The Fat Man's Just Desserts

Tick tock. Tick tock. The rhythmic sound from the grandfather clock bounced off the walls as the Fat Man ate. Marietta stood in the corner as the rules required - mute, eyes downcast - and pretended not to hear the slurping and

lip-smacking coming from the table.

Marietta liked the rules. She couldn’t bear to watch the Fat Man eat.

A loud belch and the sound of the spoon clattering into the bowl meant the Fat Man was done. Marietta cringed inwardly and looked up.

“Take it away,” he said, flecks of carrot still clinging to his bottom lip. He motioned to her, then wiped his sleeve across his wet nose. “Send in Barrington.“

Marietta approached and snatched up the bowl. She turned quickly, hoping to avoid what was coming next, but was too late. The Fat Man‘s beefy hand smacked smartly across her behind. Marietta froze, steeling herself against the fury that boiled up from her toes.

“Be quick about it, wench! A man’s got to have his sustenance.”

Marietta resisted the urge to swing around and punch the Fat Man’s waddling jowls right off his face.

“Right away, sir.”

Head attendant Barrington swept past her, silver serving tray held high in the air, chin set and shoulders back. Thin, with a pointy nose and slicked back hair, Barrington oozed self-importance. The Fat Man disgusted Marietta, but Barrington, for all his obsequious glory, disgusted her even more.

In the kitchen, Marietta slid the dishes into soapy water and found Agnes the cook hunched over the counter, quietly preparing the Fat Man’s dessert. Biscuits with strawberries, cream and chocolate sauce drizzled in exactly three lines over the biscuit, no more, no less. The Fat Man demanded absolute precision.

Agnes drizzled the last of the chocolate over the biscuits and looked up, large dark circles framing her eyes. A kind and gentle woman, Agnes had been employed by the Fat Man for many years. Marietta wondered how Agnes had stood it for so long.

“He git you again?” Agnes asked.

Marietta nodded. Of course Agnes already knew the answer. Marietta had felt the sick sting of the Fat Man’s hand on her behind three times a day, every day, since she’d taken the job six months ago. Agnes shook her head and whistled, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Gotta be quicker than that, girl,” she admonished. “Shoulda learned by now.“

Marietta fumed inwardly. Agnes should know better than anyone how much she hated the Fat Man and how fervently she tried to avoid his smack each day. “I wouldn’t even be here if my Mum wasn’t ill,” she murmured through tight lips.

“I know,” said Agnes. “But it’s not so bad, miss. Master just likes things to be right, you know. Orderly. At least he hasn’t . . . ”

Marietta interrupted. “He’d best not, he’d best not ever, if he knows what’s good for him,” she hissed.

Agnes raised an eyebrow. “Now you be careful, miss. The master provides for all of us. And that counts for you as well. Don’t be getting any ideas in yer head.”

Marietta gritted her teeth and kept silent. Agnes, despite having been belittled repeatedly by the master, remained loyal to him. She had to. Like Marietta, she needed the money to feed her family. Marietta waited, impatient for Barrington to return. Dessert was the last dish for Marietta to serve, thank God, until it began all over again tomorrow.

+++++

Drawing her cape close against the biting wind, Marietta hurried down the path to the cottage. The door opened with a whoosh as the wind blew in, and her mother jumped, startled.

“Hello, Mum,” Marietta said, pushing the door closed and clicking the lock.

“Marietta, how was it today, child?” Flames flickered from the fireplace, casting shadows across her mother’s features, making her appear even older, sicker than she was.

Marietta hung her cape by the door. “Fine, Mum. I brought you some fresh bread.”

She unwrapped the loaf Agnes had pressed into her hand before she left the manor. Things had been hard since her father died, even harder once her mother took ill last year. Marietta had vowed to save enough money to move her mother to the city, where she could get the best medicine, the best care.

At fifteen, Marietta was fortunate to be granted a position as server to the Fat Man, the richest man in all the county. Known as an eccentric, the Fat Man was obsessive about food and partial to young girls. And very, very rich. For years it had been rumored he’d stashed a fortune of gold coins in his mansion, but no one knew if it were true or merely the talk of bored townsfolk.

Marietta set a plate of bread and cheese in her mother’s lap. “Here. Agnes baked the bread today.”

“Thank you, child.”

Marietta chewed on a piece of bread. “What did you do today?”

Her mother sighed, nibbling at the cheese. “I slept mostly. Pain’s been bad today. But,” her mother’s face brightened as she gingerly picked up a glass jar filled with dried leaves, “some of the flowers and herbs are ready now. We can use them for seasoning. Perhaps you could give some to Agnes as a thank you for the bread. She’s been so kind.”

“Yes,” said Marietta, reaching for the jar. “She’d like that.” Marietta glanced at several other bottles and jars atop the table. “What are those, Mum?”

“Oh.” Her mother picked up another jar. “These aren’t for cooking. These may be of use to Doc Smith, you know, for consumption or other ailments. Perhaps I could sell some to him to help bring in some money.”

“That’s a good idea, Mum,” Marietta said. Any extra money was welcome. Doc Smith made frequent visits to the LeShane household ever since her mother took sick. Perhaps he would indeed be interested in the herbs, although Marietta wondered what dried flowers could possibly do for consumption.

+++++

The Fat Man was roaring, pounding the table with his fists, sending utensils clattering to the floor. One smack of his palm nicked the edge of his plate and it flipped over, smashing into pieces, bits of egg and pork flying through the air. Marietta trembled in the corner. In serving breakfast, she had mistakenly placed the Fat Man’s tea cup to the left of his plate instead of the right.

Barrington flitted around the Fat Man, sweeping up pieces of broken china, snatching cutlery from the floor.

“Clean this up!” Bellowed the Fat Man, pushing himself away from the table.

“Yes, sir, right away, sir,” said Barrington, ducking just as the Fat Man hurled his tea cup against the wall.

“Not you, you donkey‘s ass! Her!” the Fat Man pointed at Marietta.

“Yes, sir,” said Barrington, bowing low and scurrying from the room. He sneered at Marietta as he stalked from the room.

Marietta bit her lip and slowly approached the table. The Fat Man was leering at her, his plump lips wet with slobber, breathing heavily from his tantrum. Tick tock, tick tock. The grandfather clock ticked off the seconds as she moved forward. Marietta’s stomach rolled and she hesitated.

The Fat Man’s brows knitted together. “What are you waiting for? Come here, girl - now!”

Marietta bit her lip. Her feet felt like lead; every slow and torturous step toward the Fat Man required a Herculean effort. The air stank of sweat and onions, and the Fat Man’s heavy breathing filled the room.

She was within a foot of the Fat Man when he reached out and wrapped a meaty fist around her arm, spinning her around and yanking her down onto his lap. She screamed and he slapped his other hand over her mouth. Surely Barrington heard her scream; wouldn’t he come to help?

She struggled against the Fat Man’s grip, but his girth was mammoth, immoveable. Her back pressed into the soft folds of his chest and belly, and she kicked and squirmed, but he was too strong, his arm clamped firmly about her waist, holding her in place. The Fat Man bent down, his hot, wet breath in her ear.

“Now then, wench,” he whispered, “let’s see how you can service me in other ways.”

His hand moved from her mouth to her chest and he clumsily squeezed her breast. Marietta fought down her revulsion, scanning the table for something, anything she could use as a weapon. But Barrington had already cleared the broken dishes. She was trapped. And Barrington wasn’t coming to help.

The Fat Man’s breathing grew faster as his hand traveled down her breast and onto her thigh. His thick fingers scrunched up her dress, dragging it up over her knee, exposing her leg.

“No, please,” she whispered. “Don’t hurt me.“ The Fat Man laughed, spittle flinging onto her shoulder, his fingers digging greedily into the soft white flesh of her thigh.

A sudden sound behind them made the Fat Man loosen his grip. He spun in his chair, allowing Marietta to wrest from his grasp. She scrambled from his lap, tripping over her dress and falling in her panic to escape. As she got to her feet, she saw Agnes standing in the doorway, a fresh plate of eggs and pork in her hands. Agnes’s lips were pressed together sternly, and she stared at the Fat Man as Marietta scurried to the corner, smoothing her dress and hair.

The Fat Man scowled at Agnes, furious. “What do you want? How dare you interrupt me?”

Agnes curtsied. “My apologies, sir, but I’d been told you needed a fresh breakfast. And since the serving wench was nowhere to be found,” her eyes flickered in Marietta’s direction, “I thought I would serve you so you did not have to wait.”

The Fat Man harrumphed, but eyed the plate hungrily, licking his lips. “Yes. That will do. Bring it here,” he barked, turning back to the table, his intentions with Marietta forgotten. Agnes jerked her head at the door, and set the plate in front of the Fat Man. Marietta bolted to the kitchen.

+++++

Marietta wiped her face and then her arms and her legs with a damp cloth, attempting to rid herself of the Fat Man’s stench. Agnes returned a minute later.

“You’re all right,” she said.

“Yes,” Marietta said. “Thank you for coming when you did.”

Agnes shook her head. “Didn’t take much. The Master loves food more‘n anything.”

“Where’s Barrington? Didn’t he hear me scream?”

Agnes’s mouth twitched. “The little weasel made himself scarce. He knows not to be around when the master’s in a rage.”

Marietta balled her hands into fists. “The master deserves to die,“ she said, spying a long knife lying upon the butcher block.

Agnes followed her gaze and clucked her tongue. “Don’t you even think it, miss. You’ll be strung up in a heartbeat. And what would your poor mother do then?”

Marietta’s blood boiled. It was true. Her mother needed her. If she killed the Fat Man, she’d be hanged for murder.

“Besides,” Agnes continued, “you’re not the first who‘s wanted to kill him.”

“Not the first?”

“No,” said Agnes, turning to the stove. “Many years ago, I was the master’s serving wench.”

“You?” Marietta stared, astonished. Agnes had been the cook for as long as Marietta could remember.

“Yes,” Agnes said, turning to face Marietta, her eyes shadowed and tired. “Just like you. Only difference is, you got away.”

+++++

That night, Marietta’s thoughts were on the Fat Man. The Fat Man and Agnes, and what he’d done to her. She hated having to go back, but there was no choice. Silently, she vowed to find another way to earn a wage. She vowed revenge, not only for herself, but for Agnes, too.

“How was your day today, dear?” her mother asked as Marietta placed a thick slice of bread in front of her.

“Fine, Mum,” she lied.

“Doc Smith came by today. He said I’m doing well. He bought some of my herbs.”

Marietta perked up. “He did? He paid for them?”

“Yes,” her mother smiled and handed her a small pouch containing a few silver coins.

“That’s wonderful, Mum. Did he buy all of them?”

Her mother shook her head and gestured to an array of glass jars on the table. They were divided by size. “No. He purchased all but these,” she gestured to a small squat jar. “He cannot use this. I must dispose of it.”

Marietta peered at the jar. The leaves were bland in color, a dull brown that reminded her of the many herbs and spices in Agnes‘s kitchen. “Why? What is it?”

Her mother shrugged. “Doc says this can be used in the city hospitals, but not here in the village.”

“What does it do?”

“The city doctors use it to keep people still during surgery. It is what he called a paralytic. Doc Smith only treats illness of the lungs and heart.”

“Perhaps you could sell it to the city doctors?”

Her mother smiled thinly. “If we had a way to get to the city. No, child, I’ll simply dispose of it. Best not to keep this around.”

“I’ll scatter the leaves outside tomorrow for you.”

“Thank you, dear.”

Marietta fell silent and chewed her bread. Before turning into bed, she slipped the small glass jar into her pocket.

+++++

It was time for the Fat Man’s dinner. Marietta had made it through breakfast and lunch, keeping as far a distance as space would allow between herself and the master. He still managed to swat her both times but he made no attempt to grab her. And this time, she took extreme care to place his teacup to the right of his plate.

While Barrington served the bread, Marietta prepared the next course, carefully spooning the beef and carrot stew into the bowl. When Agnes’ back was turned, Marietta pulled the glass jar from her pocket and emptied its contents into the stew, stirring quickly to camouflage the herbs. Would the Fat Man notice? Would the stew taste different?

Barrington strode into the kitchen. “Go now - you’re late!” he snapped, heaving the bread and butter plates into the sink. Marietta lifted her tray and hurried to the dining room, her heart pounding with fear or excitement, she wasn‘t sure which.

The Fat Man grunted as she placed the bowl in front of him. His plump fingers curled around two spoons, one in each hand. Marietta backed into the corner, holding her breath. Tick tock, tick tock. The grandfather clock kept its steady rhythm as Marietta‘s heart hammered in her chest.

Her eyes flickered to the Fat Man. Slurping the stew greedily, the Fat Man appeared to inhale chunks of beef and carrot, licking the spoons in between bites with hearty abandon. Marietta exhaled. He hadn’t noticed any change in flavor. If anything, he appeared to enjoy the thick soup even more, his thick pink tongue lapping the bottom of the bowl when he finished, determined not to miss a drop. Satisfied, he leaned back in his chair, belching gas and filling the air with the scent of carrots.

Marietta’s stomach twisted. The herbs hadn’t worked. They hadn’t done a thing.

“Come, wench. Next course!“ The Fat Man snapped his fingers, and Marietta scurried to the table and whirled quickly after grabbing the bowl, intent on thwarting the Fat Man’s attempt to smack her rump. And this time it worked. Marietta heard a whoosh behind her as the Fat Man’s beefy hand swung listlessly through the air, missing his target. Odd. Did he seem slower than usual?

He growled with surprise, but Marietta skipped to the door, passing Barrington on his way in with the main course. Bitter with disappointment, Marietta dropped the bowl in the sink and made her way to the dessert station, where Agnes was arranging biscuits on a plate.

“What’s the matter, girl?” Agnes asked, scrutinizing Marietta’s face. “Still mooning over what happened yesterday?”

Marietta shook her head. “No, it’s nothing.”

Agnes pressed on. “Then what’s the problem, child? What’s your . . . “

Barrington burst into the kitchen, eyes wild. “Cook! Wench! Come quickly, something’s wrong with the master!” He bolted from the room, Agnes and Marietta close on his heels.

They stopped short at the entrance to the dining room. “Look!” cried Barrington, pointing at the master.

The Fat Man sat motionless in his chair, fingers clenched tightly around his fork and knife. His head was tilted forward, as if to eat, but he sat completely still, his unblinking eyes fixed upon the lamb before him. A thin line of drool dribbled from his mouth to his plate.

Agnes bent down and snapped her fingers in his face. “What the devil is the matter with him?” she asked.

“I don’t know. He just stopped eating. He won‘t move.” Barrington poked the Fat Man in the back. “See?”

Marietta’s heart raced. “Is he still breathing?”


“Yes, barely.”

Marietta glanced down at the drool pooling on the Fat Man’s plate. She giggled, just a bit at first, then laughed out loud, holding her belly as she doubled over. Agnes stared at her, open-mouthed.

“Why are you laughing?”

Marietta straightened up, containing herself. “That fat bastard!“ She said, pointing to the master. “Why, it must be killing him to see the lamb in front of him like that and not able to eat it.”

Barrington glared. “How dare you laugh at the master!” His arm flung out and back-handed Marietta across the mouth. Blood spurted from her lip.

Marietta staggered, then gaped at the blood rushing from her mouth. Enraged, she lunged for Barrington, her hands closing around his neck as they toppled to the floor. They grappled and rolled, over and over, past the table, down the grand hall toward the grandfather clock. They struggled, Marietta’s fingers closed tightly around Barrington’s throat, his face turning beet red and his thin fists pounding her ribs, trying to get loose.

Agnes was shouting, “Stop it, stop it, stop it!” But Marietta couldn’t stop.

Rage rushed to her hands, poured out her fingers and she squeezed and squeezed, her grip like iron on flesh. Barrington rolled and boxed her ears, making her screech as she let go of his throat. Marietta scrambled to her feet and kicked Barrington square in the ribs, sending him right into the grandfather clock. The glass front shattered, raining shards over the two of them, then the clock teetered and shuddered and crashed to the ground. Agnes screamed.

And then there was silence. The clock lay in a heap, glass and splintered wood littering the floor. Marietta and Barrington stared at the clock, its door askew, something bright and yellow glinting beneath the rubble. Agnes joined them, the Fat Man momentarily forgotten.

“The master’s gold,” Agnes whispered, sucking in a breath.

“The master’s gold,” Barrington repeated.

Marietta knelt and pushed the broken door aside, revealing the treasure hidden beneath. Bright yellow coins lay scattered inside of the clock. They shone brilliantly, reflecting light from the chandelier. “It’s been here the whole time, where the master could see it from the table. The stories were true!”

All three turned to look at the Fat Man. Bloated and purple, his face appeared about to explode, and a strangled cry gurgled from his mouth. They watched in fascination as the Fat Man struggled to move inside his rigid skin. As they watched, his eyes rolled up in his head and he toppled sideways out of his chair, crashing like a stone. The grand hall shuddered from the impact. The Fat Man lay on his side, motionless, the knife and fork still gripped in his rigid hands.

Agnes rushed to him. “He’s dead,” she said. “He must’ve had a heart attack from all the excitement.”

“From our finding his gold,” said Barrington, stuffing coins into his pockets. “I say we split it up, and never say a word about it. No one will ever know.”

Marietta stared at the gold. Just a few handfuls would be enough to take care of her mother for years. And she would never have to work for a bastard like the Fat Man again. She and Agnes joined Barrington in stuffing their clothes with gold.

“What do we do with ‘im?” asked Agnes, as they passed the master’s body.

“Nothing,” said Barrington. “We’ll send the doorman for the undertaker. Tell him he choked on a piece of meat, no one would question it. Everyone knows he’s a pig. We‘ll be free as birds.” Barrington strode quickly toward the door with Agnes in tow. She paused and glanced back at Marietta.

“Aren’t you coming?” Agnes asked.

Marietta hesitated. “There is just one thing I must do.” She approached the master’s motionless body, eyeing his large rear end. Then she drew back her hand, and with all the strength she could muster, Marietta swung hard, and served the Fat Man one last time.

The End