The Reading Circle

by Ashton Lee

  Finally, he saw what she was getting at. “Oh, that’s a little girl all crouched underneath that desk.” He couldn’t have looked more surprised. “Don’t tell me that’s you? What were you doing under there?”

  “It most certainly is me,” she told him. “And everyone else in the room besides. We were all just following orders. Now do you remember?” She could tell by the way his eyes were moving rapidly from side to side that he was searching for an answer but couldn’t find one. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Locke, didn’t you have these drills at your school growing up over in the Delta? It was all the rage in 1952 or 1953—somewhere around there.”

  The smile that broke across his face was one of relief as much as anything else. “Oh, yes, you’re right. We did. I’d forgotten all about them. Those beyond ridiculous H-bomb drills.”

  “Had to be the silliest things human beings have ever thought up to do. Our teacher, Miz Sallie Cowart, called them ‘duck and cover,’ ” Miss Voncille explained further and then started laughing. “Imagine. Ducking under our desks and covering our heads on cue was supposed to save us from any kind of nuclear blast. We had them here in Cherico once a week, so imminent was the threat of nuclear attack from the Russians, they seemed to delight in telling us. And when you went to the movies at the Starbright, they were practically in every Movietone newsreel with that narrator and his booming voice: ‘Today’s schoolchildren smartly prepare for nuclear war in the classroom while they take a break from learning their lessons! See how they respond bravely and quickly to their teacher’s command!’ Or something like that.”

  Locke joined her in a fit of laughter. “Hey, my school even went one step further. They decided to issue us dog tags so our bodies could be identified after the nuclear blast. Like there would be anybody around to clean up the mess and say, “Hey, over here in this corner is what’s left of Locke Marshall Linwood! Oh, and look over there—that’s little Roe Anne Stacey! Their parents will be so glad to know we’ve found them!”

  She nudged him gently with her elbow. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!”

  After the laughter had died down, Locke frowned her way. “What made you bring all that up? I haven’t thought of it in years.”

  “The truth of the matter is, I was just thinking that you and I are survivors, mainly,” she began, speaking as calmly as possible to drive home her point. “We came through these nuclear blast drills as gullible little kids and then the loss of our loved ones for real as adults. But nothing could take us out. We ought to give ourselves a pat on the back and then move on.” She waited to see if he was tumbling to her ploy, but he appeared to be mostly perplexed as she closed up the scrapbook and put it to one side.

  “But I think we have moved on,” he said, fingering his lapel absent-mindedly. “I mean, we’re smack dab in the middle of this very comfortable relationship, aren’t we? Is there something you aren’t happy with?”

  Well, the scrapbook “duck and cover” ploy hadn’t worked, either, it seemed. Enough of all this beating around the bush. Miss Voncille now realized she was just going to have to be more direct and hope for the best. Men could be so obtuse sometimes.

  “Locke, I’m sure you know I have the most profound respect for your beautiful and beloved wife, Pamela,” she began, taking the bull by the horns. “Why, if it hadn’t been for that touching letter she left you encouraging you to get on with your life the way she did, you and I might never have become an item. It was just lovely that she gave you permission to try for love again after her death, and I’ll forever be indebted to her for that.”

  He patted her hand and beamed. “She thought we might be perfect for each other, and she was right. Her woman’s intuition, I suppose. So what’s the problem? I got together with you just as she suggested, didn’t I?”

  Miss Voncille forged ahead. It was too late to retreat now. “It’s just that your Pamela enjoyed something I don’t have. She was happily married to you for many, many years. I’d like that to happen to me—or us, rather. But I haven’t been asked yet. The truth is, I’d like very much to do this up proper at the altar.”

  He withdrew his hand from hers and sat up straight, giving her a look of disbelief. “Really? You want a church wedding with all the trimmings? I thought we could go on indefinitely the way we have been. You know, back and forth between our two houses as the spirit moves us. One night it’s your sleepover, the next night it’s mine. That way we never get in a rut.”

  She did her best to smile at his response, but what she really wanted to do was shake him by his lapels until he came to his senses. This was no laughing matter, no “spend-the-night company” issue to be resolved rationally with not even a nod to the underlying emotions about to bubble up and over.

  “I would have to say no to the ‘all the trimmings’ part. We’re too old for that. Why, we probably wouldn’t even get the first present. Not even a gift certificate. People would figure we have everything we need, and they’d be right about that. But we’re not too old to walk down the aisle or exchange vows in a small ceremony somewhere,” she told him. “Why, it could even just be the two of us with a justice of the peace. We’re both on polite speaking terms with Henry Marsden, even though he makes that awful whistling sound with his teeth whenever the letter S comes along.”

  “Sibilance,” he noted immediately, quickly returning to her suggestion. “But why go to the trouble? Weddings are for people starting out in life. After that, who’s really paying attention?” His tone was earnest enough, and she could have strangled him again for that.

  Instead, she kept it soft and cuddly, brushing up against him. “Look at it from my point of view, Locke. I was cheated out of my first marriage to Frank by the Tet Offensive, and maybe there’s this old-fashioned part of me that wants you to make me an honest woman, to use a term you don’t hear very much these days.”

  He looked confused, as if she were suddenly speaking a foreign language. Then came several open-mouthed starts at conversation before he finally settled on the right words. “This doesn’t sound like you at all, Voncille. You don’t need to justify yourself to anyone. You’re practically a Cherico institution.”

  “I couldn’t care less about gossip,” she said, the irritation rising in her tone as she reverted to her prickly alter ego. “Although I’ve been an easy target for many years. Still, I’ve always shrugged and walked down the street or in and out of the library for all those ‘Who’s Who in Cherico?’ meetings with my head held high. ‘There goes that crazy old retired schoolteacher whose house looks like a jungle inside,’ I could almost hear them whispering the moment I passed by. But this is just about you and me, Locke. Something inside me wants to make this relationship of ours legal. I’ve been hinting around for weeks now, but between you actually sitting down to read Forrest Gump and enjoying my cooking, you don’t seem to have room for anything else in that distinguished gray head of yours.”

  His face was a perfect blank, his eyes and mouth an inverted triangle of zeroes. “I had no idea you felt this way.”

  “Men!” She let her little exclamation lie there for a while. “I don’t know what else to say to you at this point.”

  He made a strange little noise in his throat at first, but she could tell he thought he was being charming when he finally answered her. “We’re creatures of habit. We like the nests our women build for us.”

  But Miss Voncille was in no mood for settling or being summarily dismissed. “Yes, well, I think I’d like some credit for the nest. It’s been gnawing at me, and I can’t change the way I feel about it. I’m just too set in my ways.”

  “Could I have some time to think about it?” he said, the color returning to his face. “I’d probably like to sound my children out, if you don’t mind.”

  Miss Voncille couldn’t fight off the displeasure that settled into her features. That was a new one. He had rarely brought up either his daughter or son in their everyday conversations. He had told her that both Carla and Locke Jr. were m
arried, had two children apiece, and both lived out of state with his grandchildren—but had not volunteered much more. Locke remained the reserved, gentlemanly type who would never force pictures from his wallet upon anyone, even if they asked in the insincere manner that people sometimes do, and she had spent enough time with him now to know that there just never seemed to be any letters or postcards lying around, no long-distance phone calls to report—not even any e-mails showing up on his computer to answer.

  “Why does that sound like an excuse to me, Locke?” she wanted to know, refusing to let up. But she realized she had pressed some sort of hot button when he matched her mundane frown with a startling one of his own.

  “Voncille, are you trying to ruin what we’ve got going?”

  “Good heavens, Locke, I’m not asking you to approve my riding naked the length of Perry Street on a horse,” she said, her prickly temperament now full-blown. She had promised him several months earlier she would try to stop being such a diva and knuckle-rapping schoolmarm around him, and she had largely lived up to that. But he was testing her sorely, and she took a deep breath before continuing. “Why, I was even thinking it could be as simple as our exchanging vows at one of my ‘Who’s Who in Cherico?’ meetings at the library. After all, that’s where I first really got to know you and Pamela. Neither of you ever missed a meeting.”

  His face showed no signs of cottoning to the idea, and he took his time reacting to her proposal. “I’m well aware of that. But getting married in that crowded little library? How would that work? Whoever has a library card has an automatic invitation? I know Miz Mayhew is trying hard to promote the library and stay one step ahead of Councilman Sparks by expanding the book club, but don’t you think that’s going too far?”

  “If you don’t like that idea, we could always use a church,” she continued, steeling herself further. “I’m a Presbyterian and you’re an Episcopalian, but I’d be comfortable getting married in your church if you want it that way. I’ve always been comfortable with you bobtail Catholics. All the pomp and ceremony without the guilt, my mother used to say.”

  He was wincing now. “Why do we have to rush into this?”

  At that point she decided to back off. If this was round one, she had lost it. It was time to bandage the little jabs and cuts, and move on with new footwork for another day. It was still a match she had no intention of losing. She was going to hold him to his gentlemanly ways or die trying.

  6

  Reading in Bed

  Becca sat propped up on her bright blue pillows at nine-thirty one chilly February evening, working her way through more of Forrest Gump. Anyone walking into the Brachle master bedroom suite might have thought that she was also posing for a Victoria’s Secret catalog, what with the see-through pink negligee clinging to her petite but inviting figure. She had read up to the point where Forrest and Jenny were playing together in a college folk music group, and she was wondering once again just how far her Stout Fella had gotten with his copy. Deeper into the novel than she had, she was reasonably certain, at least judging by the way he always immediately jumped into bed after dinner, found his place with the leather bookmark she had given him, and fell to with great relish. In fact, he was doing that very thing right now on the other side of the bed. He might as well have been a mile away.

  “You really are living up to your promise, Justin,” she said to him, after coming to a stopping point in her reading.

  “What?” he managed reflexively, his eyes still trained on the page in front of him.

  “You told Maura Beth you were going to take The Cherry Cola Book Club seriously, and you have. I’m very impressed. Really, I was talking to Connie the other day about it, and she said that Douglas is digging into the novel, too. You boys are making us proud.”

  “Wait a sec, honey,” he said, turning the page. “Let me just get through this part here.”

  The nonchalance in his voice annoyed her. He was dismissing her as he had so often lately. And since when had reading become more important than a satisfying roll in the hay? That was most un-Justin-like, and she was missing the intimacy besides. “You’ve been at it for a half hour. Aren’t your eyes getting a little tired? Don’t you want to call it a night even though the night is still young?”

  He glanced her way briefly, and she saw that he had become annoyed himself. “Seriously, Becca—Forrest and Jenny are making crazy love all over the house. This is a really good part I’ve gotten to. You know, the book and the movie aren’t exactly alike, either.”

  Those were difficult words for her to hear. Particularly since she had on her most provocative negligee, had shaved and rubbed lotion on her legs, taken extra time with the blow-dryer so she could drape her locks just so around her shoulders—and here he was enthralled with some steamy fictional action on the pages of Forrest Gump. It was unflattering, to say the least. Plus, he was all bundled up in his pajamas—tops and bottoms—in this case, the navy blue ones she had given him after he’d lost all that weight following the heart attack. Leading up to that traumatic event last year, he had never failed to come to bed in anything but his birthday suit—and what a big, burly birthday suit it was! But that was beginning to feel like a distant memory.

  Becca decided to try a different tack. “As I said, you and Douglas certainly meant business about Forrest Gump. But we’ve got several more weeks until the club meeting at the library. No need to rush the way you are. It reminds me too much of the way you used to wolf down your food, and you know what that led to. That was the worst night of my life when you had your heart attack at The Twinkle.”

  “Uh, huh,” he said, still glued to the novel.

  “You’re not even listening to me. You’re treating me like I’m not even in the room.” Then she jumped out of bed and stood beside the nightstand, glaring at him as if he’d just told her she looked fat or needed to brush her teeth and use some mouthwash pronto. “What’s up with you?”

  He came to finally, looking baffled as he turned her way. “What are you doing out of bed?”

  “Oh, that does it!” she cried out. “I want to know what’s going on with you, Justin Brachle. Tell me the truth—let’s get this out once and for all. Are you or are you not having an affair?”

  Finally, he returned her glare after inverting the book and resting it on his stomach. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  She pointed to her clearly visible cleavage and arched her eyebrows dramatically. “What else am I supposed to think when you’ve been completely ignoring me lately? Except for that one time.”

  If anything, he looked even angrier as he gritted his teeth and exhaled. “I thought we weren’t going to bring that up.”

  She climbed back into bed, fluffed her pillows, and sank back against them before she answered him, softening her tone. She knew only too well that her Stout Fella had never responded to her nagging. “I didn’t mean to. I’m just confused. Lately, you haven’t even tried. Are you having an affair with that Donna Gordon from our ‘In the Flesh’ meeting last month? I can’t stand this not knowing.”

  She was referring to the series of cooking demonstrations that the two of them had agreed late last year to undertake in the library, much to Maura Beth Mayhew’s delight. It was another feather in her cap, yet another creative way to get more people into the library. The premise was that the programs would be an opportunity for Becca Broccoli of the eponymous local radio show to meet her public “in the flesh,” if you will, with Stout Fella thrown in for good measure as her smiling, eye-candy assistant. That first outing had gone over well, attracting a dozen or more people, as a recipe for white meat, chunky chicken salad with grapes and chopped walnuts was followed to mouthwatering perfection.

  “Yes, ladies—grapes!” she had declared at the very beginning to pique their interest.

  “White or red seedless grapes, by the way. And a handful of chopped walnuts. Oh, the textures and the savory and sweet you’ll experience all in one here!”


  But it had not been lost on Becca that the audience was composed entirely of women, and to Becca’s experienced eye—unmarried women on the prowl at that. Especially Donna Gordon—she of the fluttering false eyelashes, age-inappropriate ponytail, and outdated pink Capri pants. Becca discovered she wasn’t imagining things, either. She had excused herself to run to the ladies’ room after the demonstration was over and returned to find her Stout Fella making a bicep for the gawking woman. She was actually trying to get her hand around his impressive muscle, saying things to him like, “Oooh! I bet you like to work out all the time, don’t you? I bet you could ring that bell at the State Fair in Jackson!”

  Becca was floored, to put it mildly. Really, how corny could people get? This silly woman talked and dressed like she lived in an alternate universe composed exclusively of ’50s TV shows.

  “I’m serious, Justin,” Becca continued. “I know you’re not sleeping with me, so who is it?”

  He spoke as calmly as he could, but the spacing between words betrayed his exasperation and the effort he was making to restrain himself. “I . . . am . . . not . . . sleeping . . . with . . . anyone.”

  She mulled things over for a while. He had still not given her a straight answer about their sex life, and she was more frustrated than ever. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” she ventured finally, hoping the question wouldn’t trigger another display of barely controlled anger. “Do you think you need to see the doctor?”

  He shook his head, staring straight ahead. “I’m taking all my medications. You see me doing it in front of you every morning and evening. No more disobeying doctors. I’m just fine.”

  “So I should just shut up and go back to Forrest Gump?”

  He turned the book over and brought it up to his face again. “For now, that’s what I think we should both do.”

  “This is getting way old,” Maura Beth said out loud as she climbed into her brass bed, holding her LSU journal in her hand once again. Here she was, revisiting page 25. How many more times would she do it in search of her dreams? In five more months she would be twenty-nine, leaving only one year to accomplish her bucket list before she hit The Big Three-Oh. It was the milestone she had always dreaded in theoretical fashion.