The Little Clan

by Iris Martin Cohen

  “Thank you.” Ava nodded emphatically. “I was just arguing that point with someone earlier tonight.”

  Constance turned and extended her arm. “Well, come on, show me around.” The invitation felt like an honor, and Ava stepped out from behind the bar with an eagerness that made her stop short of taking the arm that was offered to her, just in case she was mistaken.

  But Constance wrapped her arm around Ava’s wrist anyway and pointed with the wineglass in her other hand. “Now, did you really do all this wallpaper?” It occurred to Ava she might be a little drunk.

  As Ava led her through the large crowded room, she looked around the familiar space with new eyes, anxiously trying to preempt and excuse anything Constance might possibly disapprove of. She wasn’t sure why she wanted to impress this woman whom she had only just met, but this was the first time that anyone at an event had paid her so much attention, and Ava responded with all the gleeful intemperance of a puppy who has been neglected for an afternoon. They stopped beneath the mirror, and Constance looked up appreciatively. “I have a strange affection for poorly made repairs, when you can see the seams. Something broken can never be made whole again, after all.”

  “I really did a bad job with this one.”

  Constance took a big, messy sip of wine and then daintily wiped away a drip from her chin. “It keeps this whole place from feeling too precious, you know. A palazzo where the roof leaks is infinitely more glamorous somehow.”

  Ava giggled. She noticed Ben watching her from a loud group of people. She turned her back on him, and continued her perambulations with Constance.

  At the end of the evening, Ava was surprised to find he was remarkably petulant about her neglect. “You barely even acknowledged me,” he said.

  “That’s not true. You were the one who was so busy all night.”

  He looked unconvinced, and Ava, who had never had occasion to be accused of ignoring anyone, wanted urgently to relieve him of a suffering she was only too familiar with. So she offered to switch books for their reading group to the one he wanted to read. She got a funny pain in her chest, but maybe it didn’t matter so much to her in the end, and when he smiled and wrapped her in hug that pressed her uncomfortably against his hard collarbone, she consoled herself that at least she had a boyfriend and she would always be able to read The House of Mirth again some other time.

  18

  When Ava finally dragged herself to the bookstore to pick up the novel she had agreed to read, she was dismayed to find that it was a nine-hundred-page tour de force about an internet start-up. The back cover called it a “blistering indictment of contemporary America, a call to arms for the cubicle age, courageous, monumental, a work of genius.”

  “It’s great.” A bookstore employee passed by and grabbed a copy to give to someone else. “Really, really funny.”

  It was hard to imagine the author, a young man deathly serious behind thick glasses, ever having smiled, but, resigned, Ava put the book into the crook of her arm where its enormous weight dug into the skin of her forearm. Then, wandering the warmly lit, soothing aisles on her way to the Penguin classics, Ava stopped and asked someone to look up an author for her, and she spelled out Constance Berger’s name with a funny shyness. Soon, she found herself in an unfamiliar corner, the essays and criticism section, and when she came upon the name on a spine, it was with a little shock as if she had uncovered something secret, private. She almost felt like she should have asked Constance’s permission first; to pull this slender volume from the shelf seemed too intrusive, as though she had suddenly invaded the intimate terrain of someone else’s thoughts. She flipped through a few pages. There were essays on art she hadn’t seen, new books she hadn’t read, a lot of queer theory that she didn’t understand and then, with a quick flurry of surprise, Ava saw a mention of Proust. Constance liked Proust. Ava had mentioned Proust to her without this previous knowledge, and this filled Ava with an inexplicable elation. She hurriedly bought her books, not wanting to read any more in the exposed jostling of such a public place.

  Ava dutifully read the entire grand, ambitious chronicle of Silicon Valley while drinking tepid prosecco from a coffee mug, and sighing a lot. George and Rodney had sounded suspiciously relieved when she called and told them about the change.

  On the evening of the book club meeting, an icy rain was beating against the windows, and Ava was filled with conflicting emotions. It was exhilarating to have brought one element of their project in line with her aspirations, and to know that a whole evening stretched before her with the happy prospect of talking about books. However, she was not looking forward to talking about this one.

  “Who wants to start us off?” she asked. George, his computer resting on his knees, was trying to organize their financial records with a program called Taxloop. He looked up apologetically. “No, you keep working on those,” she said. Though she had come to accept that she was never going to get around to filing for nonprofit status, it had become an important aspiration to cling to, like Chekhov’s sisters planning their never-to-be-made trip to Moscow. Stephanie in particular had become increasingly insistent that they at least enact the legal outlines, the empty gestures, of their grand altruistic project.

  Rodney scratched his chin with the edge of the monstrous paperback. “I thought it was pretty funny. Especially all the stuff about TV.”

  “These guys do seem to talk a lot about TV,” Ava agreed. “TV shows and masturbation.”

  “Yeah, that scene where he jerks off to The Golden Girls and feels so bad about it. I love that part, so honest. Also hilarious.”

  “Really?” Ava asked, and Rodney shrugged.

  “Sure,” Ben interjected. “He’s making fun of himself.”

  “Okay, but still, like forty pages about his testicles seems kind of self-aggrandizing.” Ava played with the corner of a page, unsure. “It all reminded me of when people laugh at their own jokes. No one actually talks like that, do they?”

  “This from a woman who warned me the other day that ‘the way ahead was fraught with discord.’” George didn’t look up from his typing as he spoke. “I do it too, I’m just saying, we should be tolerant of each other’s lapses into grandiosity.”

  “Fine,” said Ava. “Point taken.” A squall of rain lashed the dark windows, and it felt very cozy to be inside. Even being outnumbered couldn’t totally destroy the pleasure of talking about a book. Mrs. Van Doren, whose loyalty to Ava had somehow outlasted the enmity of the rest of her circle, had agreed to join their book club. She thought they were still reading The House of Mirth, and a beautiful leather-bound copy sat on the arm of her chair, while she snored gently. “Can we at least talk about how there are no women in this except that one who does pornographic webcam stuff?”

  “But the main character’s in love with her—she’s a huge part of the book,” Ben argued.

  “Yeah, but she’s always in his computer. You can’t think that’s love.”

  “I think the author’s making a point that love and desire aren’t so easy to separate, especially for men sometimes.”

  “All the books I ever read are by men, and they aren’t like this.”

  “Do you really think those stories are so different?” Ben asked, testily.

  This premise momentarily shocked Ava into silence. “I think that’s a very mean thing to say.”

  “How is that mean?”

  “To compare classic books that elevate and tell real truths about the human condition with this.” She waved her copy accusingly. “I think you’re turning this into a personal attack.”

  Ben was starting to get exasperated. “I think you’re making it personal. I’m just trying to have a discussion. I swear, you don’t actually listen to anything I say.”

  “Why should I listen to you disparage all the things I love? To say that they are equivalent to this pointless waste of pages? I can
barely even call it a novel.”

  “I liked this book,” Ben objected angrily. “It’s a good story and has some neat ideas. To expect real life to look like Victorian novels is crazy and a very limiting perspective.”

  “Are we still talking about the book?” George asked.

  Before Ava could answer, Stephanie’s laughter interrupted them. A cluster of well-dressed people, flushed and drunk, burst through the threshold, shaking the rain from expensive umbrellas. Waving a bare, unseasonably tan arm, Stephanie spoke loudly. “And this is our reading group, where we are paying tribute to one of the great women of literature, our namesake, if you will, Edith Wharton.” An elderly man with a deep tan and a pocket square peered through a folded pair of reading glasses and wrapped a hand around Stephanie’s waist to hear her better.

  A girl in heels laughed from behind a curtain of blond hair. “I would just die of boredom,” she said in an unexpectedly Borstal accent. “Could you ever?” she asked a sallow young man in a skinny suit who was holding her up, though just barely.

  “Ghastly,” he agreed.

  Stephanie leaned toward them, whispering. “I know. You couldn’t pay me to be in it.”

  As they moved toward the bar, Ava noticed a dark, quiet man in a very well-cut suit walking beside the most beautiful woman Ava had ever seen. Stoop-shouldered and small, he seemed content in his humble role, the terrestrial support of the goddess wrapped in hot-pink silk who towered above him, resting a lazy arm on his shoulder, diamonds flashing on her finger. Stephanie made a very emphatic face at Ava as they passed.

  “Holy shit,” said Rodney in a loud whisper, “that’s Howard Steward. He’s like a billionaire ten times over. I’ve seen his picture on newsletters—the Wobblies hate that guy.”

  “What?” Ben craned toward the bar. “How do you guys find these people?”

  “Our boss works in mysterious ways, her wonders to perform,” said George.

  “Maybe I should go surveil them,” Rodney said, rubbing his chin. “Also I think that drunk blonde lady is a famous supermodel.”

  “No. We’re here to talk about books.” Ava felt unreasonably antagonistic.

  Laughter and the sound of popping corks came from the bar. “A glass of wine would be nice at least.” Ben spoke petulantly to a stuffed peacock on the mantel behind Ava’s head, borrowed from one of the downstairs parlors.

  Ava frowned at him as she got up. “Can you guys keep talking about the book? Please.”

  Behind the bar, Stephanie was leaning forward on her elbows, conveying the playfulness of wealthy people serving themselves for a lark. “Bartender,” the pocket-squared gentleman said with a flirtatious tilt of his head, “I’ll have another. The same.”

  Stephanie winked. “Coming right up. Specialty of the house—red or red?” Then seriously, she added, “You know, when you’re just a humble soon-to-be nonprofit, you have to do things on a penny. When we have our own town house, I’m going to put in a whiskey and cigar bar. For writers who need a place to relax.” She pivoted to Howard Steward, who was checking his phone, his beautiful wife looking silently and scornfully at Stephanie. “Part of our expansion will include our literacy outreach to underserved areas. We believe the children are our future.” She laughed a little at herself, but not nearly enough, in Ava’s opinion. “And your youth philanthropy is famous all over the city.”

  “I try to give back.” He looked sleepy. His wife handed him a handkerchief from her bag unasked. He blew his nose and declined the wine Stephanie was offering.

  “Ava,” Stephanie introduced them, “Mr. Steward gave us a ride here. In his Maybach,” she whispered excitedly, though maybe a little too loudly.

  Ava felt embarrassed for all of them. “Very nice to meet you.” She took a bottle of wine and glasses from behind the bar. “Excuse me. I have to get back to the reading group.”

  She felt a pull on her sweater, and Stephanie again whispered, “Can’t you stay and hang out? He likes a crowd. This could be very big for us.”

  “I have only ever loved brilliant women,” Mr. Pocket Square was telling the room.

  The presumed supermodel leaned against the bar, smoking with her eyes shut. She slightly opened one eye. “I was top form in my A levels,” she said, then ashed into her designer purse and burped.

  Her date placed a hand on her ass. “She’s fucking brilliant.”

  “I can’t,” Ava whispered to Stephanie. “I just can’t.”

  “Jesus, you’re so totally useless,” Stephanie hissed back.

  “I’m not being useless,” Ava objected. “I’m doing what we set out to do. That book club in there—” the wineglasses she was holding by their stems rattled as she pointed “—is the only time we have ever done anything remotely like our original mission. Although to be honest, at this point, it’s getting hard to remember what we started all this for.”

  “Librarians can get so worked up when discussing literature.” Stephanie laughed toward Mr. Steward before yanking hard on Ava’s elbow and pulling her a few feet farther into a corner. “This is serious money and you are fucking it up right now. Nobody cares about your stupid book club. Stop acting like it matters and do what I tell you before this whole project tanks.”

  “What do you mean nobody cares?” Ava wrenched her elbow from Stephanie’s grasp. “It matters to me.”

  “You’re being so childish right now. I don’t know how I’ve gotten as far as I have with you as a partner. You’re just dead fucking weight sometimes, Ava.” Stephanie turned away from her. “You know we’re going to be reading Baldwin next,” she said to Mr. Steward. “You should really consider joining our book club. We would really love to hear your unique perspective on things.”

  The prospect of reading James Baldwin with Stephanie must have left Mr. Steward unmoved because he yawned and checked his watch.

  The wineglasses in Ava’s hand gave a high warning chime as she struggled to control her angry trembling. How dare Stephanie think of her like that when this whole project had come to be because of Ava’s job at the Lazarus Club, a job she already felt she was on the verge of losing because of all of this nonsense. How could Stephanie say she, her best friend, didn’t matter next to that gruesome bunch she had collected? It didn’t seem possible. It didn’t make sense.

  She returned to the library feeling a little like she had just had the wind knocked out of her.

  “I think I just remembered,” Rodney was saying. “That big fashion show where the models wear bras made of diamonds? I think she’s one of those.”

  “Really?” George glanced over his shoulder with a heroic effort at casualness. “Maybe I should go see.”

  “I promise you guys don’t want to go in there.” Ava poured herself a very full glass of wine, while the three men around her seemed somewhat unconvinced. She sat, stewing in hurt feelings.

  “I think we were getting to something interesting,” Ben said, leaning forward and tapping the book in his hands. “About the ways that some of the themes people used to write about get rearranged for a different age, like what does a romance look like now? Would Anna Karenina be online dating for example?”

  It took Ava a minute to realize he was still talking about the book, and when she did she got mad all over again. “Not Anna! How could you compare the two?” In her already emotional state, Ava felt a passionate defensiveness for Anna Karenina and, by extension, Tolstoy. “Why are you being such an asshole?”

  Surprise made his ears stick out, and Ava decided he didn’t look at all like Arthur Rimbaud. “Ava, what are you talking about?”

  “You don’t like any of the things I care about. You think the books I like are old and stodgy and weird, just like me. That I’m just dead weight.”

  Ben’s confusion was quickly turning to anger. “I have no idea what you mean, dead weight, but what I do think is that it can be very difficult
to talk to you when you aren’t interested in hearing what the other person has to say.”

  “You didn’t want to read The House of Mirth,” Ava countered.

  “So what?” Ben almost yelled. “That’s not some referendum on you as a person. It just means I like to read other stuff, too. And see other movies besides costume dramas. And I want to be able to talk about it all with you and discuss the things that interest me, but you just stop listening and it can be very frustrating.” He paused, thinking. “No. It’s not just frustrating. It’s hurtful. Rude.”

  Ava had never ever been so accused, and as she had stacks of old etiquette books that she followed to the letter, this felt like an outrageous slur. “I’m not rude.”

  “You are. You ignore me in the rudest ways all the time. Every time I try to tell you about something that didn’t happen in the nineteenth century. But for just one more example, I consider it very rude to tell someone you’re going to pay them for the work they do and then lie about it.”

  A wave of embarrassment made Ava’s ears prickle, and before she could stop and think about it, she quickly answered him, “Well, I think it’s rude that you don’t seem to care that whenever we fool around, I never have an orgasm.”

  There was a deafening silence in the room, which George broke by humming quietly at the ceiling.

  Rodney cleared his throat. “More wine?” he asked George, and filled his glass to the top.

  “I think I’m just going to go see what’s on and about in the other room.” George put his computer aside, and left, sloshing a few drops of wine behind him as he went. Rodney, however, sat back in his chair, crossing his legs with the barest hint of a smile.

  “Yeah, okay, Ava.” Ben stood. “I’m going to go now. I think you’re an interesting person, but you’re not nice. And you don’t seem to have any idea how relationships work.”

  “I know I don’t,” Ava said softly, looking at her lap.

  “Well, that’s the first self-aware thing I think I’ve ever heard you say. Good luck with all this. I still think it was a cool idea.” He slung his bag over his head and onto one shoulder and waited.