The Accidental Book Club (15 page)

Three times a day for the first month.

Two times a day, which didn’t seem like nearly enough, for the second month.

One time a day for the third month.

And so on, until one day she realized she’d forgotten to have a Crying Time for several weeks. And the realization felt like betrayal so fierce, she raced upstairs and tried to force one out. And then got to laughing when she thought of what Wayne would have thought, seeing her writhing around on their bed, clutching his old DiMaggio baseball and making gaggy whining noises meant to instigate tears.

And that had been the end of Jean’s Crying Time.

Until today.

J
ean felt like it was cheating to use packaged tikka masala sauce. She waved her spatula over the bubbling pan and sniffed. It smelled just like what they used to get at the Indian restaurant down the street. She would choose the vegetable korma, and Wayne would pick something called chili chicken, and they would stuff themselves with garlic onion naan. But all of that had been handmade—you could see the chefs in the back, working cooktops directly behind the buffet table. No packaged tikka masala there.

Using prepackaged food really went against Jean’s desire to be “chefy,” as Loretta liked to put it. But she couldn’t help it. She didn’t know the first thing about Indian cooking, and it was impossible to try to learn new things in the house as it was now.

Fortunately, Laura hadn’t left the house, hadn’t had a drink in five days. She had showered and was coming out of her room more. Unfortunately, her mood hadn’t improved any, and it seemed to Jean that Laura and Bailey couldn’t be in the same room together for five minutes without one or both of them blowing up. And both of them ignoring her, except to sneer at her or roll their eyes at something she’d said or huff angrily over something she’d done.

“Why do you let them treat you like that? Tell them to get out,” Kenneth had said on the phone last night.

“They don’t have anywhere to go. Laura says she can’t keep up with the house without Curt.”

“She’s forty, Mom. That’s her problem. You have your own house to deal with. Tell her not to let the door hit her on the way out.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

He’d sighed. “I know. You’re too kind for your own good. Dad always said it, and he was right.”

She’d forgotten about that, about how Wayne had told her that strays and hard cases could sniff her out like a dog on a rotten sandwich. It had frustrated him, how Jean would be treated by someone she was helping, but at the same time, he’d said, it only made him love her more.

She’d felt tears prick the corners of her eyelids and had only barely held them off, promising herself that later she would remember those words during her Crying Time. And trying not to think about the fact that she was back to a twice-daily Crying Time.

“When are you getting out?” Kenneth had asked her next.

Jean had hesitated. “I’m kept pretty busy here. I have the book club.”

“That’s not getting out. You can’t sit in that house babysitting those two and not ever have a life of your own, Mom. You have to be active.”

“We’ve been meeting here. It’s been enough.”

“What about Loretta?”

“She’s been around.” Which was normally the truth, but even Loretta hadn’t been over as much as usual. The tension in the air made it too unpleasant. She’d told Jean,
I feel like any minute a frying pan’s gonna crash down on my head.
Not that Jean could blame her—she felt that very way herself more times than not, as if she were creeping around her own house surrounded by broken glass and hoping not to get cut. “I’m fine, Kenneth. I really am.”

But as she put the lid back on the tikka masala, she wasn’t so sure she was fine. She felt jumpy and anxious and like at any moment, everything could explode. And she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t be the one doing the exploding.

“Gross. What’s that nas-assty smell?” Bailey asked, schlumping into the kitchen, still in her pajamas. Ever since she’d suddenly stopped spending her days at the pool, Bailey had barely had reason to wake up in the morning, it seemed, just like her mom.

“It’s Indian food,” Jean said, turning back the heat. “Have you ever had it?”

“Why would I eat something that smells like that?” She opened the pantry and pulled out a Pop-Tart, in which, it seemed to Jean, the girl ate her weight daily.

“You should try new things,” Jean said. “You might be surprised what you like.”

Bailey took a huge bite out of her Pop-Tart. “You should try minding our own business,” she said around the food in her mouth. “That would be new.”

Jean clamped her mouth shut, bracing herself against her granddaughter’s hurtful words. She didn’t understand what it was that made Bailey talk to her like that. She had never done anything to hurt her. Kenneth’s words rang in her head—
You are too kind for your own good—
followed by Wayne’s voice, urging her on:
Don’t let her talk to you that way. Say something!

“And you should try some manners,” Jean said before she could stop herself. “That would be new too.”

Bailey’s eyes grew wide with surprise, but before she could react, there was a knock at the door, followed by the door opening.

“Knock, knock!” Loretta called, coming in. She rounded the corner, her brow creased. “Indian food? I thought we were all going Flavian Munney aphrodisiac themed.” She held up a small silver bucket, one Jean recognized as Chuck’s beer bucket that he would fill with ice and beer bottles while outside cleaning the fish he’d caught that morning. “Oysters!” Loretta proclaimed.

Bailey rolled her eyes. “Oh, God, is it another old-biddies-with-books meeting?”

Loretta set her bucket on the counter, snapped her fingers. “We should call ourselves that. OBWB. We could get T-shirts—what do you think, Jean? Has a nice ring to it.”

“I’m not an old biddy,” Jean responded, pulling plates out of the cabinet. What she really wanted to say was,
Don’t encourage her, Loretta. She’s like a rabid dog—don’t make eye contact, and hope she just sniffs around you and goes away.

“Well, if I’m one, you’re one. That’s all I know,” Loretta said.

“Take it from me—you’re all one,” Bailey added. “And I looked at that book you guys read for this meeting. Nauseating. You must be a bunch of perverts if you like that.”

“Perverts with aphrodisiacs,” Loretta corrected. “Did you know that oysters are an aphrodisiac because they’re reminiscent of a vagina?”

Bailey made a gagging noise. “Speak for yourself. I’m out.”

She left, making dramatic retching noises all the way down the stairs to the living room, where she promptly turned on the TV.

“I know how to clear a room, huh?” Loretta said, smiling and sidling up to Jean.

“You did a nice job,” Jean answered. “And I think Indian food is very sexy. It’s spicy and saucy, just like Flavian Munney’s boxers.”

Loretta laughed, slapped her hand on the counter. “Oh! I almost forgot.” She went over and picked up a tote bag she’d left by the door. She set the bag on the counter and proceeded to pull three bottles of wine out of it. “Chocolate wine.”

Jean picked up one of the bottles. “Yum!”

“Did I hear someone say chocolate and wine in the same sentence?” a voice came from the entryway, and before Jean knew it, the whole club had arrived, each member carrying her own Flavian Munney book and a seductive dish. Chocolate soup, strawberries with whipped cream, silky cheeses with brioche and caviar. Jean’s tikka masala was delicious, but it stayed on the stove, a wooden spoon propped against the side of the pan, barely touched. Jean tried not to tell herself that this was because the sauce was prepackaged.

“Should we talk about the literary merits of Flavian of the Month?” Jean said around a bite of May’s oyster salad, which was sweet and briny and divine.

“It ended. That was the only merit I saw,” Mitzi said.

“Don’t let her fool you,” Dorothy said, licking her fingers. “I caught her more than once reading it at her desk at lunchtime.” She pointed to Mitzi. “You know you were.”

“I was trying to get it over with,” Mitzi responded, but a blush had crept high on her cheeks.

“Well, I for one thought it was a perfect read after that Thackeray crap,” Dorothy said, and there were groans around the table.

“Let’s not go there,” Mitzi said. “I don’t want to get my blood pressure up again. Talk about a book with no literary merit.”

“But to listen to everyone speak, he’s the only writer out there with any merit, literary or otherwise,” Loretta said.

“I’m not kidding; don’t get me started,” Mitzi warned again. “Continue with Flavian, please.”

“Oh, come on, I missed the discussion,” Dorothy whined. “I had lots to say too. For instance, did anyone else think the way the knight-on-a-white-horse love interest was described sounded a lot like Thackeray himself?”

“Oh, my God, I didn’t notice, but you’re right. It totally did,” May said, and doubled over, laughing. “Who does that?”

“Egomaniacs like Sebastian Thackeray, that’s who,” Mitzi said. “Nobody loves him as much as he loves him.”

“You didn’t miss anything, Dorothy,” Jean said. “We hated it. That’s about it.”

“You didn’t think it had some sort of bigger message that we probably all should hear?” Dorothy asked, then after a moment of more groans, said, “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I’m probably just sensitive to the whole mommy thing. Been a rough few years at my house.”

“But back to the Flavian novel,” Jean said. “I thought this one was better than the last one because Flavian seemed a little more humble, and—”

“Yeah, there was a message, all right.” The voice came up over the railing that separated the dining room from the living room down below. All the women stopped eating and glanced at the rail. Was that Bailey?

“What did she say?” May whispered.

Bailey came halfway up the stairs, just far enough so the ladies could see her top half. “The Thackeray book? It had a message. The message was, ‘I’m a douche bag who deserves to have my ass kicked up between my pointy little elfin ears.’”

Loretta chuckled again, shaking her head and diving back into her chocolate soup.

“I’m sorry,” Jean mumbled to the ladies. “Bailey, please,” she hissed. “Not now.”

“No, she’s right, though,” Mitzi said. “She’s on the money.”

“Of course I’m right,” Bailey said from the stairs. “Don’t sound so surprised.” She adopted a high-pitched kindergarten teacher voice. “You know, sometimes we children types have a brain and think for ourselves. Despite what Dickface Thackeray seems to think.”

“Language, Bailey,” Jean said.

“What? Everything I’m saying is true. The guy should have his nuts—if he has any—kicked so hard, he burps pubic hair.”

At this, Loretta burst out laughing and had to cover her mouth to hold in the giggles as Jean shot a look at her.

“Bailey! We’re not talking about that book anymore,” Jean said, trying to be as delicate as possible. She was over her granddaughter’s insolent attitude. “And you’re being rude.”

“Right. I know. You’re talking about the penis party favor book. So much more worth your time. Good call.” She gave a double thumbs-up.

“Penis party favor?” May asked, but Jean shook her head curtly and May pressed her lips together.

“But hear me out. I’ve been thinking about this, and you know what I think you should do? I think you should get Mr. R. Sebastian Thackeray to come to your next meeting,” Bailey said.

“Oooh, good idea,” Mitzi said. “I wouldn’t mind having a little one-on-one with that guy.”

“I’d prefer my one-on-one to be with Flavian, personally,” Loretta cracked.

“Go to the paint store,” May said, and everyone except Jean laughed. But it was an uncomfortable laugh. Nobody, including Jean, seemed to really know how to handle Bailey’s intrusion on the meeting.

“I’m serious. I’ve heard of authors visiting book clubs before. They’re attention whores—they’ll go anywhere if they think somebody’s gonna stroke their egos a little.”

“Bailey!” Jean said, feeling anger bubble up. “That’s enough of this topic. You’re rudely interrupting our meeting. I’ve had enough of your bad manners.”

Bailey’s fists were clenched and on her hips. “God, it was just an idea. You guys were all pissed off, and I thought it might be fun to get a chance to tell him that to his face. You can keep pretending this club is about books. But we all know what it’s really about—stuffing your faces and getting tipsy on a Tuesday afternoon. How does that make you any different from that zombie upstairs, huh?”

“Okay,” Jean said, moving toward her granddaughter. “You’re done now. You need to leave. Go . . . Go back up to your room until the meeting is over.” Jean felt electricity run through her. It took restraint for her to hold her voice down, to keep it from breaking.

Bailey let out a husky laugh. “You’re sending me to my room? Like you’re my mom or something? I don’t have a mom! I haven’t had a mom pretty much my whole life! And you raised her, so what does that say about you?” Bailey was yelling now—her specialty. She pounded the rest of the way up the stairs, and turned just as she passed the dining table. “Oh, and also? Just so you know, you should never leave two unopened bottles of wine on the kitchen counter when you live in a house with an alcoholic. You’d know that if you grew up in my house.”

Jean set down the book she was clutching to her chest. All heads turned toward the kitchen, where, sure enough, one of the wine bottles was missing.

Laura.

“You’re so blind,” Bailey whispered. She reached out with one arm and grasped the neck of the remaining bottle. Jean heard someone at the table gasp just seconds before Bailey raised the bottle over her head and slammed it to the floor. It landed with a great crash, wine splashing so hard and so far, it snaked up Jean’s legs. Shards of glass slid to a stop under the dining room table. Dorothy jumped as a piece bounced against her shoulder. Bailey shook her head disgustedly, then stormed out, only this time instead of stomping up to her bedroom, she left through the front door, leaving the house so quiet, they could hear Laura’s TV upstairs.

Nobody seemed to know what to say. Mitzi and Dorothy traded worried glances. Loretta let her fork clatter to her plate, and leaned back, wiping her mouth with her napkin. May cleared her throat twice. Janet stared intently into her plate. Jean stood with her back to the dining table, afraid to turn and face them.

Embarrassed. Angry. On the verge of tears.

So alone. So, so alone, even in the midst of all her friends.

Maybe Kenneth was right—maybe they weren’t enough—because all she wanted was them to leave. All she wanted was to crawl upstairs and open the top drawer and cry. All she wanted was to shake her daughter, to slap her granddaughter, to knock some sense into both of them. To take back time, to try it all over again. If she started her life anew, would Wayne have still gotten sick, left her? Would she have known enough to warn him, to talk him into getting tested sooner, catching the cancer earlier?