Inside, we each got handed a drink of “bathtub gin.” Snacks were Ritz crackers and Spam and Velveeta.
Then we started discussing the book.
The conversation quickly grew hot and heavy as we argued about whether Frank and Cora were right to follow their hearts and passion and kill Cora's dreary husband Nick.
"Well, let me tell you something,” said Alice Sanders, her face all flushed, “if someone like Frank ever came into my life, I wouldn't think twice about doing the same thing to my Harry!"
The room fell silent. Then Sarah said, “Alice, don't you think that's going a little too far...?"
"No, I don't! This discussion has made me see my whole life differently. It's just—it's just so intense to act books out this way! I never knew fiction could be so powerful and meaningful! God bless that Diana Loevy!"
The conversation quickly shifted to less personal interpretations of the book, and we eventually broke up, although thanks to the bathtub gin I don't really remember too much about the final hours of the meeting. In fact, the next day I had to call up Irma to learn what the next book was. It turned out to be another classic, Madame Bovary.
What a turnout everyone made for that book! How the sewing machines hummed! Old mothballed bridesmaid gowns were exhumed and fancied up. Horse-drawn carriages were rented from farmers. Sally laid on Champagne (actually, sparkling California wine), and we made the Frenchiest recipes that Rachael Ray offered.
The one sad thing was that Alice Sanders was nowhere to be seen. We were all abuzz about her absence, but it was not until a few days later that we learned from the local television news about the tragedy at her house and how Alice and some young man named Jimmy Wayne “Knuckles” Burgess were now wanted criminals on the lam, last seen heading for the Mexican border.
But to get back to Flaubert. So many of us empathized with poor Emma and her affairs and her spendthrift, self-indulgent ways that barely compensated for her boring marriage. I guess it was only natural that a few of us would go on afterwards to a little extramarital hankypanky and some running up of the old credit cards.
You can see where things were heading with our book club. The Diana Loevy method of getting deeply into these novels was just so powerful that the books took hold of our lives.
Perhaps our choices of which titles to read weren't too wise either. If only we had picked something like Little Women or Little House on the Prairie.
But we didn't. In fact, for next week we decided to do Jackie Susann's Valley of the Dolls.
When Sally opened the door to her house for me that Wednesday, she was wearing a fringed leather vest over her bare chest, a headband, and a pair of polka-dotted short shorts.
"Groovy Carnaby Street gear!” she exclaimed, admiring my vinyl miniskirt and go-go boots. “Come right in!"
The refreshments that night were bowls of pills. Sally had gotten her nephew, Harold, who went to college in Omaha, to provide her with something called “ecstasy."
"Are you sure these pills are safe?” I asked.
"Oh, hang loose, babe! Is Loevy your guru or not?"
Embarrassed and not wanting to be a party-pooper, I indulged.
It was right after that night that the PTA had to disband, in light of a highly radioactive public freakout by several strung-out moms. Things were said that just made it impossible ever to work together on bake sales again.
Of course the whole town of Farblondjet was in a dither by now. But no one outside of our book club really knew the cause of all the recent scandals. The men especially were clueless. And we Loevy-ites were in too deep now to stop, recruiting new members to replace the ones we lost to jail and other distractions.
Over the next few weeks, we tackled Grace Metalious's Peyton Place, Gore Vidal's Myra Breckenridge, George Higgins's The Friends of Eddie Coyle, Nicholson Baker's Vox, and William Vollman's The Royal Family, among others. That last one was particularly trying. Not only was it a dreadfully long book to read, but I picked up a really nasty infection working for a week in a certain exclusive establishment in Nevada....
I suppose we would have gone on in this fashion much longer, if not for our choice to tackle John le Carré's The Little Drummer Girl. Those Middle-Easterners are so darn touchy! The headlines from the arrests of Sally, Beth, and a half dozen other Farblondjet natives found meddling in the Gaza Strip broke the secrets of our little club, and we were forced to temporarily suspend our literary activities, especially since Sally's home was now the legal property of Hamas.
But the survivors of the local program dedicated to the methods of The Book Club Companion are determined to reunite soon.
If anyone shows up next week, we're going to tackle Pauline Réage's The Story of O.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Two Weeks After by M. Ramsey Chapman
This story marks the fiction-writing debut of M. Ramsey Chapman, who writes from New Mexico.
A dirt-streaked yellow taxi drove silently up Alvarado Street in the early dawn. The sun had peeked over the horizon a few minutes ago. In an hour, still-sleepy adults would begin emerging from their homes—some of them clutching bagels or travel mugs of coffee—and start making their way to work or taking their kids to school or daycare. An hour after that the angle of the rising sun would ignite the oven that the neighborhood became each day for six months of the year. But for now the street was quiet and cool.
The brunette in the backseat wasn't very talkative this morning, and Jack wanted to break the silence.
"I'd play the radio,” he said. “But it hasn't worked in ages."
There was no response.
After a moment, he said: “I sure am sorry."
"Do you know how many times you've said that in the last two weeks?"
Jack started to speak but caught himself. Apologizing for apologizing would only make things worse.
"You sure you only want two hours?” he said.
"I only want one. You wanted longer. We compromised. Remember?"
"I know. It's just that it's the last time either of us will ever see ‘em."
"Which is what makes it so painful and why I don't wanna prolong the experience. I can't believe you even talked me into this."
"It's the right thing to do."
"I think it'll only make it worse. We should just turn around and never let ‘em hear from us again."
Jack spun the wheel to the right and steered the cab onto Old Pierce Road. One block up was an aged blue and white bungalow with a mailbox painted to look like the New Mexico flag. It was where Jack first picked April up two weeks ago, though it seemed now that they had known each other for years.
She had come to the door wearing a tight yellow floral dress that didn't quite reach her knees, and even though his head was pounding fiercely from the previous night's bender, Jack hadn't been able to keep his eyes off her smooth, tanned legs. He had kept his gaze on them as she kissed her hubby good-bye and then turned and walked toward the cab, her hips swiveling deliciously in the tight dress.
As she drew closer, he had slowly raised his eyes, appreciating the curves of her body, until his gaze met the scowl on her face.
Jack had grinned in reply.
Then he added a wink.
He felt ashamed of himself now, knowing what April was going to tell her husband—and what he was going to tell his wife.
"It's gonna be hard on ‘em,” he said.
"I know."
"I'm gonna try to soften it as much as I can."
"You think I'm not?"
Jack sighed. The closer they got to her address, the more tense and defensive April had become.
He pulled the cab into her driveway and stopped but didn't set the parking brake. He heard the click of a door latch and then the squeak of hinges. The cab gave a bounce and then—slam!
Jack rolled down his window and the scent of pine trees and flowers flowed in. As April walked around to his side of the car, he saw that the bright blue-and-white morning glories in f
ront of the house were still open.
"Two hours,” she said. “Be on time."
"I will."
He rolled up his window and April watched him slowly back the cab out of her driveway and then glide silently up the street.
* * * *
When the cab turned the corner onto Alvarado, April summoned her courage and faced the house.
She and Kyle had bought it three years ago, just after they were married. It was their first house, and he carried her over the threshold. That memory made her feel good. She shivered, though, when she stepped up onto the porch and stood on the spot where she had kissed him good-bye for what was supposed to be a short visit to her mother's.
Fate had had something else in mind, she thought. Jack changed everything.
April fumbled with the contents of her handbag and finally produced a set of keys. She unlocked the front door and opened it—slowly, so that the noise wouldn't wake Kyle. She stole inside and looked around the living room. It had southern exposure, so it was still dim at this time of morning, but she could see well enough.
April wrinkled her nose. There was an unfamiliar smell—sweet and sour—like trash going bad.
Her gaze slid across the furniture—the old, ratty couch, the coffee table with patchy varnish, the metal folding chairs, and the soft, green recliner that leaned too far back on one side because it had a broken spring or something. There was a pile of raggedy hunting magazines in one corner and an overflowing trash can in another.
It struck her—for the first time, really—just how shabby it all looked.
Of course, Kyle had known it all along. He'd apologized for the fact that they had to make do with used furniture, most of which he had gotten from his parents. She had told him that she didn't care what kind of furniture they had. As long as they were together, that was what mattered. And she'd meant it. Until now her feelings for him had kept her from realizing just how pitiful their home was.
She turned and walked resolutely toward the bedroom.
Sunlight was streaming through the curtains, but Kyle wasn't yet awake. He lay sprawled on one side of their bed—her side—a yellow pad of paper and a pen next to him.
On the night table stood a large vase of dark green glass with a dozen long-stemmed roses in it. There was also a mostly finished jug of Arbor Mist Strawberry White Zinfandel—her favorite—along with two wine glasses, one of which was still half full.
April picked up the jug and swished around the wine. Looks like only three or four glasses left, she thought. Her wine snob sister had always ribbed her for liking “that horrible stuff,” but at least they could afford it, and April enjoyed the strawberry taste and smell.
She unscrewed the cap and poured some in the unused glass from the night table. It was warm and the aroma was strong. It was supposed to be served chilled and the taste would be off, but April took a gulp and reached for the legal pad beside Kyle's sleeping form.
"Things I Love About You,” he had written at the top of it. Below that was a numbered list naming her smile, the way her eyes sparkled, the way her hair smelled, and her long, beautiful legs.
He's a guy, so of course the physical stuff comes first, April thought as she took another gulp of wine.
The list continued by naming the way she sang in the church choir—just like an angel—and the work she did with the youth group. It listed her sympathy, her understanding, how encouraging she was when he was sad, and how she didn't complain when he went hunting or fishing or about their old house and shabby furniture.
April rolled her eyes.
This is why they invented the word maudlin, she thought.
There was more, but April didn't read it. She put the pad down and drained the last of her glass. Looking at Kyle, she felt a knotting in her stomach.
He must have cried himself to sleep, she thought.
She bent down and touched the side of his face.
He's dreaming about me.
* * * *
Jack pulled the taxi into the parking lot of the nearest grocery store. It was an Albertson's, and he thought the odds of anyone recognizing him here were pretty small. He was still on the side of town where April lived, so he didn't have any friends here, and he didn't really hang out in supermarkets to begin with. Patty did all the shopping for them. Jack had dropped off customers here over the years, but he doubted any were here at the moment. Many had been little old ladies who didn't drive and probably weren't even alive anymore.
He found a space next to a battered blue Suburban with California plates. After pulling up beside it, he reached into his pocket and drew out a thick wad of bills—mostly twenties that customers had given him, plus the fives and ones he used to make change. The outer bills were wrinkled and grimy. He spent a few moments counting them ... $100 ... $200 ... $300 ... $400. When he finished counting he found that he had $484, which was good. He'd need to overpay and overpay big—the bigger the better for the result he needed.
He climbed out of the cab and looked around warily. There were a few customers in the parking lot, but none were looking at him. He pulled up the collar of his denim jacket and tugged down his worn John Deere cap.
Entering the store, he spotted the florist's stand and went straight to it. It was too early for the florist to be there, but the refrigerated case still held a few flowers left over from yesterday. There were no roses of any kind, but Jack found something acceptable: a large bouquet of yellow chrysanthemums.
Then he went to find the school supplies section. He kept his face pointed down the aisles, skipping sideways from one aisle to the next, fast enough to look like a man who didn't want to be bothered.
When he found the school supplies, he grabbed two items: a pack of Bic pens and a small spiral notepad with a picture of Dale Earnhardt and a NASCAR logo on it. He opened the cardstock panel on the front of the notepad and carefully tore off the barcode revealing its price. Then he inspected the rest of the panel and the cardboard backing to verify that the price wasn't printed anywhere else.
When he was satisfied, Jack strode to the end of the aisle and looked around. There was no choice now but to expose his face to the whole store as he looked for what he needed next. And there it was: a cardboard display stand of the local newspaper in front of the checkout counters. He would have preferred to use the metal vending machines outside—he could have gotten a Wall Street Journal from them—but he couldn't overpay in the amount he needed to with a coin slot, so he'd have to make do with a copy of the Las Cruces Sun-News.
He grabbed a paper and went to the nearest open checker.
The young Latina looked as if she were about to fall asleep. Jack didn't know if she was just finishing or beginning a long shift. She was far too young to be anyone he knew, but he kept his gaze down as he plunked the newspaper, flowers, pens, and notepad onto the conveyer belt—making sure that the notepad was the farthest from her reach.
She sleepily punched in the code for the newspaper and the flowers and scanned the barcode on the pens. When she came to the notepad, she picked it up and turned it around a couple of times.
"Sorry, sir,” she said with an accent. “I ask for a price check on these."
She picked up a telephone handset and started to speak, but Jack said: “Sorry, darlin'! ‘Fraid I can't wait!"
He snatched the notepad, grabbed his other items, and slammed $484 down on the conveyer belt. Instantly, his hands began tingling, and he quick-walked out of the store.
Outside, he broke into a sprint and made it to the taxi. He hopped in, fired up the engine, and sped off as quickly as he could, not looking back to see if the clerk had followed him out the door. Several blocks later, he slowed and found a place to park. Sinking back against the torn vinyl seat, he felt his heart racing.
He'd gotten away with it!
Jack ripped open the pack of Bic pens and ruffled through the newspaper until he found the stock market listings.
He closed his eyes, his hands still tingling fr
om the overpayment, and struck blindly with a pen, circling a name at random. When he opened his eyes, he discovered he had circled a company called Barton Pharmaceuticals.
Placing the newspaper with the stock page face up on the passenger's seat, Jack reached into the change cup that he kept in one of the cab's beverage holders. As he grabbed at its contents, he felt a charge like static electricity jump from his hand to the coins, which now felt tingly. Quickly placing his fist over the open stock page, he tossed a handful of coins into the air. At the height of their ascent they froze in place and hung, suspended for a full two seconds before plunking down on the paper. Five were heads up and twelve were heads down.
He opened the Dale Earnhardt notepad and wrote “Barton Pharmaceuticals. Five Years. No More, No Less!!"
* * * *
April had brought a folding chair into the bedroom and put it down with the back toward Kyle. She sat in it backward with her arms folded on the top of the metal chair-back and studied his sleeping form. She sat like this for a long time—killing time, frankly. After polishing off the rest of the jug of strawberry Zinfandel, she played with a rose from the vase until she pricked her finger on one of the thorns, causing a bright red drop to well out. She sucked it off and then began popping the thorns off the stem, using her long, polished fingernails to keep from getting pricked again.
When the stem was bare, April gave an impatient sigh and stood up. She shimmied out of her yellow floral dress and her underpants, dropping them on the floor. After unhooking her brassiere and hanging it on the chair, she sat carefully on the bed and slowly lay down next to Kyle.
She ran her fingers through his sandy hair and could tell he was having one of those wish-fulfillment dreams about being reunited with her after a long separation. When he saw her, he rushed up and flung his arms around her. Lifting her off her feet, he began peppering her face with kisses.
Then he sensed that something was wrong and his eyes widened.
FSF, October 2007 Page 18
