Chapter 3 - latenight snacks

163. 164. 167. I had stopped letting any of them see the scale while I weighed them, so he didn't know about the gains. The day I'd gotten him to eat all of his breakfast and lunch plus an extra roll, a piece of pound cake, and two bowls of caramel probably corresponded to the three-pound increase, the largest we'd seen. He kept asking for more pills, and I kept putting him off, not telling him that he was already nearly halfway there--figuring I'd measure the ten pounds from the day Eras had mentioned it, when he'd been 162, rather than his initial 158. The next day he was stagnant. The day after, 168. The day after that, 165. I glared sourly at the chart in my hands. "What?" he asked.

"Three pounds lighter," I said. He brightened. "No, don't be happy. You don't get a pill today."

"What?" he screeched.

"That was the deal."

"I don't remember that!"

"You only remember things when it's convenient, don't you?"

"And you think I'm trying to lose weight? Didn't you say yourself to Jill just the other day that people's bodies are unpredictable and you--you gain some, you lose some . . ." He was quoting me rather accurately, mimicking my voice the way he'd mimicked Eras's.

"Not my problem," I said unsympathetically. "Make sure you don't lose any more weight, that's all."

He almost growled like a dog but, rather than arguing, went instead to his den and hid there all day. Only by reminding him that he had a pill to earn himself could I get him to come out and eat most of his meals. At dessert time, as usual, I brought him a snack. This time, I had to take it directly into his bedroom.

I'd taken to requesting things like macaroni and tater tots more often from the kitchen for his regular meals, hoping he'd be drawn in by the taste of things he enjoyed. It seemed to work, although they wouldn't do salmon for me (too expensive, apparently). Tonight I brought him a piece of chewy, chocolate-ripple pound cake that I'd diced into large chunks and coated thoroughly with caramel frosting. Despite the fact that he had told me a week ago that reverse psychology wouldn't work on him anymore, I'd decided to try the same thing again.

"I figured since you're not feeling very kindly toward me at the moment, you wouldn't be interested in much dessert," I said, "but if you are, here's some of the cake I had prepared for you."

"Cake?" He sniffed at me and tasted one of the cubes. "Mm." He grunted appreciatively. "This is just some of it?"

I shrugged like it didn't matter. "It's just half a piece." Half of one of the pieces. "I left the rest in the kitchen." I didn't offer to go fetch it for him. He ate another square and nodded to himself. Confident I had him, I left. I could feel his surprised eyes on me as I paced back into the hallway.

Mere seconds passed before he came back out with the plate, still working over the last piece. I affected surprise. "I want to taste the rest," he said. I pointed at the plate on the counter. I'd said it was a half piece still waiting for him; in reality, it was two full-sized pieces, twelve chunks, all coated in glossy maple-gold caramel frosting. Charlie went straight to the counter and stood over it, devouring every single piece. Behind his slightly hunched back, I grinned to myself.

He wasn't finished. "Do you have any Oreos?" he asked.

Sadly, I shook my head. "No. All out. But there will be more tomorrow after we restock."

"Hmm." He glanced absently around the kitchen, wiping his mouth on his wrist. "Ice cream?"

"What flavor?"

"Same as the other day. Vanilla with chocolate sauce."

I got it for him.

As I had the first time I'd given him ice cream, I added scoops to his bowl and recoated them in chocolate as he finished older ones as inconspicuously as possible. He didn't react this time and kept eating. I got him through five fist-sized scoops before he called a halt and licked the spoon, then his lips, clean. "That was good."

"I'm glad you enjoyed yourself."

He glanced at me, suspicious.

"I'm sorry you couldn't have your pill today," I said. "Was this an all right substitute?"

"Maybe." He shrugged.

"Would you like some pie?"

"Not a fan," he said. With a sigh, he leaned back in his seat and propped his arms on the armrests, the same pose I'd seen Luke, Jill, and Stacy adopt when they were feeling the tightness in their bellies. When he was looking away, I risked an evaluating glance. He was definitely holding himself looser, since he was full, but I still couldn't really see a difference in his true size yet.

"Cake?"

"Eh."
Calmly, he yawned, then scratched his side. He was still tight enough that nothing jiggled.

"Cookies?"

" No . . ."

"I'll bet you don't want sweets," I predicted. "How about some of that fettuccini left over from lunch? I'll warm it up for you."

He considered it. I saw his expression sharpen--I held my breath, hoping--then, slowly, relax again. "How bout just a small bowl."

Small became rather large, but not as large as Stacy usually had, so it looked smallish by comparison. Conceivably. He didn't object to it and ate it at a leisurely pace, finishing it all by ten o'clock. (I delayed his desserts as long as possible so as to get food in his stomach as close to sleep as possible, when he would be least active.) He sat and relaxed in the chair, and we both listened to the sounds of the television in the next room--Charlie was at his most calm when the other three were nowhere in sight. I gave him a few minutes to think about it, listening to his percolating stomach and his occasional burps. After a particularly large one, when I knew he'd feel some of the tension relieved, I said, "There's some bacon if you want it. Nobody seemed to want it at breakfast this morning." Variety, to keep him from getting tired of the taste.

He tilted his head. "Not a bacon fan, either. You know . . ."

"Yes?"

"Can I have some bread?"

"Of course." There were loaves and loaves of bread: white, wheat, sweet, sourdough, rye. The humans liked to eat it with butter, jam, oil, cheese, or just by itself. "What kind?"

"Sourdough, please."

I brought it to him and sliced off, every time he reached forward again, as many pieces as he'd just swallowed. He coated them in butter and licked his fingers clean after each one. This was the most gluttonous I'd ever seen him. It excited me.

"You know," he said, in between bites a few pieces later, "this isn't going to last."

"Hmm?"

"W hen I've got my pills back," he said, "it's back to normal."

"Oh."

My voice was disappointed--but I'd heard him claim something like this before.

"It's okay," he said, seeing the knife sawing at the bread hesitate. "I'm eating a lot today, it's true. I want my pill back. How much do you think I have to eat to gain back those three pounds?" He had to completely regain all he'd lost in order to get his pill; just gaining again wasn't enough.

"More than this," I said, since that was the only possible answer. "But you understand what you're eating now will be delayed approximately three days?"

"I know, you keep saying that."

"So if you gain three pounds tomorrow, it'll be because three days ago you ate enough, but that doesn't reflect on how you're eating today."

"Yeah." He put the last of the bread into his mouth. He'd finished the loaf--not quite as impressive when you considered Stacy had demolished more than half of it this morning with an entire stick of butter, but still, it smelled like progress.

"Tomorrow morning, you might not weigh enough yet for your pill."

He grimaced.

"But here's an idea," I said. "I'm supposed to weigh you before you eat anything. Tomorrow morning, if you want, I'll weigh you after you've eaten. Sound good?"

He brightened. "Sure. Yes."

"Just make sure you're ready by the time I get here," I said. "You know I have to have the charts in to the Organizer by the time breakfast's over."

"Yeah, I can do that. And I'll get my pill?"

"I can only get the pill from my boss if she sees you back at your prior weight. If you haven't lost any more from three days ago and your stomach's full, you might make it."

His eyes slid to mine. "Couldn't you just write down the number, though?"

"No," I said, "the scale's digital. It remembers. The Organizer checks at the end of the week, and Eras will see it."

"Can I hold one of the chairs while you weigh me?"

I chuckled quietly and slid the knife away, brushing all the crumbs he had dropped onto the floor. The cleanup crew came in after they were asleep, so making a mess wasn't a problem. "No. I'm not a liar."

"But--"

" But, I'm willing to help you out a little."

He sighed.

"It's your choice."

"Yes," he said, "yes, I already said that. I'll do it."

"All right," I said. "Do you have enough room for a little more?"

"Oh, god . . ." His hand went to his distended belly. "I'm not sure . . ."

"Best not push it," I said understandingly. "You'll get those three pounds back eventually. No need to hurry."

His chest swelled as he took a deep breath. I waited. "Bring me a milkshake, please?"

"Liquids might be easier to swallow," I agreed, and pretended I wasn't fluttery with triumph as I made him his shake from ice cream, milk, and chocolate sauce--nearly the same ingredients as half an hour ago, but streamlined for rapid ingestion. I had a delightful feeling that no matter what he weighed tomorrow, in the coming days he'd find himself ahead by much more than just three pounds. I already had tomorrow morning in the bag.