John D. MacDonald

What Are the Symptoms Dear?

Michael Thomas Rigsby dreamed that he was at a booth at some sort of a midway. They were serving baked potatoes on sticks, the way, in the lost years, candy apples had been purchased. They looked steaming and delightful, but when he tried to eat them they had no more substance than spun sugar candy.

Frustration awakened him. The windows were gray. The luminous dial* of the alarm said four. There was a great gnawing in his stomach. After a time he got up, careful not to awaken Annabelle who breathed deeply beside him.

He squinted at the light inside the refrigerator and saw nothing that looked remotely filling. He settled for a glass of milk, and even that seemed to have little substance.

Back in bed he began to worry about himself. Could a man who liked his work and had a relaxed approach toward life get ulcers? It seemed as if, of late, hunger pangs were always with him. That had been a wonderful steak Annabelle served last night — as much an esthetic experience as a meal. Annabelle was a fine cook, indeed. Even Mickey and Sis had eaten hugely, and at nine and ten their appetites were sporadic.

Worries nibbled at him and it was a long time before he could fall asleep again. When he got up there was a fine tart smell of coffee in the house, but it gave him no lift. He felt dull, frail and ancient. In the bathroom mirror his cheeks looked a bit gaunt, he thought, his eyes slightly sunken.

The gray suit was back from the cleaners. He put on the trousers, and as he was threading his belt through the loops he stopped in dismay. The trousers fitted perfectly. And these were the ones he had been planning for months to take to the tailor’s to have them let out.

He sat on the bed. Sudden loss of weight — that was one of the bad signs. The doctors always told you to watch out for that.

Well, there was no need to scare the family, he decided, and so he went out to breakfast wearing a brave smile.

“What big white teeth you have, dear,” Annabelle said, with her morning kiss.

“All the better to eat my breakfast with. Mickey, you forgot to comb your hair.”

But as he ate a breakfast of orange juice; an egg, some new kind of cereal with fruit on it, and two cups of black coffee, he forgot to maintain the air of cheerfulness. He caught Annabelle looking at him with a rather strange expression.

“How do you feel, dear?” she asked.

“Fine, fine!” he said with massive jovial cheer.

“I thought so,” she said, and his respect for her intuition sagged a bit in the middle.

As soon as he had a chance, in the middle of the morning, he left the office and crossed the street and put a penny in the scales in front of the five and dime. The needle quivered and stopped at one ninety-three. A mechanical fortune appeared in another slot, YOUR PERSONAL CHARM IS YOUR GREATEST ASSET.

Michael stepped off the scales. He had passed two hundred a year ago. When a man was six feet one he had a right to carry a little weight. Sudden and inexplicable loss of weight. He stood in the dismal sunshine. The will and the bonds were in the safe deposit box, along with the insurance policies. Hospitalization was paid up. As he crossed the street again he realized he was walking with a faint stoop. He straightened his shoulders carefully.

It took an effort of will to make the phone call. “Why do you wish to see the doctor, Mr. Rigsby?” the nurse asked.

“Ah...  just a general checkup,” Michael said. He laughed a bit hollowly.

“Let me see...  a week from next Tuesday at two-thirty in the afternoon. Will that be convenient?”

“I...  I guess so. Thanks.”

Twelve days to bear the weight of fear, the uncertainty. Michael damped his jaw and decided he could do it.

But by Sunday afternoon, with the kids out and he and Annabelle alone in the house, his courage was very shaky indeed.

“Mike, pet, you’ve looked out every single window in the house,” she said. “Is something wrong at the office? Forget to pay your taxes?”

He suddenly knew he had to share this with someone. He moved the hassock over close to her chair, sat on it wearily, and said, “Annabelle, I didn’t want to worry you until I was absolutely certain. But...  well, I’m afraid I’m a sick man. A very sick man.”

There was quick concern on her face, and a small heart-felt gasp. “Oh, darling!” she said, and took his hand in both of hers.

“You understand, I’m not sure what it is yet. It’s been coming on for some time. Very slow and insidious. Last Thursday I was certain. I’m seeing Barnes a week from Tuesday.”

“What are the symptoms, dear?”

“The usual, I suppose. A feeling of depression. Continual hunger. Weight dropping dangerously.”

Annabelle released his hand and leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them and gave him a wide, bright, disgustingly cheerful look. “I see.”

“What do you mean, you see? My God, I’m dwindling away and you act as though I was talking about...  a broken spring in my watch.”

“What do you weigh now?”

“One ninety-one yesterday, dressed.”

Annabelle tilted her head back and laughed merrily. Michael jumped up, trembling with outrage and said, “I think that’s the most callous and heartless exhibition I’ve ever seen in my whole life.”

Still rocking with her unforgivable mirth, Annabelle stood up and pirouetted and said, “Look at me, darling!”

“I’m looking. You’ll do all right. You’ll make a good second marriage. No doubt of that,” he said coldly. She was a very delightfully constructed item.

“I can still get into my wedding dress.”

“Bully for you.”

“Now hush, Michael. Listen a moment. I married a nice tall lean guy. I haven’t seen him in a long, long time.”

“But...  wait a minute. I’m losing weight. So you’re glad because you think I look better. You don’t care why. What kind of logic is that?”

“Wife logic.”

“My God, stop smirking at me, Annabelle! I’m worried.”

“And heavy.”

“I’ve got big bones,” he said, with dignity. “Men with big bones put on weight after thirty.”

“Please sit down, dear, and stop wringing your hands. A piece of the sky has not hit you on the head.”

Michael sat down. “A man’s health is his most precious—”

“Possession. And honesty is the best policy. Face it, dear, I’m dishonest.”

“When you give me that Tallulah laugh it makes me uneasy.”

“I have stolen sixteen pounds off you, my pet.”

“Eh?”

“It took two months. You complained about watery milk. Of course, dear. Skim milk. And you haven’t liked the bread. Gluten bread. And plenty of meat and green vegetables. And how long since you’ve seen a potato in this house?”

“A...  a diet?” Michael asked in an awed voice.

“After two years of my useless little hints and plaintive little suggestions, I had to do something. You seem to think dieting is effeminate or something. Something for girls. Believe me, it doesn’t seem fair if I’m willing to stay slim, and mostly for you, to have you go around looking like... ”

But Michael had stood up, and he had turned that little switch in his mind which, he imagined, most husbands acquire. Annabelle was still talking. But it was merely a sound, with no meaning which reached him.

He walked down the length of the living room, feeling wave after wave of intense relief that he was, after all, healthy. The appointment could be canceled...  no, keep it and get that general checkup, just to be absolutely sure on all counts.

But, in the midst of his joyous relief, a mind picture appeared suddenly behind his eyes. A plate with two waffles on it, and fat, melting squares of butter floating in the hot maple syrup. His stomach snapped at the image, and his mouth watered.

He turned toward Annabelle and turned the switch again and heard her saying, animatedly, “... and even your clothes look so much better on you, darling. And the double chin is melting fast.”

Michael squared his shoulders and tentatively patted his stomach. It did feel a lot flatter. “You know,” he said deviously, “that was a very sneaky trick.”

“But you’re glad, aren’t you?”

He laughed cheerfully. “Yes, and as a penalty, you can trot right out to the kitchen and whip up a batch of waffles.”

He watched carefully, and saw her smile fade. “Do...  do you really want me to do that?”

“Haven’t I earned it?” he asked, and he thought that perhaps his tone was a shade too hearty.

Annabelle stood up with grave and quiet dignity. She went to the bookshelf, took out a slim black volume, tossed it at him. He caught it instinctively. She went out into the kitchen and began a hideous clashing and banging of pans.

Michael sat down and opened the black volume. Snapshots taken during the honeymoon and the first year of marriage. A lot of them. He slowly turned the pages and looked at the lithe stranger. Annabelle had changed, actually, very little. He remembered that the lean young escort had weighed around one seventy-five. Tough as a saddle. The arguments did deadly battle in his mind. George’s wife is a butter ball. Doesn’t care any more. Man digs his grave with his teeth. Strain on the heart. Weight gives a man a little dignity.

The image slowly, sadly faded. The plate of waffles went the way of the Cheshire cat, the butter disappearing last.

Michael went to the door of the kitchen, leaned against the frame, holding his dwindling stomach in. Annabelle’s shoulders had that ominous rigidity.

“On second thought, dear,” he said in his most casual tone, “I think I’ll... uh...  stay on it for a while. Just...  well...  curiosity, you might say.”

Annabelle turned, and he saw the warm gladness in her eyes. For just a moment he considered the months ahead which would be filled with oceans of blue milk, mountains of gluten bread, and dreams that would be festooned with potatoes. But then, across the oceans and the mountains, he had Annabelle in focus, and she was still the slim utterly desirable girl of the snapshots. He grinned a little foolishly and took a step toward her. But Annabelle, arms open, came all the way.

Content

John D. MacDonald
What Are the Symptoms Dear?