Two
Val Moody sat in his office, a sunny room where he saw clients. Window seats with mismatched cushions surrounded him. On either side of his desk were soft chairs, bookcases, and an ornate Napoleon-style couch inherited from his grandmother. He stood up. And the effort exhausted him. Handsome at one time, he now had a fifty-inch waist, red face, puffy cheeks, and looked like someone in a funhouse fat mirror. The person he was now bore no resemblance to the person he thought himself to be. Lying about it helped. He didn’t have to acknowledge he was thirty-seven, just six feet, brown hair, obese, a food addict, with crumbs on his sweater to prove it. The sweater because of the ever-present fog in the canyon—the crumbs because he couldn’t get that walnut scone in his mouth fast enough.
He had two redeeming features: brilliant hazel-green eyes—and, as his mother had said, a strong chin—which would prevent problems in love. With this logic, he never understood why his chin hadn’t helped. He had been a chubby kid from Ohio, but had played sports and worked out—practically lived with his barbells—and had kept his weight under control. He used to proudly tuck his T-shirts in and wear regular-sized jeans. Today, he wore a shirt the size of a small tent, and a brown cardigan from the Big and Tall store draped over khaki pants.
He stared at his watch. Deanna was late. By 24 hours.
He picked up the phone. Replaced it in the cradle. He didn’t call patients when they failed to show up for appointments, but he wanted to violate that rule today. Another of his patients, Marsha, had not shown up for a session three weeks ago. Had apparently left therapy altogether. His hand rested near the cordless receiver. A muscle jumped on the underside of his forearm. Was it his blood pressure? He leafed to the back of his appointment book; in the directory he read her name: Deanna Minkler, 1010 Electric Avenue, Apt 1, Venice, California.
He punched in Deanna’s number.