Later

I pull my old Caddy into Theresa's driveway and come to a stop behind her Ford Escort. I gotta rest a bit before getting out. My heart is pounding and it feels like the top of my head has fizz in it. This body is falling apart.

I can see someone moving inside the house, probably Theresa picking up like a maniac which I guess is a compliment that she'd think she has to impress me, her old brother. My eyes fill up a little. Her and Mikey, they're about the only people in the world who give a damn about me. Well, other than Mom and Pop and Estelle. About Mom and Pop, I'm sure, about Estelle only half sure. She used to be pretty mean when we were kids. Now she lectures me about the weight and drops big-time hints about how much time she has to spend taking care of the folks while I'm down here in Harrisburg living a life of personal freedom. She should see my life of "personal freedom."

Okay, it's time to get out of here so I open the door and begin to turn to the side, squeezing my bulk out from under the steering wheel, working my legs out til my feet are on the ground. It's a slow process. I gotta hang on the doorframe and heave myself up and out. Afterwards, it takes a long moment to catch my breath and get my equilibrium back. My knees are killing me. Everything hurts, I mean everything. This is part of the reason I've decided to go through with it, this and about fifty other ones.

Theresa's porch has four steps up to it and I manage by hanging on the railing for dear life. I figure this is the last time I'll have to do this. Just gotta go back down them and then one step into my house from the garage to the kitchen and that's it. The last steps in this life.

Mikey opens the door. "HI, UNCA VINCE!" he screams at me, his face a round tomato, his eyes bright black olives. He is cute-ugly; he looks like a tiny gangster who should be nicknamed "Pug" or something. Light beams from his face like he's got a powerful flashlight inside his head that shines out through his skin.

"Hi back," I say, towering over him, panting from my effort.

"You tired already?" he asks innocently, standing back against the door so I can squeeze inside, a hippo entering a chipmunk's house.

"Yeah," I answer him. "Don't get fat like me, you'll regret it."

"I ain't gonna get fat," he says. "I gonna be MUSCALER."

"You mean muscular."

"Yeah," he says. "I gonna be so strong I can knock out an ELEPHANT. That's how come I eat my escarole."

I nod, my mouth already watering at the thought of Theresa's escarole soup. I don't smell any cooking though. "Is there escarole soup?" I say.

"Nah, " says Mikey. "We're only having lasagna. Lasagna ain't my favorite, you know. I like garlic and she don't put any in the lasagna."

I look at him. For eight years old, he is pretty savvy. I hope to God he don't end up like me. It crosses my mind I must look pretty disgusting to him.

"You're really fat, Unca Vince," he says, confirming my fear.

Theresa bursts into the living room, her face flushed like Mikey's, wisps of her hair sticking out from the gob she has it all pulled back into. She's got that wild look I don't like, the one she gets when she's got Joe on her mind. That bastard. Theresa is my pretty sister, Estelle my fat one. Theresa took after Pop's side of the family and the rest of us got stuck with the Geordino genes. Or something. No one else is as fat as me.

"Vincy," she says now, reaching for my coat which must weigh a ton. But her wiry little arms heave it off like it's a feather. "I made a lasagna. There's some raviolis too. I got some bread at Marco's."

I don't answer her. It's true my stomach growls just to hear her words but at the same time I wish people didn't always assume all I care about is hearing what's for dinner. There's more to me than just an open mouth. Mikey tugs at my pant leg. "Ya wanna see my train? It's still up from Christmas! I got more trees and Daddy made me a station!"

At this, I look at my sister but she's avoiding my eyes. "You two go on up if you want," she says, not looking at me. "I still got stuff to do. We'll eat in a half hour." And she turns and walks back to the kitchen.

"Come on," says Mikey, grabbing my hand. I realize he wants me to climb up those stairs to his room, at least thirteen steps and I don't think I can do that. And here I'd planned on there being only five more steps in my life.

I don't know," I tell him. "Steps are hard for me."

"Come ON, Unca Vince! You can do it!"

I sigh heavily. I am torn between wanting to please this little ray of light and wanting to lie down forever. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. "I don't think I can do it, Mikey. I got bad knees."

A cloud passes over his sunshine face. "But Unca Vince, why you let your fat stop you from fun? Huh?"

I don't know what to say to him. "I didn't want to turn out like this," I finally answer.

He looks at me seriously. "How'd you get that fat?"

"Too much food, Mikey, bad genes."

"You wear bad blue jeans?"

I laugh. The things this kid says. I wonder if this is my last real laugh. "I gotta sit down," I say. "You go play if you want to."

But he won't go upstairs. He watches me as I pick out my usual spot at the left end of the sofa and lower my bulk into it. When I'm settled, he hands me the remote control. "Watch TV if you want," he says manfully.

I have no desire to turn on the TV. As much of it as I've seen in my life, now that it's about to end, TV holds no interest for me. Instead I want to notice everything there is about this last time at Theresa's. I want to suck up the details.

Mikey plops down next to me and tilts his head to look at me.

"What?" I say.

"Are you sad?" he amazingly asks.

I don't want to get into that kind of talk. The last thing I want is to call attention to my plans. "No, I'm fine," I tell him. "Just not feeling up to par, that's all."

He seems to accept this answer and says, "Well, I'll go on upstairs and I'll bring you down the station, okay?"

"Sounds good," I reply, although I don't relish the thought of having to admire something Joe made. The thought of him back in their lives is almost enough to dampen my appetite.

Mikey bounds up the steps and I admire his energy while I wonder at having any appetite at all, considering what I plan to do this evening after I get home. Last week I purchased a used .38 and tonight after drinking down a bottle of VO, I'm going to stick it in my mouth and do the honors. Before I start, I'll put down a plastic drop cloth on the floor so they can do an easy clean up. God help them though getting me out of there even wrapped in plastic - they'll need a crane. What kind of coffin they come up with should be interesting. Maybe they can just burn the house down like in that Johnny Depp movie with the fat mother. I seem calm about this but I'm not. I've thought about it good and decided it's the best thing to do.

Look at the facts. I'm single, forty-one years old, had sex twice in my life back when I was twenty-six, same girl both times; she was doing me a favor I later found out. At the time, I weighed two hundred sixty. Now I'm four-hundred-eight and heading up. I've been in therapy. I've done diet clinics, spent over three thousand bucks on special programs, doctor visits, injections. I've tried hypnotism, meditation, self-help groups, drugs and plain old will-power. I last two weeks. Seems like the pull of the comfort from food overrides the strength it takes to keep on starving.

I see a future of the same, me alone with food, isolated, bored in front of the TV. Only add to this the breakdown of my body under this weight. I see myself in a wheel chair or flat in bed, a burden for Theresa or Estelle, or put in some dingy personal care home waiting to die. It's better to save myself and everyone else from this pain.

Mikey returns with the train station. As soon as I see it, I wonder why he's so excited over it. It's a piece of trash. Make out of cardboard, drawn on with magic marker. The bastard could've at least used balsa wood and some paint.

"It's cool, huh?" says Mikey, his eyes all big and what am I supposed to say? No, it ain't cool? It's a total piece of crap made by an idiot? Then I realize why he likes it so much and I understand he don't care about the workmanship; the reason he loves it is because Joe made it. I feel sick to my stomach.

"Yeah, it's cool," I lie to Mikey, hating myself, hating Joe, hating Theresa for being involved again. I think hell, this ain't how I want to leave, not with this bad feeling.

"Hey!" yells Theresa from the kitchen. "It's ready!" She's using potholders to carry a casserole dish into the dining room. There's already one on the table along with a big salad, sliced up bread from Marco's, oil and vinegar and hot peppers. I don't eat hot peppers no more even though I love them. The pleasure ain't worth what they do to me afterwards. However it dawns on me that tonight it won't make any difference. I pull the jar over to my end of the table and lower myself into my chair; the one Theresa had made special for me with no arms and extra supports, after I broke her other one.

She sits the lasagna in the middle of the table on a trivet and then seats herself. She looks flushed, kind of wired up, extra pretty. It makes me proud to look at her, to know that at least one good-looking person is related to me. She's more than just good-looking though; she's sweet and good to the quick. I couldn't ask for a nicer sister.

I help myself to everything and dig in. It's perfect as usual, the lasagna thick and firm and spicy from the sausage, the raviolis al dente, packed with cheese, topped with Mom's gravy recipe only better when Theresa makes it. While I'm eating I notice Theresa isn't doing much more than moving food around on her plate. Mikey is watching her too.

"What's up?" I say.

"Nothing," she answers.

"Bull," I say.

She lays down her fork. "Joe was supposed to come."

I lay down my fork. "WHAT?" I say real loud.

"I said Joe was supposed to be here for dinner but he didn't show as you can see."

I am suddenly not the least bit hungry. The first thought that passes through my head, believe it or not, is that I'm p.o.'d my last dinner on earth has to be screwed up by this crap. All I ask is one last peaceful dinner with my sister and nephew but even though he's not here, that moronic wife-beating piece of garbage has to ruin it.

"Theresa," I say, trying to keep my voice low and even, "you know I hate that piece of puke's guts and yet you invite him over when I'M HERE. Besides that, he beats the living crap out of you, you go to the trouble of divorcing him, you start a new life and now you want to start up again and have to go through all that AGAIN? I don't get it, Theresa."

"The kid," she says. "Watch what you say in front of the kid. Mikey, go to your room for a little bit, okay? I'll make up a plate for you and you can eat later. Your uncle and I have to talk."

I say to Mikey, "No, you stay here. You're part of this, you gotta live with the wife-beater, you gotta watch him turn your mother into a piece of raw meat, you gotta grow up thinking all men are like that. No, she wants you to live like that, you got a right to stay here."

Mikey, not sure who to obey, half stands up and looks from Theresa to me and back. She doesn't say anything. He sits back down but makes no move to resume eating. His black-olive eyes are huge and on alert.

"The kid's already damaged," I tell her. "How can I tell? He's grateful for a piece of scribbled on paper from Joe; that's how. Like you, already he's learned to settle for less. Because all he really knows is Joe running around here throwing things and screaming and putting his fists through walls and worse! Theresa, listen to me! He's gonna grow up thinking this is how men are supposed to act!"

She looks down at the table, silent.

"What're you doing this for?" I demand. I am really mad. For some time I forget all about my plan.

"I love him," she whispers.

"You're an idiot," I say back. "How can you love someone like that? Pop never hit Mom! Where did you get that?"

She doesn't answer. I feel like a ton of bricks has just been dumped on me, the same ton of bricks I spent a long time stacking up neatly and now here they are again. I have a sinking feeling. Mikey isn't saying anything.

"If I tell Mom you have anything to do with Joe, you know what she'll do? You remember what she said, Theresa?" What Mom said she'd do is go to court to get custody of Mikey. Pop and Estelle would back her up. I say to Theresa, "You'll never see him. He'll live in Binghamton. You'll be embarrassed to go up. You won't see him."

"They won't really do it," she mumbles.

"Oh yes, they will," I say firmly. "They already got a lawyer lined up. No one trusted you'd stick to your guns. Everyone suspected you'd weaken. They were right."

"You too?" she asks softly.

I hesitate. The one thing I most cherish is my relationship with Theresa. But she deserves the truth. "Yeah, me too," I tell her. She sucks in her breath, hurt. But the thing with the man is strong. She begins to cry softly and it breaks my heart but I'm really mad by now. "Vincy, I-I can't give him up yet. I love him. He's Mikey's father."

"You don't hear anything I say, do you?" I yell. I hit the table hard with my hand. This gets my heart racing. "Joe is his father only physically! He's not a father in any other way! You go with him, Theresa, you'll lose Mikey. There's not gonna be any in-between. Estelle'll go after you and with her you don't stand a chance. She's got pictures of you when you were in the hospital!"

"What?" she says.

"When they had you drugged, out cold. Estelle got it all on film. Theresa, your face was like hamburger. They got the pictures. Mikey is already theirs."

She is silent. The lasagna and the raviolis have long since cooled down. For a long time now I have not been thinking about my gun and my VO. For a little bit, I have forgotten my fat.

Mikey speaks up, his voice shaky. "I ain't goin' anywhere! I ain't goin'!"

I turn to him. "You like Joe?"

"Yeah," he says, but he lowers his eyes.

"You understand what he did to your mom?"

He don't say anything.

Suddenly she says, clear out of the blue, "You take him, Vince."

Did I hear this right? "What?"

She looks at me in a kind of sly way. "You take him. He can live with you for awhile, while I get things figured out."

I am shocked silent. In a split second I see the brilliance of her idea. She knows if I take him, I'll be a buffer that holds off the rest of the family. My mind moves off into this weird place where I don't think or move. It's real still, more still than anyone could imagine. I wait while God or Whoever is in charge rewrites my script. Inside this timeless place I ask, "But what about my plan? What about my fat and the pain and how I was going to get out of that?" And Someone answers, "There's always later." It's as simple as that.

I return to Theresa's dining room where she and the boy are like statues come back to life. She looks at me funny and says again, "You take him, Vince."

Without hesitation, I answer, "Yeah, I'll do it."

She puts some of the lasagna in a Tupperware bowl for me to take home. She packs some of Mikey's things in a little suitcase and some other stuff in a box. She tells me I'll have to drive him to school by 9:05 Monday but that she'll find out where his bus stop is in my area by Tuesday. Lucky I work at home; lucky I can set my own schedule.

I take his little hand and we go out the door and before I know it, we're down the steps and I didn't even feel them. On the ride home, I make a mental note to get rid of the gun. It hits me then that I'm gonna have a helluva night from those hot peppers.

She is also an artist with illustrations in SageWoman, thINK, and regional magazines. She lives on a lake in Northeast Pennsylvania with her husband and two cats.

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