The Writing Circle

by Corinne Demas

  “I’m sorry, dear,” he said. “Let me make you some tea.”

  Aimee sank into his vacated armchair, and he trotted to the kitchen and turned on the kettle.

  “Chamomile?” he called from the kitchen.

  “Whatever,” said Aimee.

  While the water boiled, he got out a tray and arranged a teapot and cup. He worked to remember the way Aimee liked things. Blue linen napkin. Honey jar. Slice of lemon on a small glass dish. Spoon laid parallel to the edge of the tray.

  “Here we go,” said Bernard when the tea was ready. He was setting it on the table by the armchair when he realized that Aimee was holding the copy of Restitution that he’d left there. Open, facedown.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  Bernard realized, as he looked at the jacket, that the author was M. G. Findlay. There was no need to tell Aimee it was Gillian, no need to bring up Gillian’s name, especially now that Aimee was obviously not well.

  “Just a novel,” said Bernard. And then, because when he was caught in any sort of lie he had a tendency to go on more than he needed to, he said, “It’s a new novel. Someone gave it to me.” He was about to add “in New York” but wisely stopped before he did so. He didn’t want to have Aimee asking about his trip to the city.

  “I didn’t know you read fiction,” said Aimee, and to Bernard’s relief she laid the book on the table.

  “Now and then,” he said.

  Aimee turned her attention to her tea, checked that it had steeped sufficiently, then poured it into her cup.

  “You don’t put lemon in chamomile,” she said.

  “You don’t have to use it,” said Bernard.

  The tone of his voice made Aimee alert. “I’m sorry, Bern,” she said. “It was very sweet of you to fetch me tea. But I feel like shit. I’m going up to bed.”

  Bernard leaned down and kissed her brow. “Poor darling,” he said.

  “Don’t catch my cold,” said Aimee. “We need you on your feet to take care of Horace.”

  After Aimee had gone upstairs, Bernard carried the tea tray into the kitchen, then settled back into reading Gillian’s novel. He didn’t have much time before Horace woke up. It wasn’t until later that night, when everyone had been fed, and both Horace and Aimee were asleep, that he was able to finish the book. He was annoyed with Gillian for what she had done—it seemed insensitive at the very least—but he did have to admire the finished product.

  In the morning, Aimee decided not to go in to work. Bernard brought her breakfast in bed. He couldn’t decide what to do about Virginia. While Aimee ate, he gave Horace his bottle, then, after Horace was changed and dressed and settled down for a morning nap, Bernard went back for Aimee’s tray.

  She was lying on her stomach, her face to one side, her arms under her cheek. “I could use a back rub,” she said.

  Bernard set the tray back down on the nightstand, kicked off his slippers, and stretched on the bed beside her. She threw the covers off, and he was jolted by the sight of her unblemished skin, her small, white buttocks. He bent and ran his tongue along the shallow concave stretch of her spine. He rubbed his hands to warm them, and then he kneaded her shoulders and pressed the heels of his hands into the wings of her back, the way she always liked it. She mmmmed with pleasure.

  He stood up and unbuckled his belt and slipped his pants off, unbuttoned his shirt and took it off, and took off his undershorts. He lay back down on the bed. He massaged Aimee’s lower back now and slowly began to move down lower, to her buttocks and her inner thighs. She reached around and gave his hand a nudge, and then he noticed the short white string of a tampon against her skin.

  Virginia had never minded having sex when she was menstruating. They used to slide a towel under her back at such times, but even so, their sheets and mattress were always stained. And there was a girlfriend in college, Molly, Bernard remembered, a Catholic who refused to use birth control and felt the only safe time was when she was bleeding. But Aimee was fastidious about such things, and Bernard’s hands retreated. Still, it was enough to touch her back, to lie close beside her, to feel full, to throb.

  Suddenly he heard Horace crying in his room next door.

  “Fuck,” said Aimee.

  Bernard got up and ran to him. He plucked him out of his crib and held him against his chest. Was it possible that he had been crying for a while and Bernard hadn’t heard him? He carried Horace into their bedroom. Aimee was sitting up in bed, the covers pulled up to her shoulders.

  “Don’t bring him close to me,” she said. “I don’t want him getting my cold.”

  Horace had ceased crying, and Bernard dangled him and danced around.

  “Do you think that’s healthy?” Aimee asked. “Holding him like that when you don’t have any clothes on?”

  “Do you mean because he’ll catch germs from my privates?” asked Bernard. “Or do you mean because he’ll be warped by having witnessed his father’s nakedness?”

  “I don’t know,” said Aimee. “It just looks perverted, you stark naked like that, holding a baby against you.”

  “I’m giving him material for when he writes a memoir,” said Bernard.

  “You are ridiculous,” said Aimee, and she sank down in the bed and closed her eyes.

  Bernard’s dilemma about Virginia, which had escaped his mind while he was caressing Aimee’s back, reasserted itself, and as it drew closer to two o’clock, Bernard realized there was no way he could avoid speaking to Aimee about the visit. After he got Horace settled down for his afternoon nap, he confronted Aimee, who was in bed still, but dressed in jeans and working on her laptop.

  “Virginia phoned and said she wanted to meet with me to talk about something,” he said, “and since I can’t leave you with Horace, I asked her to stop by here. I hope that’s all right.” He didn’t exactly lie, but he thought that Aimee would guess that Virginia had recently phoned, most likely when Aimee had been sleeping.

  Aimee hit a few keys and looked up at him. She usually wore contacts, but because of her cold she had her glasses on now, and they made her look even younger.

  “When is she coming?” asked Aimee.

  “Sometime soon,” said Bernard.

  “Is something going on with Rachel or Teddy?” asked Aimee.

  “No,” said Bernard. “It’s about the writing group. Something about Nancy.”

  “Oh,” said Aimee. “It’s not the best time for company. But I suppose it’s best you stay around in case Horace wakes up.”

  “I don’t expect you to come down,” said Bernard. “Virginia’s not really company.” He stood in the doorway, his hand on the doorknob. “Why don’t I close this, so we won’t disturb you,” he said. “Anything I can bring you from downstairs?”

  “No thanks,” said Aimee. “I’m fine. Just keep your ear out for Horace.”

  Virginia came at a quarter after two, and Bernard offered her a cup of coffee.

  She waved him off. “Thank you, Bernie, but this isn’t really a social visit. We have a serious problem here, and I think you’re the only one who can help with it.”

  “Me?” asked Bernard, as they walked into his study and sat down. “You want me to reconcile the warring factions of our group?”

  “Reconcile?” asked Virginia. “Bernie, you must be out of your mind. There’s no way the Leopardi Circle will ever be meeting again.”

  “No?” asked Bernard. He hadn’t thought of that possibility, and the prospect of the loss of his group seemed acutely painful to him. He needed the support of the Leopardis to keep his Handel project going, but it wasn’t just that; their Sunday meetings were one of his few activities on his own. And he liked seeing Virginia, he liked the relationship they had settled into together. “What if we told Gillian she could no longer come?”

  “Bernie, it’s gone, over. Gillian ruined it for everyone.”

  Bernard was about to ask, “But what about my work in progress?” but wisely caught himself in time. He could just imagi
ne Virginia scowling at him and saying, “This isn’t about you, Bernie.”

  “Your prediction about the Leopardis seems rather dire,” said Bernard. “And, Virginia, it’s unlike you to be so pessimistic.”

  “Nancy’s certainly never going to come again, and Chris says he’s finished with it. And I wouldn’t be surprised if Adam is, too.”

  “You just need to give them time,” said Bernard.

  “Time?” asked Virginia.

  “Writers require their groups,” Bernard said. “The Leopardis—sans Gillian, of course—will rise again.” Bernard’s voice swelled with these words, but, aware that Virginia would accuse him of pontificating, he added, less dramatically, “You’ll see.”

  “Oh, Bernie!” said Virginia.

  “So,” said Bernard, “what’s to be done then?”

  “About the Leopardi Circle, nothing,” said Virginia. “But about Nancy, I’m hoping there’s something we can do. Chris came to see me about it—he’s as incensed as we all are, but he’s also better connected. He has a friend from Columbia Journalism School who’s on the Pulitzer Committee, and he’s ready to rush in there if we can give him something to work with.”

  Bernard had made note of the word incensed. It didn’t describe how he felt, and he was surprised by Virginia’s assumption that it did.

  “What do you mean ‘we’?” he asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “Chris talked with Nancy,” said Virginia. “Apparently she spoke with her agent about what had happened, but her agent counseled against bringing a charge of plagiarism against Gillian. She said it would be difficult to prove and in the end would only hurt Nancy’s career.”

  Bernard was relieved to hear this. He had been afraid Virginia was cooking up something where all the members of the Leopardi Circle would join as a body to testify to what they had heard of Nancy’s novel.

  “That sounds wise,” he said.

  “Perhaps,” said Virginia. “But you have to admit that something needs to be done.”

  Those words brought up a familiar sense of unease. Virginia’s sense of social justice had always been more extreme than his, and during the years of their marriage she had often dragged him into things he would rather have let pass by.

  “I think that would be Nancy’s department,” he said. “Not ours.”

  “It’s ours, too,” said Virginia. “We’re responsible for what happened to Nancy—you in particular, since you brought her into the group. Gillian broke the rules, she destroyed the trust. We’re all implicated, whether we like it or not.”

  There was a sound on the baby monitor, and Bernard held up his finger for a moment and leaned close. Unfortunately, it was just the noise of a passing truck, and he had no excuse to take a break from the conversation.

  When he looked back at Virginia, her eyes hadn’t left him. “Well, Virginia,” he said. “I understand why you’re upset about this, but I think you are overstating the case a little.”

  “Overstating it?” cried Virginia, and Bernard raised his finger to his lips fearfully. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

  “I didn’t know we were choosing sides,” said Bernard, and he leaned towards her, hoping to get her to lower her voice.

  “How can we not?” asked Virginia. “After what Gillian did?”

  “What did Gillian do?” ask Aimee. Neither of them had heard her come downstairs. She stood in the doorway, barefoot.

  “I’m sorry we disturbed you, dear,” said Bernard. “I’ll tell you about it all later.”

  Virginia was obviously surprised to see Aimee, and Bernard felt obliged to explain why she was home. “Aimee took the day off to nurse a cold,” he said.

  “I’m actually feeling a lot better,” said Aimee, and she came in and sat on the arm of Bernard’s chair. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Gillian plagiarized part of the manuscript of Nancy’s novel,” said Virginia, “and published it herself, under a pseudonym.”

  Alas, the book Bernard had foolishly left out on the side table was still there, and Virginia picked it up and waved it in evidence. It would be hopeless to pretend he hadn’t known who the real author was.

  “For a variety of reasons,” continued Virginia, “Nancy won’t bring a case against her for that, but I came by today to talk with Bernie about something else that’s worth looking into.”

  Bernard didn’t know what Virginia could possibly be thinking of, but instinct told him whatever it was, it wasn’t something he wanted to hear, and not something he wanted Aimee to hear either.

  “I can’t imagine what you have in mind,” he said.

  “Remember when we were putting the group together I was somewhat concerned about inviting Gillian to join us because of something in the past you had told me about, an incident of unethical behavior she was involved in years before?”

  Bernard remembered Virginia’s reticence, but he thought it had to do with feelings she’d had about Gillian—suspicions, which he hoped she had never been able to confirm, that he and Gillian had once been lovers. But there was no way he could say anything like that now. Anything he said about Gillian, anything at all, was likely to get him in trouble with Aimee.

  “I’m not sure I remember,” said Bernard.

  He was afraid Virginia was on a roll. Was it possible that she was seizing on Aimee’s presence to embarrass him in some way? But why?

  “Well, you should,” said Virginia. “Your friend Martin Jacobson, who’d been her senior thesis advisor, told you she had stolen some lines of poetry from another student, a Russian exchange student the year before, and included them in her own work. And when she was confronted with the evidence by Martin, her defense was that it had been unconscious. She admitted she had heard the other girl read her poems aloud at a student presentation but insisted any imitation was accidental, she had never actually copied them. If I recall, you told me Gillian said that even if she had actually copied part of the poems, it would have been all right because she had improved them. Martin had been so bowled over by her chutzpah that he let her thesis get highest honors nevertheless.”

  Bernard now remembered it all too clearly. Virginia had argued at the time that Martin had been so snowed by Gillian he’d let her get away with something an unattractive student would have been expelled for. “I told you that in confidence,” he said. “And besides, I can’t see that it’s relevant now.”

  “It’s absolutely relevant. It’s the same writer we’re talking about, with the same questionable morality.”

  “Even so,” said Bernard, “I don’t see what’s to be done with it.”

  “What’s to be done is that you tell Nancy all about it, get the information she needs to document it, and let Chris use it in any way he can.”

  “I’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Bernard quickly. “That was something that happened many years ago, when Gillian was an undergraduate, a girl. It’s not right to drag it up now.”

  “Not right?” said Virginia. “We’re talking about Gillian here. And if you don’t tell Nancy about it, I will.”

  Aimee shifted her weight on the arm of the chair. If she weren’t there, he would plead with Virginia to let him off somehow, plead with her to keep him out of this. But Aimee was there, staring at him, waiting for him to speak.

  “I’ll get you what I can,” he said. Mercifully, there was some more noise on the baby monitor. Bernard stopped to listen. Horace wasn’t crying, but he was stirring and soon would be awake. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d be the one to tell Nancy about it. Let Chris do what he wants with it, but please, keep the source anonymous.”

  Virginia stood up. “I’ll do my best,” she said.

  Adam

  ADAM HAD SPOKEN TO NO ONE FROM THE LEOPARDI CIRCLE since his return from New York. He’d gotten two messages from Chris, one from Virginia, and even one from Bernard, and when he saw from the number that it was Virginia calling him again, he still didn’t pick up. She didn’t leave a message this
time. He didn’t mind ignoring Chris, but he felt guilty about Virginia. He could imagine her sigh of disappointment when she hadn’t been able to get through to him. She obviously wanted to talk to him about what had happened with Nancy, and, given Virginia’s rapier quick empathy, she would be wanting to know how he was doing, since she now knew how he felt about Gillian—most likely, Adam guessed, she had known long before this. He wasn’t ready to talk to anyone yet, not even to Virginia. From the moment at the reading when he learned about Gillian’s novel, he didn’t know what he thought, didn’t know what he felt.

  In the car riding back from New York with Bernard, he had been able to avoid conversation, first by pretending to doze and, not long afterwards, by actually falling asleep. He’d drunk more champagne at the party than he’d drunk at any wedding—and he’d certainly put away plenty of champagne at weddings. He had sat on an upholstered bench by the window, drinking and watching Gillian.

  Ever since her Christmas party, he had been waiting for Gillian to get in touch with him. He held on to her words exactly as she had spoken them: “Sometime, when I’m in Truro, you can come have supper with me again.” He knew she had been to Truro on her own since then, but the invitation had not come. It would be too awkward for him to have to remind her of her promise—if, maybe, she had forgotten it. It was painful to think that she might have changed her mind and now regretted having raised his hopes. It was worse to think that she’d never meant the invitation seriously in the first place, that it had been mere conversation and she’d never imagined he’d expect anything to come of it.

  He did not want to go up to her now, he wanted her to come up to him, but she hadn’t done so. He wanted her to say something to him about the fact that she had not told him she was writing a novel. He understood why she had not let the Leopardis know anything about it, but why hadn’t she confided in him, a novelist, too? She would know that he would keep any secret she entrusted to him absolutely safe. He wanted her to apologize to him—or at least explain to him. At the very least, he wanted her to acknowledge him. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her. He didn’t want to watch, but he couldn’t stop observing Jerry’s hand on her shoulder, the way he steered her from behind, as if they were dancers on a dance floor, couldn’t stop watching the way Gillian was embraced by everyone around her, those wealthy New Yorkers, those well-connected publishers. Chris had come by to talk with him and suggested he should be networking, that the lush party was the venue an aspiring novelist would dream of, but he did not have the stamina for it.