True Reflection
Margaret Demarest took her final bow as the curtain came down on the seven hundred and thirty-fourth performance of the Broadway revival of Cabaret. After the supporting cast had taken their bows, Lance Wayman, her costar, who was the second actor to fill the role of Cliff Bradshaw, walked off the stage after the tenth curtain call, leaving Margaret to stand alone in the spotlight amidst the roses tossed at her feet. Five more times the curtain descended before the acclaimed Broadway star had enough adulation and headed toward her dressing room.
No more Sally Bowles, she thought, as she removed the bobbed black wig and sat down at her vanity. It was a good run.
True to her reputation as a real trouper, she had not missed a single performance. As long as she could breathe, she would go on stage. She had no choice in the matter since the theater was in her blood. She regarded Broadway not only as her home but also as her religion. Its theaters were cathedrals. Its saints included Oscar Hammerstein, Richard Rogers, Jerome Kern, Andrew Lloyd Webber, Alan Lerner, Frederick Loewe and Stephen Sondheim.
Margaret was born into show business. Her mother was an actress, and her father a director. Her maternal grandmother had been a costume designer, her maternal grandfather a stage manager and her paternal grandparents had both been dancers. It was no wonder then that little Margaret first appeared on stage at the age of four, playing the youngest von Trapp daughter in The Sound of Music.
Over the years, she had been offered dozens of roles in the movies and turned down every one. A true thespian, in her opinion, always performed in front of a live audience, not before a camera.
"My mother never followed the siren's call to Hollywood," Margaret once claimed. "She could have been one of the greatest luminaries on the silver screen if she had wanted to, but she always insisted movie stars had no real acting talent, that Jean Harlow and Marilyn Monroe were nothing but pinup girls with bleached hair and provocative dresses."
After making a brief appearance at the close-of-show party—staying just long enough to drink one glass of champagne and to bid her supporting cast a fond farewell—she took a taxi back to her apartment on Manhattan's Upper West Side, three blocks from the famed Dakota. It wasn't until her front door closed behind her, effectively cutting her off from all humanity, that the aching loneliness and profound sense of loss set in.
Why do I feel like this every time a play closes? she wondered. It's not as though I'm unemployed now. I start rehearsals for my next role in eight weeks.
Still, she was faced with the problem of what to do with her time for the next two months. Accustomed to giving eight performances a week, Margaret normally had no time to dwell on the past or to wonder what her life would have been like if she had made other choices.
Feeling as though the walls in her apartment were about to close in on her, she took her cell phone out of her Marc Jacobs handbag and telephoned her only close friend. Fifteen years earlier, she and Kimberly Elkart had costarred in a revival of Applause with Kimberly playing Eve Harrington to Margaret's Margo Channing. Although her performance as the devious, conniving young ingénue earned her a Tony nomination and the praise of the New York critics, Kimberly had surprised the theater world by retiring from acting at the conclusion of the play's run. She had walked away from what very well might have been a long and brilliant career to marry a chiropractor from New Jersey.
"Hi, it's me," Margaret said when Kimberly answered. "We're still going away for the weekend, aren't we?"
"Of course. I've already got my suitcase packed. What time did you want me to pick you up?"
"Is eight too early? I thought we might stop for breakfast somewhere in Connecticut."
"No, but don't be upset if I'm late. The traffic through the tunnel can be terrible at rush hour."
"Don't worry. I'm a lady of leisure for the next two months."
Although she said this in a joking manner, the idea of having nowhere to be and no schedule to keep nearly brought tears to her eyes.
What the hell am I going to do with myself for eight long weeks?
* * *
The two women were traveling along Interstate 95 in Kimberly's Lexus, gossiping about mutual acquaintances, when at Port Chester, New York, they crossed the border into Connecticut. Exit five on the Connecticut Turnpike (the section of I-95 that hugged the coast of the Nutmeg State) led to Old Greenwich by way of U.S. Route 1. It was an area Margaret knew well.
Twenty years earlier, shortly after they were married, she and her husband, wealthy businessman Howard Reeser, had purchased a house in Old Greenwich. With more than four acres of property, it was a stately old colonial that the actress had lovingly decorated with rooms full of expensive antiques. Two years later, she gave birth to a daughter, her only child. Motherhood, however, did not suit Margaret. Six months after Chelsea was born, she delegated her child-rearing responsibilities to a governess and returned to the stage. Between commuting and performing, the actress had little time for either a husband or a child. By her daughter's third birthday, she was divorced and living in her Manhattan apartment. Having agreed to give Howard full custody, she saw her daughter no more than three or four times a year.
About ten miles into the state, they exited the turnpike near Stamford and stopped at an International House of Pancakes.
"I normally don't have breakfast at home," Kimberly confessed as she reached for the maple syrup, "but when I travel, I can't resist a stack of pancakes."
Margaret, whose idea of breakfast was a cup of coffee and a slice of whole wheat toast minus the butter, watched her friend eat. Since quitting acting and giving birth to three children, Kimberly had gained thirty pounds, yet she did not seem to mind. On the contrary, she attacked her pancakes with gusto. Even at fifty-two—an age she never openly admitted to anyone—Margaret kept a close count of every calorie she consumed.
"How does your family feel about your taking the weekend off?" the actress asked.
"They don't mind. My daughter is going to a sleepover at her friend's house tonight, and Doug is taking the boys to Yankee Stadium. Tomorrow is movie night. My husband will order in pizza; then afterward he and the kids will make popcorn and binge watch Pixar movies."
"Popcorn and movies? What fun!" Margaret said sarcastically.
"It may not sound exciting to a cosmopolitan New Yorker like you, but the simple little rituals like movie night—well, they're the glue that binds and holds our family together. But I'm sure you don't want to talk about such silly domestic matters. Tell me about your new play."
"After three successive musicals, I've agreed to star in a new drama by a promising young playwright. It's called All Night Long. It's about a motley group of customers that show up in the early morning hours at an all-night diner in the middle of a blizzard. I play the waitress that has to deal with these characters. She's witty and intelligent, and facing serious problems of her own, she treats others with compassion. She's like the sober bartender who has to interact with all the drunks that come into his bar."
"Sounds interesting. I'll have to see it when it opens."
"I'll send you two tickets."
After Kimberly finally finished her pancakes and a second cup of coffee, the two women continued with their journey. They remained on the Connecticut Turnpike until they reached New Haven; then Kimberly took Interstate 91 north through Massachusetts and into Vermont.
"I'll bet this place is beautiful in the fall," Margaret said as she walked toward the picturesque bed and breakfast with her Louis Vuitton suitcase and overnight bag in hand."
"Yes," Kimberly agreed, "and a lot more crowded. Have you ever been to Vermont?"
"No. This is my first time. I'm a city girl."
"What made you decide you wanted to come here now?"
It was a simple question, but Margaret had no simple answer. In all honesty, she did not know why she had wanted to leave the hustle and bustle of New York and venture out into the wilds of New England. Still, a half-truth would satisfy her friend's mild curiosity.
"I've always heard this state has the best antique stores in the country."
* * *
"I feel like we're traveling through a jigsaw puzzle," Margaret joked the following day as her friend drove along scenic country roads past white-steepled churches, well-tended farms and wooden covered bridges.
"Welcome to Norman Rockwell country," Kimberly laughed.
"He may have lived here in his later years, but Rockwell was actually born in New York City."
"Why am I not surprised you know that?"
"Because you learned a long time ago that my mind is a repository for useless trivia."
Margaret was enjoying her time with Kimberly. Having begun her acting career at such a young age, she never went to school—public or private. She was educated by a tutor who taught her just enough to meet the state educational requirements and earn a high school diploma. However, she had missed out on the social interaction with those of her own age. Kimberly was the closest thing she had ever had to a girlfriend.
"Oh, look at this place!" Kimberly cried and pulled off the road onto a gravel parking lot. "Clancy's Antiques and Country Store. I'll bet we can find something here."
Clancy's, only slightly smaller in scale than a Walmart super store, had a lot to offer an antique hunter, everything from furniture and primitive art to used books and vintage clothing. It was good the store had a wide selection since Kimberly and Margaret differed in their definition of the word antique. To the former, for example, it meant a 1950s Revlon doll, but to the latter it was an 1840 Jumeau.
While Kimberly was looking through a case of old Matchbox cars, Margaret idly examined the jewelry on display.
"Can I help you?" asked a man who suddenly appeared behind the counter.
"I'm just looking. Thank you."
The man was short and stocky, had tightly curling black hair and his face was in need of a shave. His shirt, although clean, needed pressing.
"I think I have something that might interest you," he said, reaching underneath the counter.
"I already have plenty of jewelry."
"This isn't jewelry."
The man took out what appeared to be a compact case made of silver.
"That's lovely, but I'm particular about the make-up I wear."
"This isn't for face powder," the man said, pushing a small button along the rim and opening the case.
"It's a mirror," Margaret observed, clearly not impressed.
"Not just any mirror. This one is special. It shows people not how they see themselves but how others see them."
"Thank you, Clancy," the actress said, becoming annoyed by what she saw as the man's attempts to make a sale, "but I'm not interested."
"And I'm not, Clancy, Miss Demarest."
Margaret was not surprised that the man knew her name. She was, after all, a famous star on Broadway.
"My name is Applebee. Omar Applebee."
There's a Norman Rockwell name if ever I've heard one!
"Take a look and see for yourself," Omar urged, thrusting the compact case into Margaret's hand.
Just as she saw her reflection in the mirror, Kimberly walked up behind her and grabbed hold of her elbow.
"Come here, Margie. You've got to see this grandfather clock."
Margaret was suddenly mesmerized by the reflection she saw in the mirror. Although Kimberly's lips did not move, the actress could clearly hear her friend's words her mind.
The poor thing, how lonely she must be! No family to go home to at night, nothing but a cold, empty apartment. I'm so glad I quit acting when I did. I'd have hated to end up like her.
Margaret quickly snapped the lid of the compact shut, as though closing it would banish the voice in her head.
"No, thank you, Mr. Applebee. I don't want it."
"The clock is over here," Kimberly continued, gently pulling the other woman to the rear of the store. "Look, there it is. Isn't it magnificent?"
"Yes, yes, it is."
"I'd love to buy it, but I can't very well fit it in the back of my Lexus. Maybe I can arrange to have it shipped to New Jersey. I'm going to go back and talk to the sales clerk."
A gray-haired man, presumably Clancy, was now behind the counter. Mr. Applebee was nowhere to be found, but he had left the mirror on the counter near the cash register. Margaret, who managed to convince herself that she only imagined the words she had heard in her mind, nonetheless stared in awe at the silver compact.
Kimberly concluded her transaction and, tucking her wallet back into her purse, began walking away.
"Wait a second," Margaret called to her.
On impulse she took out her credit card and bought the mirror without bothering to inquire about its price beforehand.
* * *
After a long day of shopping, going from one antique store to another, the two women stopped for dinner at a quaint colonial themed inn roughly a mile from their bed and breakfast. Kimberly, who had apparently worked up an appetite spending her husband's money, ordered the prime rib dinner with baked potato smothered in butter and sour cream and pureed butternut squash. Margaret settled for the chef's salad with light dressing.
"Is that all you're having, a salad?" Kimberly asked when the waitress walked away from the table after taking their order.
"I have to watch my weight."
The smile nearly froze on Margaret's face when she looked across the table and saw the pity in her friend's eyes.
I suppose I didn't imagine the voice in my head when I looked into the mirror. My best friend feels sorry for me!
"Will you excuse me for a few minutes?" Kimberly asked. "I want to call home and see how Doug and the kids are doing."
Relying heavily on her skill as an actress, Margaret managed to make it through dinner in apparently good humor. When she went up to her room for the night, however, she fished the silver compact from the bottom of her purse, pushed the tiny button to open it and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Nothing about her face looked out of the ordinary. Better yet, there were no mysterious voices in her head. Margaret snapped the compact closed and tossed it into her handbag.
What's wrong with me? I've been in Vermont for a little more than a day and I'm already willing to believe in the existence of magic mirrors. Oh, God! I wish I were back in New York, waiting to go on stage. I hate it when I'm between plays.
The next morning, the two women were dressed and in the downstairs dining room by nine. After a large breakfast for Kimberly and a cup of coffee for Margaret, they were ready to leave for the drive back to Manhattan.
"This is on me," the mother from New Jersey insisted when the young woman behind the front desk presented the bill.
"Don't be silly. I've got it. You paid yesterday."
While the front desk clerk was processing her credit card payment, Margaret opened her compact mirror to see if her lipstick had smeared during breakfast.
"If you'll just sign here, Miss Demarest."
As the young woman handed Margaret a pen, their fingers touched momentarily. As had happened in Clancy's Antiques and Country Store, a voice sounded in the actress' head. It was not her own nor her best friend's. It belonged to the clerk behind the front desk.
An old lady like her wearing all the eye makeup and lipstick. Talk about growing old gracefully! Why isn't she content to look her age?
Aghast at the young woman's criticism, she quickly closed the compact and returned it to her purse along with the receipt for breakfast.
* * *
During the next eight weeks, Margaret managed to forget about the mirror and the bizarre effect it had on her. Once again, she was able to chalk the mysterious voices up to an overactive imagination and what she liked to think of as post-play depression.
Somehow, she kept herself busy. She had lunch with Kimberly on three occasions: twice in New York and once in New Jersey. There were costume fittings for the new play, although she only wore one costume throughout: a pink waitress uniform and a white apron. She was also kept busy with photo shoots, personal appearances and TV and magazine interviews—all the usual rigmarole that went into promoting a new Broadway production.
Meanwhile, for two months, the silver compact Omar Applebee had enticed her to buy lay at the bottom of her purse, buried beneath her wallet, makeup bag, checkbook, pack of tissues, keys, cell phone, comb and bottle of aspirin.
At last, the day arrived when Margaret was to return to work. She had read the script almost daily and had committed her lines to memory. Ready for rehearsals, she locked her apartment door behind her and went out onto the street.
"I need a cab," she told the doorman, who immediately left his post and walked out to the curb to hail a passing taxi.
As the actress walked toward the open door of the cab, a sudden gust of wind blew dirt in her face and she briefly stumbled.
"Watch your step, miss," the doorman cautioned and took hold of her arm.
"I've got something in my eye," she said, getting out the mirror.
The man's deep, masculine voice, which only a moment before was in Margaret's ear, now rang out in her head.
Why am I giving her a hand? I should let the old snob fall in the gutter. All these years I've been doorman here she's never once said "please" or "thank you" when she wants something. Just issues a command as though she were the Queen of England. And despite all her money, she gives me a measly little tip—when she deigns to tip me at all.
"Where to, ma'am?" the driver asked.
When she took her eyes away from the mirror, the doorman's voice abruptly stopped. She gave the address to the taxi driver and braced herself, waiting to hear what ugly things he might be thinking about her. Nothing. Not a word. She stared at her reflection. Still nothing.
Maybe he's not thinking about me. Maybe he doesn't give a damn who's sitting in the back of his cab.
Margaret thought about the previous incidents. Kimberly had grabbed her by the elbow. The desk clerk at the bed and breakfast had touched her finger as she passed her the pen. The doorman had taken hold of her arm to prevent her from falling off the curb.
They all touched me while I was looking at my reflection. That's how I was able to hear their thoughts, she surmised. But I didn't hear what the cab driver was thinking because we didn't make physical contact.
Even if the partition between the front and back seats had not been closed, Margaret would never have reached over and touched the driver. Nor did she graze his hand as she gave him her credit card. Rather, she waited until she got inside the theater to put her theory to the test.
As she approached Donovan Kennard, the director, a man who had learned his craft making rock music videos, she held her compact in her left hand. She extended her right to shake his.
"Do you think I look the part of a waitress?" she asked, theatrically bringing the mirror up to her face while still holding onto his hand.
Her hypothesis was proved correct. Physical contact was the key to the magic of the mirror.
Why couldn't I get a Hollywood star for the role of the waitress? I know my producer couldn't afford Meryl Streep, but why couldn't he spring for someone like Glenn Close or Julianne Moore. Their names alone would fill seats, whereas I'm stuck with someone who's hardly known outside of the New York area.
Margaret pulled her hand back as though she had received an electric shock. Her first instinct was to tell Mr. Kennard that neither Glenn nor Julianne would lower their professional standards to appear in a play directed by him, but she wisely held her tongue. She did not want to cause disharmony on the set on the first day of rehearsals.
With a great deal of effort, she smiled graciously at Donovan, turned swiftly and then collided with her new costar, Lisette Bower, a twenty-two-year-old actress who had made a name for herself playing a teenage prostitute on a popular daytime soap opera. Upon impact, Margaret lost her footing and landed flat on her back on the floor.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Miss Demarest!" her costar cried. "You're not hurt, are you?"
"No, I'm fine. Don't worry about it," the older woman said, raising herself to a sitting position.
"I've been dying to meet you for weeks now and look what I've done. Not much of a first impression."
"It's all right."
"I'm so excited about working with you. I've been a fan of yours all my life. Here, let me help you get up."
Lisette placed her two hands in Margaret's armpits and pulled.
"Wait. I dropped something."
When the veteran actress picked up the compact from the floor, the inevitable happened. She saw her reflection in the mirror while Lisette Bower was still trying to help her up. The soap star's thoughts were immediately broadcast in her head.
And this clumsy old lady is the main star in the play? Of all the overrated performers on the stage! How did she ever get the lead role? Surely not by sleeping with the producer, even though that's how I got my part. He wouldn't be desperate enough to sleep with a woman old enough to be his mother. She ought to stick to playing Margo Channing: an actress past her prime.
Unwilling to subject herself to further humiliation, Margaret shut the compact and shrugged off Lisette's hands.
"Thank you," she said, attempting to keep the anger out of her voice. "But I don't need your help. I can get up by myself."
Gathering what little dignity she could muster, the fifty-two-year-old actress turned her back on her young director and even younger costar and walked off in the direction of her dressing room.
* * *
After a long day of rehearsals, Margaret unlocked the door of her apartment and went inside. The past five weeks had been pure hell. Although Donovan Kennard and Lisette Bower remained pleasant and respectful on the outside, she knew that just below the surface their feelings were quite different.
They don't like me one bit. My director is disappointed because he believes the garbage he directed for MTV entitles him to be treated like Bob Fosse or Jerome Robbins. And as for Lisette, she thinks she's the next Jennifer Lawrence. She played a teenage hooker on a soap opera, for Christ's sake!
Although she would not admit it, even to herself, Margaret knew the problem went much deeper. To two young people eager to make a name for themselves in the highly competitive world of show business, she was guilty of an unforgiveable sin: she had grown old and had yet to relinquish her crown. They wanted her out of the limelight so that they could bask in its glory.
Three days later, All Night Long opened to blistering reviews. The theater critics lambasted the playwright, blasted the director and crucified Lisette Bower. In fact, the only thing reviewers liked about the play was Margaret Demarest's performance, which one writer likened to "a cool, welcoming oasis in a desert of scorching mediocrity." From the number of empty seats and the poor turnout at the box office, it was obvious that theatergoers agreed with the critics. After six weeks, cast members were given their notice; the play was going to close.
Although her eyes were red from crying, Lisette claimed defiantly, "I prefer television to the stage anyway. Reciting those same lines night after night and during matinees got boring real fast!"
Whatever satisfaction Margaret had at her rave reviews vanished two days before the show was to close when her mother showed up in her dressing room a half hour before the curtain was about to rise.
"Hello, Mother. What a pleasant surprise!"
"I figured I better come and see this play before the plug is pulled. After all, it can't be as bad as the critics say."
Edith Demarest, one of the First Ladies of the theater and a living legend of the Great White Way, had a well-deserved reputation for being a diva and was considered by directors, cast members and stage crews a person "hard to work with." Although nearing eighty, she had yet to lose her much-publicized hauteur. Neither had time dulled her sharp tongue or curbed her outspokenness.
"What are you going to do next?" Edith asked her daughter.
"I'm not sure yet. I've had a few offers. There's talk of bringing back Hello, Dolly! I might put off making any decisions until I see if anything comes of that."
"Well, I'm sure something will come up even if Dolly! falls through."
Edith noticed the silver compact on her daughter's vanity. Placing one hand on her daughter's back for support, she leaned over and picked it up. It opened in her hand.
"Where did you get such an ugly thing?"
With her parent's hand still on her back, Margaret looked at the mirror. As on the previous occasions, the human contact somehow opened a psychic link, this time with her mother.
She better start a new play right away. She'll go nuts if she has to go without working for any length of time. Her career is all she has. After all, it's not as though she has a life outside the theater. Hell, if it hadn't been for me, she wouldn't even have that. She only got her break because she took my name and not her father's.
These were, by far, the cruelest words Margaret had ever heard. After Edith left her dressing room, she broke down in tears.
"Damn you, Mr. Applebee! Why did you sell me that infernal mirror in the first place?"
* * *
Once again, the curtain fell at the end of a last act, marking the end of a run. Unlike the closing night of her previous play, there was no standing ovation and very few curtain calls. A single bouquet of roses was presented to Margaret in acknowledgment of her excellent performance, but it was not enough to save the show. It's like the old saying goes, you can't polish a turd.
As Margaret was left alone on the stage to take her final bow, she saw a familiar face in the audience.
It's Chelsea, my daughter.
The curtain came down for the last time and obscured the young woman's face.
I think it was her. It looked like her.
On the way to her dressing room, Margaret did a quick mental calculation. She was stunned to realize that it had been more than two years since she had seen her child.
"Where did the time go?" she asked herself as she sat down at her vanity.
There was a knock on the door.
"Come in."
"Mom!"
Margaret had not been mistaken. It was Chelsea, and she had grown into a stunningly beautiful young woman.
"What are you doing here?" the surprised parent asked as her daughter hugged her tightly.
"I've seen every play you've starred in as far back as I can remember."
"You have? Why didn't you ever come back stage to see me then?"
"I tried on several occasions, but the hallway outside your dressing room was always mobbed with fans waiting to congratulate you. I could never get through."
Margaret felt a pang of guilt that strangers had prevented Chelsea from seeing her mother. But then, her career had always come between them.
She must think I'm the worst mother in the world.
Margaret's eyes went to silver compact on her vanity, and she wondered what her daughter's inner thoughts would reveal. She had the distinct impression that she would not like what she would hear.
"Would you like to go have a late dinner with me? We could have a nice, long talk. You can even stay at my apartment tonight and go home tomorrow."
"I'd love to, Mom, but I had dinner before the show. Besides, I came here with someone. He's waiting for me in the lobby."
She's going to walk out that door, and I might never see her again.
"He? So, you have a boyfriend. Are you serious about him?"
I know nothing about her life. She could be engaged for all I know.
"Not really. We just date occasionally. Neither one of us wants romance to get in the way of our education."
Again, Margaret's eyes went to the compact. One look, one touch and she would know what her daughter really thought about her. And what if her daughter's hidden words were as painful as those of her own mother? Could she bear hearing them?
Chelsea looked at her watch.
"I really ought to be going. It's getting late, and we have to drive back to Connecticut."
"Can I have a hug first?"
"Sure," Chelsea replied, surprised by her mother's request; she had rarely shown affection to her daughter in the past.
The compact was suddenly in Margaret's hand, and she summoned the courage to open it and look at her reflection.
Oh, Mommy, I love you. You and Daddy are the dearest people in the world to me. I wish I could see you more often. I miss you so much.
"I'll have lots of time on my hands now," Margaret said once her daughter broke the embrace. "Perhaps you can come to New York for a visit, or I can always go up to Greenwich."
"That would great!" Chelsea exclaimed.
"Will you be free any day next week?"
"I don't have any classes on Wednesday. Why don't you come to house? I'm sure Daddy would like to see you, too."
* * *
Early Wednesday afternoon, a cab pulled into the driveway of a white colonial house in Old Greenwich. Margaret Demarest gave the driver a generous tip, exited the vehicle and then rang the bell to her former home. It was her ex-husband who opened the door. Always a good-looking man, he was even more handsome with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and matching beard. Like fine wine, expensive cheese, Sean Connery and George Clooney, he had improved with age.
"Hi, Howard. It's nice to see you again."
"Hello, Margaret."
She did not need a magic mirror to read her ex-husband's thoughts. Everything she needed to know was shining in his eyes.
"Come on in," he said, his voice choked with emotion. "I'm glad you could make it."
"Hi, Mom," Chelsea said, suddenly stepping out from behind her father. "What's that you've got?"
"A box of microwave popcorn and a selection of old black-and-white movies on DVD. I thought it would be nice if we could have what my friend Kimberley calls a family movie night."
As Howard helped her take off her coat, Margaret Demarest felt a sense of having come home. She smiled and silently thanked the strange man named Omar Applebee for helping her recognize the people and things that mattered most in her life.
I don't write too many stories with happy endings. After watching the news for the past few weeks, however, I felt the need for one.
This is my magic mirror, a present from Salem. Every time I open it, I get the uncontrollable urge to feed him!
