The Break-Up Book Club

by Wendy Wax

  I sip wine and nibble on a cupcake, comforted by the sounds of conversation and laughter and the simple pleasure of being surrounded by people who love to read as much as I do. By the time Annell claps her hands and tells us it’s time to get started, my shoulders have relaxed and my breathing has slowed. Even Dorothy looks less rigid, as if being surrounded by books has softened her sharp edges or maybe ripped a small hole in her normally impenetrable protective layer.

  “I haven’t actually read the book,” Erin admits, her face screwing up in apology as we refill our plates and Judith and Meena top off our glasses. “I didn’t know I was coming.”

  “Neither did I.” Judith clutches a bottle of red to her chest as we merge into a bit of a herd and begin to move toward the breezeway. “Until someone dragged me out of my house without warning.” Her usual teasing tone is a ghost of its usual self, but I’m relieved that she’s making the effort.

  “Quite a few of us seem to have ended up here unexpectedly,” Dorothy says with a glimmer of humor I’ve never heard from her. “Who knew book club impressment was so rampant?”

  “That’s how they used to man British naval ships,” Chaz says, and I’m kind of impressed that he not only knows what impressment is but showed up for a discussion of a book titled City of Girls. “Press gangs rounding up Americans to serve on British ships was one of the causes of the War of 1812.”

  “Well, I’d rather be pressed into a book club than the Royal Navy any day,” Carlotta says, tossing back her hair with impossibly long fingernails and smoothing the long fuchsia sweater over distressed black jeans. Somehow, she is once again eating fruit while the rest of us have piled our plates with baked goods.

  “That’s for sure,” Wesley agrees.

  “Given how seasick you get,” his twin adds, “I don’t think you would have been of particular use to the Royal Navy.”

  Our herd thins into more of a column as we pass through the breezeway and into the carriage house. I claim two spots on the window seat while Dorothy peers out the glass doors into the lit garden, a smile hovering on her lips. We’ve only been here about twenty minutes, and she’s already smiled more than I’ve witnessed in the last twelve years.

  “Now then, how many of you have read the book?” Annell asks once we’re all settled.

  All hands but Erin’s and Judith’s go up.

  “Good. Remember that you’re always welcome whether you’ve read the book or not. However, we don’t tiptoe around the details, so there may be spoilers.” Annell smiles. “We do have a few new faces, so let’s run around the circle and introduce ourselves.”

  I sip my wine while I listen to intros. Chaz and Nancy are new to me, and although I try to focus on the details they share, my mind wanders back, once again, to Mitch and how utterly he has trampled on my life and his mother’s. When it’s Dorothy’s turn, I tense up briefly, like I do when one of my shakiest students has to address the class, but Dorothy doesn’t wobble or falter. “I was once an efficiency expert,” she says, quite efficiently. “My favorite book is To Kill a Mockingbird. This is my very first book club discussion. Thank you for making me feel welcome.”

  I’m still pondering my mother-in-law’s choice of such an emotional read as her favorite given how steadfastly she’s avoided the messiness of true emotion for as long as I have known her, when Jazmine’s assistant stands.

  “I’ve never been to a book club before, either. I’m not really a big reader if you don’t count the sports pages, but I did love the Harry Potter books and always wished I was as clever and strong as Hermione.” She glances down as if weighing her next words. “I kind of needed a distraction from my real life tonight, so I’m glad that Jazmine invited me.”

  Annell beams. “I’m glad all of you are here tonight. And I want to remind everyone that not liking a book doesn’t mean it was a bad book—it just means you didn’t enjoy it. I’m always fascinated by how differently readers react to the same story and characters. How much of ourselves we bring to the experience someone else has crafted.”

  With that the conversation begins, pinging from person to person. Tonight, I let the words flow over and around me, like perfectly heated bathwater that both soothes and buoys. I’m pretty much floating until Phoebe brings up the “awful” way Vivian, the main character, lost her virginity but nonetheless fell in love with sex.

  “Did anyone have an incredible first experience?” Meena asks. “I mean, everything takes practice, right?”

  This elicits some laughter but, mercifully, no actual answers. Once again, I’m drawn inward. Back to my first time with Mitchell. How he treated me as if I were made of spun glass. The joy I felt the first time he told me he loved me. My tears of happiness and relief when he asked me to marry him and I knew, finally, I wouldn’t live my entire life alone.

  Dorothy shifts in her seat beside me, and I remember the first time Mitch took me to meet her, right after he proposed. How I assumed our mutual love of him would be a bond and how excited I was to finally have a mother who was not provided by the foster care system, a mother who would love me because I loved her son. Only she always held me at arm’s length, found fault wherever she could, withheld whatever warmth she had to give.

  “Well, I thought it was nice to read a story about female promiscuity that didn’t result in death.” There’s a teasing lilt to Dorothy’s voice I’ve never heard before. “I mean, Vivian does end up a lot better off than Anna Karenina.”

  I blink at the laughter that follows. My mother-in-law has proven herself to be many things over the years; funny has never been one of them. I look at her face, the smile on her lips. Who is this woman?

  “Well, I didn’t understand why a big star like Edna would have stayed married to that young actor who was such a buffoon. And I don’t think she should have been so nasty to Vivian,” Meena says.

  The warm bathwater I’ve been floating in turns to ice. “Seriously?” The word slips out before I can stop it. “You think Edna should have just ignored the fact that Vivian and Celia Ray slept with her husband? And everyone knew it? Edna was the injured party after all.”

  Dorothy shoots me a cautioning look. As if I should not be raising the subject of infidelity. As if I’m about to cast aspersions on her son. Or let all of those assembled in on the sorry state of my marriage. Mitch’s other life. His children. The beautiful and fertile Margot.

  An uncomfortable and slightly confused silence follows.

  Annell ends it, steering the conversation in another direction, then keeping it going longer than we ever would have on our own. I begin to relax again—not enough to be warm and floaty, but enough to appreciate the way Annell offers insights and prompts discussion without lecturing or taking over. How she gives me just enough time to rein in my emotions. I do not meet Dorothy’s eyes.

  “All right, then.” Annell nods decisively as she draws the discussion to a close. “Any suggestions for our next read?”

  Chaz, the EMT, suggests Bill Bryson’s The Body: A Guide for Occupants. Angela McBride proposes Malcolm Gladwell’s Talking to Strangers.

  “I originally hoped we might read and discuss 121 First Dates, the book I mentioned last time?” Meena says. “I’m having a blast with online dating. In fact, I’ve met someone pretty special. And I thought you all might enjoy it.”

  “I’m on singlegolfers.com,” Nancy Flaherty offers with a swing of her golf tee earrings and a suggestive smile. “It’s a free site, but I’m pretty sure it’s just for players.”

  We look at one another, and I know I’m not the only one trying to figure out if this is a double entendre or she’s simply saying that the site is only open to golfers.

  “I bet Erin’s got lots of experience swiping left and right and setting up profiles,” Phoebe says.

  “I’ve never, um, actually tried online dating.” Erin shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

  “
Really?” Meena leans forward. “I thought all young people did that today instead of blind dates and that sort of thing.”

  Now I wonder if Mitch met Margot online or in person. How long they dated before she got pregnant. Whether he took the job in Birmingham to be with her.

  “No. I . . . I’ve only really dated one person.” Erin swallows. “I fell in love with him in elementary school.”

  Dorothy sniffs in surprise. Erin blushes.

  “Oh. Sorry. I thought you were joking.” This may be the first time I’ve heard Dorothy apologize. Ever. She’s having quite the night.

  “We were supposed to get married on New Year’s Day,” Erin continues. “Only . . .”

  “Erin, you don’t have to share anything you don’t want to,” Jazmine begins.

  “Only he changed his mind.” Erin’s voice is stark and flat.

  My eyes tear up. I know what that kind of rejection feels like. The loss. Judith drops her head.

  “Wow. That sucks,” Chaz says.

  “Big time,” Phoebe adds.

  “Yeah.” Carlotta nods. “Men can be real shits. And I’m allowed to say that because I used to be one.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” Meena says. “And I totally get that this might not be the right book for us. Especially not right now.” She sends Judith an apologetic smile, and I’m grateful she doesn’t know that what I really need to read right now is a primer on divorce. “So, I withdraw that suggestion. At least for the time being.”

  Annell nods in agreement, and I am, as always, comforted by her good sense. “Let’s go with Bill Bryson’s The Body for March. I’ll order copies and let you know when they arrive.”

  This elicits a whoop of victory from Chaz.

  “And I’ll order copies of the online dating title, too. In case anyone would like to read it,” Annell adds.

  We’re about to adjourn when Phoebe raises her hand. “Were there any book club names in the suggestion box?”

  “Oh, right. I almost forgot.” Annell rummages through the folders on her lap, then takes out a stack of once-folded pieces of paper and puts on her reading glasses. “Let’s see.” She glances down. “We have Best Cellars, that’s C-E-L-L-A-R—as in where wine is kept.” One eyebrow goes up. “Second is Reading Between the Wines.” She glances at the group. “Followed by Waiting for Merlot and Wines and Spines.”

  Angela McBride titters. There’s a snort of laughter from Chaz.

  “There does seem to be a certain emphasis on alcoholic refreshment,” Annell observes. “Because we also have Books & Booze and Bookaholics.” She peers at us over her reading glasses, a smile hovering on her lips. “The last sort of sums up the rest.” Her smile grows as she reads, “Drinking Club with a Reading Problem.”

  There’s a low belly laugh from Carlotta. A hoot from Jazmine. Soon the whole circle erupts in laughter.

  “Well, at least we know where your customers’ priorities lie,” my mother-in-law says with yet another glint of humor.

  “We are a thirsty crowd!” Meena crows.

  “We are a prime example of a Drinking Club with a Reading Problem!” Jazmine grins.

  Annell waits for the laughter to die down. “It seems keeping the suggestions anonymous has inspired a certain . . . creativity. Let’s give it another month and see what else comes in. All in favor?”

  There’s a resounding “aye!”

  “Hmmm, sounds like it’s time to step up the competition,” Jazmine says, eyeing Angela.

  “You better believe it,” Angela shoots back.

  “Nothing like a little mental challenge to keep one’s wits sharp,” Carlotta observes.

  “Some of us need less sharpening than others,” Meena retorts.

  “Very true,” Judith agrees.

  “I’m in,” Chaz says.

  Phoebe and Wesley grin.

  Dorothy and I exchange a look as we all tidy up and gather our things. There’s that glint again.

  Let the games begin.

  Seventeen

  Judith

  Rosaria, our cleaning woman of seventeen years, is disappointed in me.

  “I think you don’t need me anymore.”

  “Of course I need you.” For the last four and a half weeks, Rosaria has been the only other human being in the house for more than fifteen minutes at a time, which is how long it apparently takes to pay a condolence call or check in on a widow. Widow!

  “No.” She looks around the family room, her eyes both sad and accusing. “You don’t.”

  I follow her gaze. Every knickknack is in place. The area rug still appears freshly vacuumed. The wood floors gleam. The kitchen is no better. Or worse, depending on your view. The wineglasses are washed and in the cupboard. The stainless-steel appliances sparkle. I can see my reflection in the chrome cabinet pulls. Even the barstools are pulled up to the island in a perfectly straight row, just the way she left them two weeks ago. Although I wouldn’t have believed it when Ethan and Ansley were still living at home, it’s not that easy to trash a home that’s been professionally cleaned. At least not when all you do is wander from room to room in the oppressive and never-ending quiet that even a television laugh track can’t fill.

  “Come sit down. Have a cup of coffee,” I say hopefully, moving toward the coffee maker.

  “You don’t want to pay me to sit and drink coffee.”

  Although it sounds ridiculous when she says it, I am willing to do this. Just to have some noise, another human being breathing the same air.

  “Would you like something to eat? I still have . . .”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “No more casserole. Not even the breakfast kind. I’m getting fat.”

  Ironically, after a lifetime of unsuccessful attempts to lose weight, my clothes are starting to feel baggy. Sometimes I actually forget to eat. Yet I can’t bring myself to throw out the condolence casseroles—not even the quinoa risotto and brussels sprout tater tot ones—because they were delivered with such kind words and good intentions.

  Plus, it might somehow signal that I’m no longer mourning Nate, that while I hate rattling around in this empty house by myself, I’m not sure that I miss him as much as I should.

  Would I be more devastated if I’d been happier or at least less angry when he died? I honestly don’t know the answer to that or to any of the other questions I keep asking myself. I also don’t know what I’m supposed to do next. Which is not all that surprising given that I’m not living enough of a life to leave a shoe print in the carpet or fingerprints on the refrigerator.

  Rosaria and I are still staring at each other when Ansley’s daily text arrives.

  How ya doing

  OK, I reply, not adding the “ish” that rings in my head. You?

  Good

  That’s great. How’s Hannah?

  Good

  Great!

  You need anything

  No, but thanks for asking. I add a heart emoji. I do not add that the only thing I really need is a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

  TTY tomorrow

  Ansley texts every morning before she leaves for the office. Ethan texts each afternoon on his way to the gym after work—a tag-team system they’ve recently worked out between them to make me feel loved. Don’t get me wrong, I am beyond grateful that they both check in daily, even if it’s out of duty, but while they think of texting as talking, I’d much rather hear their voices. And frankly, why did we send them to college if they’re not ever going to use punctuation?

  I look up to see Rosaria watching me. If I don’t give her something to do, she’ll leave, and I’m not sure I can survive another day of silence.

  “Why don’t you start down here?” I say. “You know, just give it a once-over. The real work is upstairs. I mean, it’s practically a pigsty.”

  Or at least it
will be as soon as I get up there and wreak enough havoc to make her happy.

  Jazmine

  I arrive at Bistro Niko for brunch on Saturday—my second date with Derrick Warren, the first without Thea and Jamal grinning like they’ve pulled off a palace coup or the heist of the century. Already seated, he stands and smiles as he watches me walk toward him, then waits until I’m seated before sinking back into his chair. I look up into his eyes, which reflect his interest, and allow him to steer the conversation, which is light and comfortable as we peruse our menus. He asks how my week went and then actually listens to my answers. When I ask about his, he tells me about a faux pas he made in court, then laughs at himself. His self-deprecating humor is refreshing after the oversize egos and insecure neediness that I deal with on a daily basis.

  When the waiter returns to take our orders, I go with the herb omelet and crispy potatoes while Derrick chooses the trout amandine. We both order mimosas. The live music lends a festive air and floats above the buzz of conversation. Sunlight streams through the plate glass windows and glints off the mirrored bar.

  “So, who are you looking at right now? Any athletes you’re hoping to scoop up?” Derrick asks.

  “I don’t do a lot of ‘scooping,’ but there’s a pitcher at a local community college that I feel has been underrated.”

  “And what is it about him that makes you think otherwise?”

  I tense briefly before I reply, but I can see from his expression and his tone that it’s a real question and not an assault on my observation skills or knowledge of the game. “Scouts and agents have dismissed him because he doesn’t look like a pitcher and his windup is a little bit jerky. His fastball rarely hits ninety, but he’s got a great changeup and a killer curveball. A lot of people are so fixated on the radar gun that they overlook someone with skill and finesse.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Yes. If I can find a spot for him at a ball club with a pitching staff that will take advantage of his strengths and help him develop, he could be big.”