The Break-Up Book Club

by Wendy Wax

  If Thea wasn’t clutching my arm, I’d already be headed for my daughter right now. Her lack of focus lost her the game, but it’s her poor sportsmanship that troubles me the most.

  “Let Dad talk to her. You’re too upset right now.”

  My sister holds my arm. Somehow, I manage not to shake it off while I watch my daughter stuff her racket into her bag, her movements jerky with anger.

  Her coach steps over to speak to her, no doubt a recap of everything that went wrong, and while she doesn’t turn away, her face is a thundercloud. I attempt to distract myself by coming up with positives to acknowledge, a practice I’ve all but abandoned lately, but it’s hard to be grateful when your head is about to explode.

  Okay. Let’s see. It’s a positive that Maya’s so talented. There, that’s one.

  Her face is still dark when my father, who has given so much of himself to all of us, hugs her and speaks quietly to her. No doubt pointing out what she needs to work on in a much calmer and kinder manner than I could manage right now.

  I force myself to take a deep breath.

  Maya tosses her head while my father is talking to her, and if my sister wasn’t still holding tight to my arm, I’d already be down there reaming Maya out, something I don’t believe in but am dying to do right now.

  Instead I search for another positive and come up with the fact that we can afford coaching and tournaments and everything my father struggled to pay for, for me.

  When my father shakes his head almost sadly, I’ve had it. I rip my arm out of Thea’s grasp and stride down the bleachers, my sister on my heels, to where my daughter stands, chin out, scowl still in place.

  “You need to apologize to your grandfather right now.” Somehow, I keep my voice low.

  Maya does as instructed, glaring at me the whole time, which, of course, negates the whole apology. Anger and disappointment bubble in my veins like lava in a volcano. It takes every ounce of control I have not to erupt as I hug my father and Thea goodbye.

  When they’re out of earshot, I turn to Maya. “Lose the scowl. Let’s go.”

  “I’m not . . .”

  “Now.” I say this quietly, but it’s a command.

  In the car, I buckle my seat belt and sit with the car idling. “I am incredibly disappointed in you.”

  She shrugs. “I lost a match. It’s not the end of the world.”

  “No, it’s not. And it’s not losing that’s the problem, although I’m not a fan of the practice. It’s giving up. Not staying focused. Not caring enough. Not playing to the end. There’s no point in competing if you’re not going to give it your all. You handed it to her, Maya. And then after she took the gift you gave her, you acted like a spoiled brat.”

  She says nothing. But the car is hot with emotion and anger.

  “You were born with immense talent. But talent alone is not enough. You have to want to win every time. You have to commit to winning.”

  “Well maybe I don’t care about winning as much as you do. Maybe I don’t even like tennis all that much.”

  The words are a knife to the chest. It’s hard not to double over. But I am the adult here. “Then quit. No one is forcing you to play. End of story. There’s no point in playing if you’re not willing to give it your all.”

  A car horn honks, and I look up to see my sister and father pull out of their nearby parking space. I wave, but I don’t put the car in gear. Maya refuses to wave or meet my gaze.

  “Should you choose to continue to play,” I resume, “being a poor sport is not an option. I know Poppy’s told you stories about Arthur Ashe and what a gentleman he was on the court. And how Björn Borg’s father taught him to control his temper. Your behavior today was unacceptable. And it prevented you from winning.”

  “You think you know everything.” She sounds about five.

  “No, I don’t. But I do know what it takes to excel at sports. I also know how quickly it can all be taken away from you. You need to respect and honor the talent you were born with. A lot of it came from your father. If you only want to use it for fun or as a hobby, that’s your business.

  “But if you choose to compete, then you have to be a competitor. And a good sport.”

  She doesn’t argue. Or speak at all. As I put the car in reverse and back out of the space, I give myself permission to count that as positive number three.

  Sara

  Dorothy and I haven’t spoken much since she shut down the subject of elder abuse the other night. Neither of us has brought up the topic of Mitchell.

  I’ve left several messages on Mitch’s cell phone, hoping that maybe we could discuss our next steps in some civilized manner, but while I’m angry that he hasn’t called back, I’m not incredibly surprised. My husband has always sidestepped, and apparently this is no exception. As if not talking about his secret life and family will somehow allow me to pretend that they don’t exist. If only. But I will never be able to unsee the sight of Mitch standing in the foyer of that Birmingham apartment with his son and the pregnant Margot at his side. It is imprinted in my brain forever. The caption reads: “My greatest wish denied and handed to another woman.”

  He’s left me no choice but to act. Yesterday, I transferred $3,500 to Bonnie Traiman out of my savings account to cover her retainer so that she can get started. Then I took out another thousand in cash just so I wouldn’t feel as broke as I am.

  I have always handled our money and paid our bills—or believed I did.

  Now I live in fear that Mitch will halt the auto-deposit of his paychecks into our household account before Bonnie can file my petition for divorce or freeze our assets. The only thing that allows me to sleep at night is the knowledge that with Dorothy’s “rent” added to my paycheck, I can handle the mortgage payment and household expenses without him if I have to. At least for a while.

  Late Saturday morning, I walk through the kitchen on my way to my afternoon shift at Between the Covers and find Dorothy sitting at the table staring out the window. Our copy of The Body: A Guide for Occupants lies open on the table. She’s already close to the end.

  “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.” Her tone is polite but reserved. Though she rarely initiates conversation, she always responds.

  “How’s the book?”

  “Interesting,” she says. “But I never realized how much scientists and doctors don’t yet understand about how we work.”

  “It looks like you’re almost done.”

  She nods.

  “Well, have a good day.”

  “Thank you. You, too.”

  As I turn to leave, I tell myself there’s no reason to feel bad about leaving Dorothy on her own. She’s a grown woman. I’ve offered to take her wherever she’d like to go, invited her to come with me when I run errands or go to the grocery store so that she can choose what she’d like in the house, but the only time she’s taken me up on an offer since Mitchell’s confession is to book club, and I practically had to drag her there. Evidence to the contrary, I am not my mother-in-law’s keeper.

  I’m almost to the garage door when I turn. “Would you like me to bring back anything on my way home from work?”

  “No. But thank you.” Her smile is polite, her answer precise.

  “Okay.” I turn. A few more steps and I’m out of here. It’s not up to me to entertain her. I make sure there’s food in the house. I am here for emergencies. I’ve even helped her “out of the closet” as a reader. But when I glance back over my shoulder, her hands are gripped tightly together on top of the book. The polite smile is frozen on her face. She looks small and alone.

  Before I can stop myself, I turn yet again. “Do you have any book club name suggestions you’d like me to put in the box for you?”

  Her laugh is short and surprising. To both of us. I’d never even known she had a sense of humor until that n
ight at book club.

  “As if I’d turn them over to the competition so easily.” Her smile is close to teasing.

  “As if I’d stoop to snooping,” I reply with a mostly straight face. “For all I know you just haven’t come up with anything.”

  “Ha! Wild horses and all that,” she says.

  “Well, then why don’t you come to the bookstore with me and put them in the box yourself?”

  Once again, Dorothy looks as surprised as I feel. “But then I’d be stuck there all afternoon.”

  I flush at her response. But now that I’ve put the idea out there, I feel compelled to defend it. “Spending an afternoon surrounded by books and other people who love them doesn’t sound too bad to me. Saturdays are busy. You might even see some of the people you met at book club.”

  She looks skeptical, and I remind myself that I no longer have any reason to try to turn her into a mother figure. Once Mitch and I are divorced, I’ll probably never even see Dorothy again. The thought is not as cheering as it should be.

  “It’s very nice of you to ask,” she says in a tone that borders on gentle. For her. “But I believe I’d prefer to stay here and rest.”

  “Okay.” I swallow. “Right.” I’m shocked at how much the rejection stings. I do not ask what she would be resting from. “No worries.”

  I’m at the door with my hand on the knob when I hear a chair scrape back.

  “Wait.”

  When I turn, she’s on her feet.

  “I mean . . .” She takes a step toward me. “If I did come, what would happen if I wanted to leave before you’re finished for the day?”

  “I don’t know.” I’m careful not to smile or look the least bit triumphant. “I guess I’d order you a Lyft or an Uber.”

  “Oh. Well, then.” She smiles almost timidly. “In that case, I guess I could come along and give it a try.”

  I wait while she retrieves her coat and shoves a stack of folded pieces of paper into her purse, making sure I can see. Clearly, I’m going to have to get on the stick with the book club names. I wouldn’t want her to win by default.

  Even I am surprised at how warmly Dorothy is welcomed when we arrive at the store. Charm, who I am relieving, flashes her a smile. Annell comes out of the breezeway with the towheaded Holcomb twins following in her wake and heads straight for us, smiling the whole way. Annell may be small, but her hugs are large and meaningful; her smile is like a bowl of hot oatmeal sprinkled with cinnamon on a cold winter morning. When she releases me, I’m smiling.

  “Oh, how great that you’ve come,” she says to Dorothy, still honoring my mother-in-law’s invisible “do not hug” sign. “We always have a crowd for story time, and I’m thrilled to have an extra adult on the premises.” She looks down at the twin girls who are each clinging to one of her legs. “This is Stacy and Lacy.” She cups a blond head with each hand while I reach down to high-five with them. “Their mother had to run out to take care of something.”

  “People just leave their children here without supervision?” Dorothy is well and truly horrified.

  “No, of course not.” Annell smiles. “Adult supervision is definitely required. But I’ve known the twins’ mother since her mother brought her to story time as a little girl. So, she felt safe leaving them in my care.”

  “Oh.” Mollified, Dorothy peers down at the little girls, but she doesn’t crouch down to their level or attempt to engage with them. Not for the first time, I try to imagine Mitchell’s childhood. I know that Dorothy loves him, but she’s one of the least demonstrative people I’ve ever met. (And given that I was raised by a succession of strangers, that’s saying something.) Could that be why he needs extra affection and attention? Or am I just looking for proof that Mitchell’s behavior is not my fault? Or due to something I lack?

  Determined not to spoil the afternoon, I shove thoughts of Mitch aside and step behind the front desk to stow my purse beneath the counter. “I can hold yours back here, too, if you like.”

  “Still trying to scope out the competition?” Dorothy asks, clutching her bag to her chest as if I’m going to steal it.

  “I swear your entries are safe from me. But here.” I grab the cardboard box and set it on the counter in front of her with a huff of exasperation. “Go ahead and stick them in.”

  Dorothy doesn’t make a move. If you don’t count the twinkle that flickers in her eye.

  “Oh, good grief! Annell is the only person allowed to open the box. Right, Annell?”

  “Absolutely. I am the keeper of the box.” She lifts it and shakes it so that we can hear the rustle of paper inside. “And no one will be opening it until I read the new batch at book club.”

  “Fine,” Dorothy says. “Turn around.” She motions me to turn my back. “No peeking.”

  “You certainly are serious about this,” I observe. “I mean, there isn’t even a prize. Is there?”

  “Hmmm. Never thought about it. But I don’t see why there couldn’t be.” Annell bends down to Stacy and Lacy. “Do you think we should have a prize for the winner?”

  Both blond heads bob up and down. One of them, I’m not sure which, puts her thumb in her mouth. The other says, “I’m liketa win a prize!”

  “Even without a prize there will be bragging rights,” Dorothy says. “And it’s a competition. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to win, is there?”

  “Of course not,” Annell replies. “I can hardly wait to hear this month’s entries.” She looks down at the twins. “Okay, let’s go set up drinks and snacks.”

  “Yippee! I wanna cupcake!” They race ahead toward the children’s section.

  “When you’re done here, would you like to come help us set up, Dorothy?”

  Dorothy flushes with what looks like pleasure. Then she opens her purse, pulls out a wad of folded pieces of paper, and begins to stuff them through the slot in the box top. I’ve really got to get on this or she’s going to win by sheer volume.

  Thirty minutes before story time, the jangle of the front bell grows louder and steadier. The store vibrates with color and laughter and . . . life. The steady hum of adult conversation is punctuated by high-pitched squeals of delight and the occasional screech of protest that squeeze my heart and make me wish that every single one of these children were mine.

  The brightly colored pillows and floor cushions are strewn across the floor of the kids’ section. A low table near the story time stage holds a bright-yellow plastic bin filled with juice boxes and small bottled waters tucked into the ice. Boxes of raisins and individual bags of goldfish curve across the tabletop like dominoes, leading to a plate of cupcakes beautifully iced and topped with sprinkles that I know are Annell’s handiwork.

  The adult table holds silver urns of coffee and tea along with cups and saucers and a tray of Annell’s cream cheese brownies.

  I ring up sales and answer questions while parents help their children choose snacks and get them settled. Straws are poked into juice boxes and handed over with instructions to be careful. Tea and coffee are poured. Saturday afternoons at the store are my favorite time of the week.

  “Hey, there.” Chaz comes in the front door still wearing his EMT uniform. “Just getting off shift, and I wanted to get started on the new book. I think Annell has a copy of The Body set aside for me?”

  “Yes, she said you might stop in.” I go to the hold shelf and retrieve it for him.

  “Have you started reading it yet?” he asks as I ring it up.

  “No. Dorothy’s reading our copy first.” I nod toward where my mother-in-law is helping one of the Holcomb twins unwrap a cupcake, something she does with the focus required for defusing a bomb.

  “You’ve got a ton of munchkins here,” Chaz says. “It looks like fun. I’ll have to bring my niece one Saturday.”

  Wesley and Phoebe arrive, literally two peas from the same pod,
and the three of them greet one another. As always, I am fascinated by how the twins mirror each other, how on the same wavelength they appear to be. I don’t really know anything about their larger family scenario, but it must be incredible to be that close to another human being. To share DNA. To have shared their mother’s womb.

  The three of them go over together to speak to Dorothy. And though they seem to carry most of the conversation, Dorothy smiles in an almost motherly way. When Chaz departs with a cheery wave, Phoebe and Wesley take seats not far from her.

  Then Annell claps her hands for attention, and the moms and dads decamp to their space, which is far enough away to speak quietly to one another and not feel “on duty” yet close enough to keep an eye on their children and to swoop in if necessary.

  Those with the youngest children settle in near the stage, with their little ones in their laps. One girl leans back, twirling her hair and sucking on a thumb. I feel the pain of want in my chest.

  The room begins to fall silent as Annell ascends the two small steps to the stage.

  “Welcome to story time,” she says. “Please be courteous of others. Remember, if you need to go potty, please go get your adult as quietly as you can. We don’t want to disturb others, so there is absolutely no snoring!” Annell snores and snorts aloud in demonstration. The children imitate her snores with snorts of their own.

  When the laughter dies down, she continues. “I’m going to read three stories today. The Very Hungry Caterpillar, The Hiccupotamus, and Grumpy Monkey. Which one should I read first?”

  There are shouts and chatter. There is no possible way that Annell can discern a favorite, but she does this every week. Because children like to have a say in what happens as much as adults do.

  “Good, thank you. That’s exactly what I thought.” She grins in delight. “Is everybody ready to listen?”

  There are happy affirmatives and final shouts. Children wriggle more deeply into laps or cushions or pillows. I sit down on the stool behind the register, put my elbows on the counter, and rest my chin in my hands. And then, like I do every week, I lose myself in the stories and Annell’s marvelous voice.