Chapter 6 - realizations

As before, Charlie's steady gain appeared to fluctuate more to him than it did to us. We lied about losses nearly once a week, but kept them small and usually let him overcome them within forty-eight hours. It was just enough to keep him eating steadily with his brain as well as with his stomach, which had, by now, taken over. I asked him again what kinds of foods he liked and if I could do him any favors or bring him any special treats. This time, he rattled off a long list: "Cookies, any kind. Fudge. That double-chocolate layer cake. Actually, any cake. Pretzels, chips--"

"What flavor?"

"Doesn't matter . . . well, I like sour cream and onion a lot. But it's not that important."

"What else? Did you like the chicken you had for dinner yesterday?"

"Oh, that was good. I changed my mind about the steak, too, can you bring me some of that sometime soon? Please?"

"Of course."

"I really want more macaroni and cheese."

"Again?"

&qu ot;Yeah, I think you could just bring that for lunch every day and I wouldn't mind."

"The dieticians have your lunches planned out, but I could bring it in addition to their lunch, if you want."

"Yeah. Definitely. Um . . . oh, god, do you remember what we had for dinner a while back? Those things--with the spaghetti. The spaghetti was good, too, by the way, I'd eat more of that. But we had those fried bread rolls in olive oil, with oregano--"

"I know exactly what you mean. I didn't think you liked those."

"Are you kidding? I loved those."

"I'll see if I can get a hold of a few more for you."

"Thanks. God, those were good."

"Are you hungry now? There's probably still some sherbet in the freezer, if Luke hasn't eaten it all."

"I--yes, please. No, wait, not the sherbet. Is there chocolate ice cream?"

"Luke finished it."

"Can you go get some more?"

"All right. I suppose. Do you want the sherbet anyway while you wait?"

"Sounds good, keeperman."

Not licking my lips when he patted his stomach these days was becoming more like not drooling. He was nowhere near Stacy's size, let alone Luke's, but something about the small yet quivering belly made me sick with longing. Not just the sight; the idea, that it was growing plumper and plumper every day, along with his neck, his thighs, the soft white pudge of his upper arms . . . He had two pills a day now and was often lazy and relaxed; it only heightened the feeling I had when I looked at him. I abused him terribly on the scales, but his desire for food was doing all my work for me. By now, I was almost superfluous.

Over time, though, his weight gain started to slow, though he never lost outright. He was quite a bit heavier now and had noticeably outgrown his pants, but he hadn't said anything.He just stole one of Luke's old shirts from a smaller size and used it to conceal the gaping button in front. Concerned that he might have come to his senses, I dissuaded Eras from withdrawing another day's worth of pills and instead treaded carefully, bringing no food unasked, avoiding his special favorites. I knew how smart he was and how quick he would be to see manipulation. He continued to eat, and I was hopeful that the gains would resume, if at a reduced pace, but still, I didn't prod.

Then there was the day he saw the numbers on my chart, because Jill was distracting me and I had forgotten how legible my own handwriting is.

***

It was a new page on my notepad that day. I had only written a single number down, and it was distressingly close to 200--distressing because that was where he had stagnated several days ago, and distressing because I thought that if there were any weight he needed to stop at, this was it. Eras disagreed and wanted me to push him, and had been bothering me repeatedly for a week now, but I told her that, technically, we were still on schedule--he'd gained above and beyond the daily goal in previous weeks. The response, I could have predicted: "After the months we put up with his crap before this? He's way behind."

"Just trust me," I said.

She shrugged her shoulders. "It's your job."

Then Charlie saw the chart.

Jill was on her way out to go indulge in the iced jelly rolls I'd promised her, which had just been delivered by the kitchen staff. I turned around and saw Charlie's eyes. They were wide, and they were at my chest height, where my clipboard was. My guts froze.

"What does that say?" he asked faintly, looking up.

"Jill's chart?" I said, guessing that that would be the best lie I could hope for. "Why?"

"That wasn't Jill," he said. "She hit 200 a long time ago."

Striving to look perplexed, I asked, "How would you know? You aren't supposed to know each other's weight."

"Or our own?"

He stared into my eyes. Nonchalantly, I shrugged. "No. It's for the Organizer's records, nothing more. You know she uses it to figure out the length of a season for the Coordinators."

If I'd been hoping to distract him, I'd failed. "Whose chart is that?"

"Jill's," I said, then glanced down, pointedly, and said, "Oh. You're right. It's Gary's." Frowning, I made a great deal of noise unclipping my papers and rifling around in them as if I were worried I had gotten mixed up and marked the wrong numbers on the wrong sheets.

That was a mistake. He snatched the relevant slip out of my hand when I didn't have a firm hold on it and had it turned around to face him before my reflexes spirited it back. "Sixty?" he said. "I've gained sixty pounds?"

"Why? How many did you think you'd gained?" By this point, I knew I had lost. I just wanted to curb the damage.

"Less than half that much!" he snapped. "I'm only getting two pills a day."

"Would you like six?" I offered quickly.

"No, I--"

He broke off and glared at the paper in my hand, then, decisively, crossed the weight room and stepped onto the scale. Facing it, he turned it on and watched its numbers oscillate before settling on exactly what was written on my chart. Fiercely, he turned the scale off.

I saw him stare down at himself, staring at the swell of his belly tightening Stacy's old T-shirt, and--as if I weren't there--lifting it up to show himself the gaping V of his unzipped pants. He could hardly get them over his thighs now, I knew. They strained every time he sat and bulged where the seams cut into the pudginess of his legs. Chin pinning the material of his shirt to his chest, which accentuated his plump double chin, he grabbed his pants and yanked, furiously, from either side. They were already taut. They didn't give, not even an inch. Desperately, he yanked his shirt back down and buried his face in his hands to give voice to a trembling whimper.

"I've gotten so . . . fat!"