Free Mr. Peanut by Adam Ross Page B

from the pantry, the crackers, pasta, tomato sauce, and chicken broth—in short, everything they had—and left the garbage bags by the front door to take with him when he left for work. To make sure she couldn’t order in, he took all the credit cards and cash from her purse—even her checkbook—and stuffed them in his jacket pocket. When he came to their bedroom to kiss Hannah good-bye, she was frowning, a little perturbed, like someone who couldn’t place where she’d left her keys.
    “Not a bite?” she said.
    His resolve weakened slightly. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m late. I have to get to the station.”
    “Oh,” she said. “Okay.”
    He took a final peek in the refrigerator—nothing!—and felt his confidence rise. He was sure this would work! He grabbed the two enormous garbage bags (he felt like the Santa Claus of purloined goods) and left, though all day he wondered what she’d do for sustenance.
    “I’m home,” he said that night and then stood for a moment in the foyer. When she didn’t respond he went straight to her bedroom.
    Hannah was watching television. “Have you ever noticed,” she said, “how many commercials there are for food? It’s amazing: Milk: It does a body good. Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. Two whole-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun.”
    “How about that?”
    “A1, it’s how steak is done.”
    “Strictly speaking, that’s a condiment.”
    “The incredible, edible egg. Beef: It’s what’s for dinner.
Yo quiero
Taco Bell.”
    “There’s one right down the street.”
    “There are even commercials for other things with food in them. Fruit of the Loom. Banana Boat sunscreen. Have you noticed?”
    “No,” he said.
    “Maybe you’re not hungry.”
    “I am now,” Hastroll said. His wife’s list had weakened him. “You?”
    She shrugged.
    Hastroll thought her shoulder blades appeared prominent.
    “Say,” she said.
    “What?”
    “What’s for dinner?”
    Hastroll stood up straight and stared out the window. “You’re on your own.”
    “Oh,” she said. “Well, how about some water?”
    “I’m busy,” he said. “Why don’t you get up and get it yourself?”
    “Oh, well,” she said and slumped against the headboard.
    Hastroll took himself out for Chinese.
    Four days into this new strategy, Hannah’s face looked gaunt. Hastroll could see the ribs above her breasts. Seven days, and Hastroll was suffering for her, though he remained determined. He kept close tabs on their garbage for signs of takeout. Zero. She hadn’t eaten a thing. He asked the doorman if he’d seen Hannah leave the building. “To be honest,” Alan said, “I haven’t seen Mrs. Hastroll in so long, I’ve been wondering if she died.” When Hannah said goodnight that night, Hastroll noticed white spittle at the edges of her mouth.
    He turned off the bedside lamp and snuck a glance at her in the light from the TV. “What are you watching?” he asked.
    “
I Shouldn’t Be Alive
,” she said.
    On the ninth day, she reached for a book on the bedside table, fainted, and landed on the floor.
    Hastroll, terrified, revived her with a few slaps, then put her back into bed. “Hannah?” he said. “Hannah, please say something!”
    “Water,” she said.
    He brought her a glass that she emptied in huge gulps. “Pizza,” she said four glasses later.
    He ordered a large pie with pepperoni and extra cheese. She ate six slices without pausing, then sat back, wiped the red stain of sauce from the corners of her mouth and, sleepy with so many carbohydrates, lay back and turned on the TV.
    “You still don’t get it,” she said and almost immediately passed out asleep.
    “Why, Alice was wonderful with the students,” said Jesslyn Fax, fifty-four, an art teacher at Hawthorne Cedar Knolls School for emotionally disturbed and sexually abused teens. “The kids adored her.” A small, dumpy woman, Fax wore a brown dress with a white sweater