Women’s Weight

The words “fat girl” burn in the mouth like cussing. Mom will frown at her swollen ankles, she will say she’s got the legs of a fat person. My older sister Tanya will be a failed ballerina, a laxative binger, an anorexic with too many curves. At the bar her maestro will pinch her flat belly, her plumb line; she will shake her head, and move on to the next fifteen-year-old dancer. Aunt Carolyn will eat and eat and eat and stop eating until she gets a new boyfriend. “My extra weight is a defense mechanism,” she’ll say. I once saw her cry over a burrito. I felt worried. We were on vacation.

Lately my roommates and I will watch episodes, old seasons of our favorite shows, between work shifts and classes. The women are funny and have tiny little waists, of course; we all have our favorite female character. Not an episode goes by without one of the girls sitting next to me on the couch saying, “She is so thin.” Sometimes I’ll say, “Yeah,” or sometimes I’ll say nothing and stare ahead and wonder if that’s really what they’re thinking. Once I replied, “She is a small person.” “Yeah, but she is so thin!” they’ll say again. The female characters are all thin; unbelievably beautiful I defend them, I yearn to become them, at least between showering and filtering coffee in the morning.

Inheriting my mother’s legs, my father’s jowly Italian face, my aunt’s full bust, I will look through pictures of my sixteen-year-old self and pout and wish I could rewind to when I was young and thin and danced salsa, unembarrassed, when I didn’t despise food and when I was as pretty as my tan, brunette, big-eyed sister, legs like a goddess. When I was sixteen I worried I was afraid no one would ever want to have sex with me. So of course I tried to have sex as soon as possible, which I did.

“Women are in their prime between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one,” my friend Theresa said knowingly, at age nineteen. I was eighteen. Theresa was fat. She was pretty too. “I need to start my diet but, like, I’ve still got time, my goal is to be one hundred and thirty by next Christmas. Men are in their prime later, when they’re twenty-five, when they’ve got that full man face, you know? I’m going to marry an older man anyway, and I’m young.” Thank goodness I still have time too, I thought to myself, fearful for both of us that we would never lose the weight.

Lacking the control to stop eating for a couple days straight, abandoning the 6am gym regime with the last rays of summer, I instead focus my energy on prayers for skinniness. I yearn to see the topography of my hands, to wear my shirt tight over my ribs. I want to be monkey-face skinny. I want the legs of a normal person. I want to feel like a woman. I want someone to want to have sex with me. I want to not want food. I want my mother to tell me I look good. I want to inspire my sister and impress Theresa. I want to feel happy. I don’t want to be a fat girl anymore.

June day, sitting at the shore of the Sandy River, the day so beautiful it could have been plastic, or a painting. Feet in the water, my roommate and I talk about relationships. “I guess I don’t believe that any man would ever be attracted to me,” my friend says, swinging her legs. I look up at her: a beautiful girl, she has huge blue eyes and a huge full gut. She does not wear makeup and she does not worry about what to wear. I could have cried. She shrugged.

Winner of the Lee Sharkey Creative Writing Award Fall 2010
University of Maine Farmington RIPPLE Magazine
© Kate Chianese 2010

When We Reminisce

It was a small gathering in his apartment above the florist. Liz Jones whipped out her violin and played some Gaelic melodies in honor of St. Patrick’s Day. I was wearing a green undershirt, and it would only be a matter of time before my jacket would fall to the floor, better to dance without it. By that time, only four of us dancing; the violin packed away, the beers brought across the street to be cracked open cross legged on the floor of another furniture-less apartment. Here, in the whirring light of the monitor, David would play another song, and Jo would call out, “Four-way kiss!” We’d lean in, bump faces. After another round of lime Jell-o shots, another green beer for Jo, Dave, and Thompson, the Fortress would call to us. Pushing together the two faded blue couches, the Fortress took up the whole living room; we sank into the lumpy seats, the far corner sagging heavily from the time when Thompson stood on it. “Thompy! Trade with me!” Jo would exclaim, and make Thompson sit in the sunken corner. After our eyes began to droop, after Jo lit a bowl in her rainbow pipe, Bo, the air and smoke would mix with the acoustics and we’d confess our thoughts; how Thompson missed a girl named Christine; how David was still in love with his ex for ten months, ten months, he said it unbelieving. Late that night, squished together in the living room, drafty from the high rattling windows, I felt an ant crawl on my back—no—someone running a finger gently, gently along my skin. I froze. I couldn’t help but admire his persistence, however; his fingers beginning to press more firmly against my back, but without delay. Breath held, he absorbed my skin for over an hour; slowly tracing my spine, my hip, over my stomach.

*

It was a small gathering in the apartment above the wood shop. Eric Carter whipped out his own personal shot glass and a near-empty bottle of rum in honor of Halloween. I was wearing an antique over shirt, the only costume-like clothing in my heaping closet, and it would only be a matter of time before my jacket would fall to the floor, better to move that way. By that time, only a few of us sitting on the couches and chairs in the living room; Liza perched on the ledge above the stairs, Kylie and Kim leaning towards each other on the couch, Rodney had his feet up on the lobster trap. Taking another sip of wine or rum or tequila, or glancing at the whirring monitor where the Shining played quietly, we confessed our thoughts; how Rodney was crazy in his freshmen year, how he regretted dropping out of college; how Kylie had been so religious she did not make time for friends—now she just wanted a boyfriend, she wanted her first kiss; how Liza claimed she used to be a hermit in college, and Kim was just plain angry, dating a boy who was bad for her. I lingered on the edge of my chair by the kitchen, listening, my mind drifting to my own first year at college, when I didn’t know this apartment, these people, when I was still roommates with Jo and we still talked. When I was dating David and the group of us would float down the Sandy River in a thunderstorm, or dance in his moldy kitchen, or when just the two of us would lie in his six-hundred-dollar bed and listen to the courthouse chime and talk about music, literature, philosophy, college. David broke up with me before leaving for France, and he had already been gone ten months. Ten months. I thought about it unbelieving. The high windows whistled softly, breaking my thoughts, and I remembered how the spiders came pouring in that summer, babies spreading over the couches and lamps; every so often you’d feel something prickle up your arm—you’d slap the spider on instinct or give out a little shriek—or sometimes, breath held, you’d lay your arm on the window sill and wait for the baby spider to trace its way back to the screen.

© Kate Chianese 2010

Beauty

is torching an infestation
of baby black widows
or
the little hairs
of a feminine forearm.


Published in the Sandy River Review fall 2009 issue
© Kate Chianese 2009

Raindrop Prelude

what is rain
to a man in thought?
thoughts caught in monsoons
soon to be sheltered by palms
palms never entirely dry.

what is water
to a man in love?
love's a woman, music
unlocks her as D-flat major.
minor unhinges him as the C-sharp
Chopin parallels her.

what is the tide
to a man in Majorca?
major storm a fortissimo
forgoing the gentle patter
patterned ostinato of A-flat
A-flat enlivened by B-flat
and back and back.

what is a river
to a man with drowned lungs?
lunging hands in chords, presto
pressing the ivory to give it some color.
colorless he sits drained of energy
entranced by her, however,
ever propped at the piano.

what is the faintest trickle
to a man slowly dying?
da capo al fine
fingers dripping over the melody
mellow and sweet
switching to his thumbs
thumbing the black keys.

© Kate Chianese 2010

Sostenuto

a thirty year old man
she was four years old.
played only the black keys.
his daughter couldn’t read
so he was her eyes.
the composer told her
to use her ears.

it started out as a conversation
a few questions. trills. intonations.
an impressive display of teeth
coughing up fricatives,
octaves, nachtmusik.

that time it rained
a gap in the roof
turned maple varnish into
cracked alligator skin
and the high C fell silent.

arpeggios outgrew
the wingspan of her hands.
Baby Grand Baldwin
could no longer be tuned.

Hamilton was wheeled away
now stood Yamaha
glinting black, reserved,
no fingerprints.

without the composer
she longs
to do the hammers some justice.
maybe she'll have a talk
with the satin ebony, maybe
she'll learn Schubert
to ring the house
with chords again.


Published in the Sandy River Review fall 2009 issue

© Kate Chianese 2009

Why We Plan for the Future (fiction excerpt)

Something about the angle of his eyes. Or the angle of the lights, dimmed and reddened as they were in the coffee shop that evening. Linelle wasn’t sure what to make of the man at the other end of the table; he was quick to talk about himself but strange in what he chose to say; “I don’t talk about certain things,” he said sharply, “I don’t talk about my past relationships,” (he ticked them off on his fingers), “my time in the army, or my connection with my family.” What else was there to talk of? You’d think he’d ask her more questions. After all she was the one still only twenty (well, she was really nineteen but she told him twenty). Later, Linelle couldn’t recall him asking her any questions. It was three months later, back at the same coffee shop, that he finally had a bunch of questions to ask.
“Can I get you another coffee, lady?”
“No thanks, I’m good.”
“Was work alright?”
“It was fine.”
“Have you talked to your folks lately?” He was reaching for her hand. He was always reaching for her hand these days.
“I’ll probably call them this weekend. Why, you talked to yours lately?”
“Now it’s not a time to joke, ya know, lady.” He let go of her hand.
It was still light out and a glowing beam sneaked through the blinds to strike Linelle in the eyes; she thought of asking him to close the shades but she didn’t.
She watched his face as he looked around the café, hesitating on an older woman sunk in a plush red sofa, eating her whipped cream straight off the top of her mocha cup. He sighed and Linelle knew he wanted to go smoke a cigarette.
“I know you’re not sure yet, but in the end the decision is yours, I can’t force you one way or another.” He was looking her in the face now.
Her mouth was dry. Maybe it was the chocolate chip muffin she had eaten.
He started tapping his foot. A moment later he slipped out his lighter and said he’d be right back.
She watched him smoke through the glass window behind the whipped-cream-eating woman. Linelle could remember their conversation in the coffee shop the first time they sat to “talk things over.” He had smelled strongly of cigarette smoke and cologne; she remembered breathing it in when he stepped too close to her, not looking down at her face, but browsing the art on the walls. “Now help me understand,” he had said calmly, “This painting is marked 1000. Is that its price?” She replied that she figured so but she was mostly preoccupied with whether or not to take a step back from him. She finally did, but then took a step forward again on afterthought. She didn’t want him thinking his age bothered her.
“Whatcha thinking about, lady?”
Linelle looked up; he was back, sitting down, that cologne-cigarette smell more powerful than ever.
“I dunno,” she said absentmindedly. “What to do, I guess.”
He sat up straighter in his chair. She hoped he wasn’t going to try to take her hand again.
“Like I said,” (she winced inwardly as he took her hand from its place behind the napkins), “You wouldn’t have to visit. No obligations. I’d never ask for money. I know you’re a young one and are probably all worried about your future and everything, college and whatnot—”
“I’m graduating before you are.” Her voice was dull.
He petted her hand in his. His fingertips were rough, callused. Her hands sweated.
“Okay,” he said. “Lady, just listen. It’s just an option. We needn’t even talk again. I mean, we both know we’re not going to talk again. I’ll let you alone, it’d be like nothing ever happened. You could go on with your life, either way.”
There was something about his eyes, though; they looked kind enough from where he sat across from her, but by this point she would rather look away. All those dinners she had looked across to him, catching his eye during meetings, staring into his face in the dark before going to sleep. She busied herself by mixing her coffee, decaf today; cutting out caffeine was something to get used to.
“I know I don’t have an obligation to visit or be involved,” she said to the table simply. But she knew he was watching her stir her drink. Linelle hadn’t forgotten that evening at the café when he told and did not tell her about himself. Relating broken details of his time in Europe, his divorces, how his most recent ex wife took all his wine glasses: “You should come over for a drink but oh, I should probably buy us wine glasses, the ex took them all.” She hadn’t forgotten the babies, either. One falsely claimed to be his, another one born dead. She stopped stirring her coffee, watching the milky liquid swish to a halt. She didn’t want to look into his eyes.
“I’m growing old. You wouldn’t have to do anything. I would hire a nanny. You know I’d make a good father. Our son would be safe and well cared for. He’ll grow up disciplined and educated. But I understand this is your thing. You do whatever you want.”



Published in the Sandy River Review spring 2011 issue

© Kate Chianese 2011

QUIET.

quiet.












the world becomes a stage. specks of material floating everywhere. controlled, soft lighting. the street lamps innocently illuminating the walkways, revealing their small atmosphere, the flakes that flow over their cement necks to meet the sloping ground below. smooth. street as still and silent as a pond, kicked up only by the shuffling boots coming home from a late-night shift, or the slow glide of someone on an evening walk, perhaps to witness the first snow of the season.




















THE WORLD BECOMES A STAGE. SPECKS OF MATERIAL FLOATING EVERYWHERE, GETTING IN YOUR HAIR, COATING THE SWIMMING POOL, FALLING SILVER ON THE PATIO. THE LIGHTING—CONTROLLED, WARM YELLOW OR BURNT ORANGE. YOU KNOW WHERE THE FIRE IS BY THE CLOUDS, BLACK AGAINST AUBURN; MUST BE COMING FROM LA CRESCENTA, TEN MINUTES AWAY. AND FOR THE FIRST TIME, SEEING FLAMES—IN THE PARKING LOT OF RALPH’S, AFTER SOME LATE-NIGHT GROCERIES—THERE, ON THE HILL IN THE DISTANCE, BY THE FREEWAY; THE REDNESS BETWEEN THE SMOKE, THE HANDS OF FLAME GRABBING THE BRUSH OF THE DRIED MOUNTAIN, BURNING THE BROWN SHRUBS, THE CRUMPLED MUSTARD FLOWERS AMID THE WAITING FOXTAILS. IT COULD BE A SPITTING VOLCANO, BUT HERE IT IS THE SMOKING HILL, THE STALE STENCH OF ASH, THE THICK AIR TASTING BURNT, THE LEAPING WILD FIRE, A WARM GLOW LIGHTING THE CHARRED SKY.















“PEANUT BUTTER!” MY SISTER SCREAMED

AND DOVE FROM THE ROCKS. THE PACIFIC SWALLOWED HER WHOLE—A BILLION BUBBLES ERRUPTED WHERE HER BODY BROKE THE SURFACE. I LAUGHED—






“don’t be so quiet ovah theyah, californyah,” says les.












answers float in my head like flakes. sorry it bothers you, i want to say. i would rather clean the counters than make small talk for hours on this slow shift, i want to say.
through the glass doors, maine is pitch-black at five o’clock. the movie theatre is empty, the town outside sleepy, snug under snow.
“i'm just tired,” i say.
“you look tired,” he says.
“how’s alex,” i ask. alex has blue eyes and crooked teeth and whenever les brings him to the theatre he will jump into adult conversations seamlessly, something i could never do when i was eleven.
“alex is good, good,” les says. “he’s getting ready for this play, yup, this play he’s havin in a couple weeks, so i won’t see him this weekend, i wanted ta take him ta see a movie but he’s gonna be at his mothah’s, ya know, maybe next week, or after the play, when he has more time, he’ll have a lot more time after this play’s over. he’s such a good kid,” les laughs. “i can’t see him on wednesdays cause he insists on going to the youth group, kids from church, ya know, he goes for the atmosphere, he doesn’t get that at his mothah’s, i actually don’t know where he gets it from, i've never been religious, and his mothah’s not religious, so who knows, but he absolutely loves it. absolutely loves it.”
“that’s really good,” i say. i scrub the counter.
the hardest working employee of ten years, les is in his sixties, laughs at his stories. on friday nights he tears the fluttering paper tickets, talks to everyone who passes by, memorizes the faces when they pass him twice. the squares of white fall from his hands, spreading confetti on the rug.
“it really is,” says les, “asamattah afact he gets upset when he misses it, and he won’t take no for an answah. if his mothah don’t wanna drive him, he’d walk.”
“mm,” i scrub.












CHOKED.







HER VOICE SPLITS IN TWO—THE RECIEVER IS PRESSED TO MY EAR AND I CAN’T HEP BUT CRY SILENTLY LISTENING TO MY SISTER—ANOTHER PANIC ATTACK, THE THIRD OF THE WEEK.
DRIVING HOME FROM CHRISTMAS BREAK WITH RYAN—FROM LOS ANGELES TO OKLAHOMA CITY, SHE CRIED THE WHOLE WAY—THE PANIC ATTACKS BUILDING, SPREADING LIKE THE WILDFIRE THAT CAN JUMP MILES BACK HOME.

BACK HOME. SHE PANICKED TO LEAVE HOME. AND IT IS MARCH, NOW—AND STILL PANIC ATTACKS. SHE BROKE UP WITH RYAN IN FEBRUARY. SHE STILL LOVES HIM. STILL MISSES HIM. HER FIRST BOYFRIEND. HER COLLEGE BOYFRIEND.





“I’M SCARED. I’M SCARED TO BE ALONE. WHEN I’M ALONE I HAVE PANIC ATTACKS,” MY SISTER SAYS.
BUT WE’RE ALWAYS ALONE, I WANT TO SAY.
“IS LINDSAY BUSY? WHY DON’T YOU HANG OUT WITH LINDSAY,” I SAY.
HUFFED SIGH.
“BUT LINDSAY HAS ALREADY DONE SO MUCH FOR ME. WE GO OUT ALL THE TIME. AND SHE’S WITH HER BOYFRIEND TONIGHT. AND I’M ALWAYS CRYING AND STUFF. SHE PROBABLY NEEDS A BREAK.”
“MAYBE IT’S GOOD TO HAVE A BREAK TOO, BE BY YOURSELF FOR A LITTLE WHILE.”
“NO! WHEN I’M ALONE I DO THIS. I CAN’T STOP CRYING. I’M FREAKING OUT. I MISS RYAN—HE ALWAYS CHOSE TO STAY IN AND WATCH MOVIES INSTEAD OF GO OUT—AND I ALWAYS WANTED TO GO OUT—BUT NOW THAT I GO OUT EVERY WEEKEND I REALIZE HOW NICE AND IMPORTANT IT WAS JUST TO STAY IN, SPEND SOME TIME TOGETHER. I REALLY MISS THAT. AND NOW I’M JUST SITTING HERE. I’M SCARED TO SIT HERE BY MYSELF.”































alone


























i love to be alone.

















alone is waking up at six a.m. and sitting by the window (open to let the air in despite the blue-colored morning). alone is staring at the fig tree. questioning. you sip blueberry smoothie, slightly frozen, and you huddle deeper into the quilt, lumpy from your poor sewing skills. you remember ripping out all the seams.
you're eleven years old and you bring up chapter twenty-three on your dusty desktop computer (windows 98) and you start typing out how elinora swam deep into the icy water with the manderian as her guide and what they found at the river bottom, the mud blue because the planet is blue, although the water startlingly clear. and you typetypetype, a soft patter on the keyboard, a soft-shoed tap dance, broken only by the silence as you look out the window at the fig tree. knowing, it bends towards the early morning sun, and you feel like it’s pointing to something, you feel like it knows what’s coming next. or it knows that you know what’s coming next.



and you do.























“AT SOME POINT IN YOUR LIFE, YOU SHOULD LIVE ALONE. I LIVED ALONE FOR EIGHT MONTHS AND I LEARNED SO MUCH ABOUT MYSELF. YOU JUST NEED TO MAKE SURE YOU GET OUT AND DO STUFF TOO,” MOM ADDS.






MOM IS LOUD.



MOM IS THE LOUDEST PERSON I KNOW. HER SNEEZES ARE LIKE SCREAMS—YOU JUMP EVERYTIME. SHE CAN LAUGH FROM A FEW ROOMS OVER AND EVERYONE WILL LOOK AT EACH OTHER AND KNOW WHO JUST LAUGHED. “THAT’S ERIN,” SOMEONE WILL SAY, AND THEY WILL ALSO LAUGH.


MY MOM CAN YELL. SHE CAN YELL SO LOUD YOUR OWN VOICE LEAVES YOU, YOUR OWN VOICE RUNS OUT THE DOOR. YOUR OWN VOICE IS A LIGHTED CANDLE, A DOLLOP OF FLAME SNUFFED OUT BY A GHUST OF WIND, AN EXHALE—HER YELLING. “SHIT!” WAS HER FAVORITE. “SHIT, BRUCE!” SHE YELLED AT DAD. “YOU NEVER COMMUNICATE WITH ME! EVER! YOU CAN’T JUST TALK TO ME! WHY CAN’T YOU JUST TALK TO ME!” MY DAD JUST SITS CALMLY IN THE ROCKING CHAIR WAITING FOR IT TO PASS. TO MOM, MY DAD IS SITTING IN THE ROCKING CHAIR WITHOUT A VOICE.











it's one of my favorite questions. i wonder if people think about it.










“are you an introvert or an extrovert?” i ask my first college boyfriend, josh.
theatre major. a braying laugh. yet we don’t have a lot to say to each other.
“i don’t know,” he says thoughtfully, taps his beard. “i really like people. i love having a long conversation with someone, or hanging out in a big group. but i like being by myself and having alone time too. i’d say i’m half and half.”
“okay,” i nod, but i’m not convinced. “but what about where your energy comes from. i mean, do you get more energy from being with people, hanging with friends or meeting new ones, or do you get more energy from being alone.”
“i'm not sure i understand what you mean, but if you mean excited i definitely get more pumped up being around people. i can’t get pumped up hanging out alone in my room, it’s a good time to think but nothing to jump up and down about.”


















as an introvert, i get pumped up being alone.





inside turtle’s shell you can only hear the rush of exhilaration in your ears. the thrumming gears shift under your feet as if you’re peddling a bike at the ocean, over roads of swelling waves against the smothering trees, or the straight line of pavement stretching past cornfields, endless miles and miles, 300 more miles, 100 more miles, twelve hours of miles. silent miles. “exit. right. in. two. miles,” says miranda robotically on the window shield. “shut up, miranda,” you say, just as robotically, a habit, an endearment by now, a defense, as if you know the way in this endless sea of silence, a space between home or commitments or people who know you, their voices, your voice.



once you hit colorado, where the mountains hunch at the edge of the evening, you are reminded of home. soon you will be parked once again in the dust of the brown, dried, dead hills bordering the glittering, shouting city. sprawling los angeles, such aliveness. oh, anxiety, you think. you are walking down the crowded street. you are returning home for the holidays. sister, the performer, always doing so much, has so many stories to tell the relatives. her voice projects, hits the walls in the room and the room trusts her.
















“COME HELP ME, BRUCE,” MOM DEMANDS. IT IS CHRISTMAS EVE AND SHE HAS BEEN COOKING FOR THREE HOURS. DAD WILL NOT HESITATE.
“WHAT DO YOU NEED HELP WITH?” HE HAS A CALM VOICE, LOW.
“THIS TURKEY IS WAY TOO HEAVY!” HER EYES ARE WIDE, GREEN.
DAD PLACES HIS WARM HANDS, STRONG AND SOFT FROM MANY YEARS AT THE PIANO, AGAINST THE DEEP WHITE DISH THAT CRADLES THE MOUNTAINOUS BIRD. HE LIFTS AND THE DISH TILTS TOWARDS THE STOVE.
“WATCH IT! BRUCE—JEEZ!”
“CALM DOWN, ERIN.” HE SHIFTS HIS SHORT LEGS, THE TURKEY RISES.
“DON’T TELL ME—I’VE SPENT ALL MORNING IN HERE MAKING FOOD FOR EVERYONE, I MEAN, SHIT!” HER NECK STRETCHES TOWARDS HIM. “EVERY YEAR I DO ALL THE WORK—LAST YEAR, WHEN THE TURKEY CAUGHT FIRE—DID ANYONE HELP ME PUT IT OUT? NO—THE TURKEY WAS TOO BIG, I HAD TO COOK IT ANYWAY—THE OVEN SMELLED TERRIBLE FOR MONTHS—”




THE TURKEY IS IN THE OVEN. DAD CLOSES THE DOOR. IT MAKES A SMALL SNAPPING SOUND.



















inside turtle you can sing at the top of your lungs, scream, cry, laugh, pretend you’re a donkey. or a monkey. turtle can’t talk. she won’t tell anyone. you can go anywhere.
















the carapace is low over your head, the sage lining peeling in places, revealing the orange underneath, the foam that sprinkles onto your head as you grip the steering wheel. when it starts to rain, the water drums overhead, pouring down the windows and you remember falling asleep in the warm backseat as a child, the best place to doze where the thrumming motor would hum to you, reassuring. curled up with your ear pressed to the seat, you would listen to the road beneath you, the far-off rushing. you would think of water sloshing on rocks.

© Kate Chianese 2010