drink to listen to the wireless in her chambers. When she was feeling generous, she invited Maggie in to listen too.

The faint sound of a radio play wafted through the floor. Maggie chewed her dinner thoughtfully. The radio made her think of the whole, wide world, an evocative phrase she loved, much, much more than the other phrase she lived by. It glittered in her mind, the skyscrapers of New York City, the beaches of Florida, the great huge trees of California. Sure there were pyramids and great walls too, but her forays into the library to read National Geographic had left her with a wish to see her own country first.

Her attention drifted around the kitchen and she slowly rose and washed the dishes, one after another, as if in a trance. Maggie threw the window open wider to air out the stuffy kitchen. Above the sound of the dishes clinking in her hands, a new sound floated to her ears. A merry calliope’s song, and brass, and drums, and life!

She hadn’t been to a carnival in ages. She didn’t even know one was coming to town. A rare whim hit her, and she made her decision in a split second.

Her hands moved faster and she finished her chores in a blur and half, then threw off her apron. She flipped the jar that held her many spoons and spatulas to empty the thin envelope taped to the bottom. She could spare enough from her secret baking business to go to a fair for one night, there was no harm in it. Her chores were done, church was days away, a bit of gaiety would do her good and make her day tomorrow so much more bearable.

She slipped out the back door quietly, on light feet, and stepped into the night, heading right for the bright lights and joyful sounds.

***

Whoever invented those spinny cups was quite wicked, she thought woozily. She discreetly stumbled through the crowd until she found a bale of hay to rest on while she gathered her wits. Slowly, the earth stopped moving, and she realized she hadn’t seen this part of the fair yet. Several posters graced the side of the tent in front of her. TWO-HEADED DEVIL GOAT, blared one in garish colors while a placid-looking goat with two heads stood on a small pedestal. STRONGEST MAN ALIVE shouted another, with a handsome man twirling his mustache at the viewer. Several others drifted by her attention as she walked down the tent’s aside, but that one truly caught her eye: THE HALF-TON MAN. A vast sphere of a man, pink and plump and rounder than any human could be sat, grinning, with a pie in each hand.

She stopped dead in her tracks and stared at this vision. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. It was like her world had changed just by seeing this poster. Could there really be a person who looked like that? Someone so fat his neck was lost in rolls and chins and a pillowy chest? His waist was wider than her armspan. She stepped forward to examine the picture further.

Berry stains reddened his lips, and the artist had depicted crumbs scattering over his chest. One pie had a huge bite taken out of it, and his cheeks bulged, stuffed with goodies. He looked so soft, indulgent, and the mess he’d made all over himself was strangely alluring too. He was undomesticated, a fat, feral tomcat behaving precisely as he chose. The precise opposite of her own life.

She handed a few coins to the barker, deaf to what he cried, and entered the tent. She passed by pickled punks surrounded by gawking ten-year-olds, a strong man flexing for an audience of beauties, a shabby-looking goat (its second head a mere growth on its neck) being curiously examined by a few old men, and then at the end of the tent, a bit apart from the others, on a low stage, sat the fattest person Maggie had ever seen.
He wore a wrestling singlet, or maybe a pair of overalls, or a much-modified pair of long underwear. Whatever the garment had been originally, it was now merely two straps and a pair of shorts on his immense body. At slow intervals, he waved a fan over his bulk to cool him in the hot evening air.

His belly filled his lap and forced his legs wide apart, while his chest was two downy pillows covered in a fine, soft-looking pile of hair. Creases and folds marked his side, and when Maggie dropped her gaze, overwhelmed, she saw his thighs were in the same condition. They bulged under his belly. His body seemed, to her, to be framing his belly, placing it on display for attention round thighs below, soft male breasts above, rolls like a filigree of fat on the left and right.
He was exquisite. Her heart felt like it was pounding out of her chest, the world felt vast and tiny and in the palm of her hand. Could she approach him? What would he say? How did one go about introducing oneself to a stage performer?

She knew she gawked, but he seemed to scarcely take notice of her. He merely gazed off into the middle distance, bored.

After a minute of worshipful staring, his belly loudly growled. The fat man was hungry. It was like fate, her being here. Seizing the moment, she triumphantly pulled the half-forgotten cookies from her pocket. Wrapped in a napkin, they were no worse for the wear, and she held the small parcel out and up to the huge man. “Mister, would you like a cookie?”

His gaze slowly, smoothly wheeled around toward her and alighted on her with a curious glint. He tilted his head, and replied, “Some home-baking sure would be lovely.” He had a trace of a flat, softly drawling accent, not like her broad A’s and missing R’s. He reached for the goodies, and Maggie watched in breathless delight as he found he couldn’t bend low enough to grasp the cookies.

He puffed a sharp, exasperated gasp. “Miss, could you bring them up here?” He slapped his belly with a fond yet rueful expression. “I’m afraid this here blimp doesn’t let me move like I used to.”

She nodded, her tongue glued to the roof of her mouth, and she wordlessly scrambled up the side of the stage. He accepted the small parcel with a greedy, thrilled coo of excitement, and stuffed the first cookie into his mouth in one go. They were not small cookies. Maggie baked for working men with big appetites, but this huge fellow was far hungrier than they were. The other two cookies were gobbled in quick succession.
Crumbs fell as he ate, just as the picture had shown. Was it drawn from life then, with him eating full pies in one go? He burped, clapping his hand over his mouth guiltily. “Those were delicious, miss. Pardon my manners.” He held his hand over his mouth again, this time quieting his belch, though it was still rather loud. “I guess I don’t often talk with pretty ladies like you, my manners are awful.”

Maggie still hadn’t found the courage to speak, but the seconds were ticking by fast and she’s soon have to leave. “My name is Maggie, what’s yours?” It came out as one breathless word. The fat man was still for a second while he tried to decode her rushed speech.

“Well, hello there, Miss Maggie. I’m Sam,” he said, and held out his hand. She tucked hers into his plump, sweaty grip, and he shook with surprising gentleness. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” she said quickly. He hadn’t released her hand, nor had she pulled it away.

Sam gave her an odd look, but grinned. “That’s sweet of you to say.” The bustle of the crowd had quieted outside and within the tent. Far away, Maggie heard the barker make an announcement. Sam seemed to recognize the cue, though. “Drat. Afraid we’re packing up for the night, miss. They won’t let you stay. Thanks for the cookies, though.”

“I made them myself,” she said. Her whole body resisted the idea of leaving this dingy tent, with the scents of too many humans and hay dust in her nose. When Sam moved, she caught a whiff of him, a bit stale with sweat after his own long day on show for the rubes. It smelled exquisitely masculine, an aroma that made Maggie want to jump on him and rub against him like a cat.

His grin widened. “You’re a great baker. I wish I could have more of your work.” He rubbed his belly which gurgled appreciatively. Little groans and pops sounded, making her think of how loud his gut would be if she pressed her ear to that churning tank. Why was the sound of his digestion making her feel dizzy?

“I could bring some by!” she blurted. She hadn’t any idea how obvious her interest was, or how welcome it was too.

“Tell the fellow at the gate you have a delivery for Fat Sam,” he said, still clinging to her small, slim paw. “Happens often enough, he’ll know where to send you.”

“I will, I surely will,” she said. The barker shouted into the tent, sounding tired and irritable, to send the marks home and let the performers rest. She turned to obey, then thought better of it. “Do you have any requests? Favorites?”

He licked his lips and his eyes grew bright, adorably greedy for treats. Sam rocked back in his chair, his immense belly changing its shape, shifting as he moved, mesmerizing Maggie. “I love anything with jam and fruit in it. I know it’s a bit dear – ”

It was Maggie's turn to grin, bright as sunshine. Images of Sam, swollen with her baking, covered in crumbs and jam, belching, gurgling, even passing gas floated through her mind to her equal shock and delight. She scandalized herself. “Don’t you know where you are, Fat Sam? We’ve got more apple farms and sugarhouses than you could shake a stick at, jam and sweets are quite easy to find. I’ll be by tomorrow night.”

***

Her dream that night was unlike any she’d had before. Sam knelt on all fours, snatching fistfuls of pastries and pies and gobbling them up like a hog at a trough. The way he groaned and grunted was animalistic, yet as sweet as music. His swollen belly sagged under him, and would have hit the ground if not for the thin, yearning woman pinned under him.

Maggie’s hands groped the rolls on his sides, while her eyes were locked on his gorging maw. His belly was getting fuller and heavier by the moment. Every mouthful fattened him further in her sleeping fantasy, and she watched him visibly swell with fear, with anticipation, with a mix of longing and terror. He was getting so fat, so unbelievably immense. She would be crushed.

She couldn’t wait.