Chapter Ten
He made the appointment for the metabolic series through Houston, who sounded less optimistic after hearing that Halleck's steady weight-loss had continued and that he was, in fact, down twenty-nine pounds since his physical the month before.
'There still may be a perfectly normal explanation for all this,' Houston said, calling back with the appointment and the information three hours later, and that told Halleck all he needed to know. The perfectly normal explanation, once the odds-on favorite in Houston's mind, had now become the dark horse.
'Uh-huh,' Halleck said, looking down at where his belly had been. He never would have believed you could miss the gut that jutted out in front of you, the gut that had eventually gotten big enough to hide even the tips of your shoes - he'd had to lean and peer to find out if he needed a shine or not - especially he never would have believed it if you'd told him such a thing was possible while he was climbing a flight of stairs after too many drinks the night before, clutching his briefcase grimly, feeling a dew of sweat on his forehead, wondering if this was the day the heart attack was going to come, a paralyzing pain on the, left side of his chest which suddenly broke free and ripped down his left arm. But it was true; he missed his damn gut. In some weird way he couldn't understand even now, that gut had been a friend.
'If there's still a normal explanation,' he said to Houston, 'what is it?'
'This is what those guys are going to tell you,' Houston said. 'We hope.'
The appointment was at the Henry Glassman Clinic, a small private facility in New Jersey. They would want him there for three days. The estimated cost of his stay and the menu of tests they expected to run on him made Halleck very glad he had complete medical coverage.
'Send me a get-well card,' Halleck said bleakly, and hung up.
His appointment was for May 12 - a week away. During the days between, he watched himself continue to erode, and he strove to contain the panic that nibbled slowly away at his resolve to play the man.
'Daddy, you're losing too much weight,' Linda said uneasily at dinner one night - Halleck, sticking grimly by his guns, had downed three thick pork chops with applesauce. He'd also had two helpings of mashed potatoes. With gravy. 'If it's a diet, I think it's time you quit it.'
'Does it look like I'm dieting?' Halleck said, pointing at his plate with his fork, which dripped gravy.
He spoke mildly enough, but Linda's face began to work and a moment later she fled from the table, sobbing, her napkin pressed to her face.
Halleck looked bleakly at his wife, who looked bleakly back at him.
This is the way the world ends, Halleck thought inanely. Not with a bang but a thinner.
'I'll talk to her,' he said, starting to get up.
'If you go see her looking like you do right now, you'll scare her to death,' Heidi said, and he felt that surge of bright metallic hate again.
186. 183. 181. 180. It was as if someone - the old Gypsy with the rotting nose, for instance - was using some crazy supernatural eraser on him, rubbing him out, pound by pound. When had he last weighed 180? College? No ... probably not since he had been a senior in high school.
On one of his sleepless nights between the fifth of May and the twelfth, he found himself remembering an explanation of voodoo he had once read - it works because the victim thinks it works. No big supernatural deal; simply the power of suggestion.
Perhaps, he thought, Houston was right and I'm thinking myself thin ... because that old Gypsy wanted me to. Only now I can't stop. I could make a million bucks writing a response to that Norman Vincent Peale book ... call it The Power of Negative Thinking.
But his mind suggested the old power-of-suggestion idea was, in this case at least, a pile of crap. All that Gypsy said was 'Thinner.' He didn't say 'By the power vested in me I curse you to lose six to nine pounds a week until you die.' He didn't say 'Eenie-meenie-chili-beanie, soon you will need a new Niques belt or you will be filing objections in your Jockey shorts.' Hell, Billy, you didn't even remember what he said until after you'd started to lose the weight.
Maybe that's just when I became consciously aware of what he said, Halleck argued back. But ...
And so the argument raged.
If it was psychological, though, if it was the power of suggestion, the question of what he was going to do about it remained. How was he supposed to combat it? Was there a way he could think himself fat again? Suppose he went to a hypnotist - hell, a psychiatrist! - and explained the problem. The shrink could hypnotize him and plant a deep suggestion that the old Gypsy man's curse was invalid. That might work.