Читать книгу The Book Club - Мэри Монро, Мэри Элис Монро, Mary Monroe Alice - Страница 12

Before she had married she thought she was in love. But the happiness that should have resulted from this love had not come; she must have deceived herself she thought. Emma sought to learn what was really meant in life by the words “happiness,” “passion,” and “ecstasy”—words that had seemed so beautiful in books.

—Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary

January 7, 1998

Doris stood in the foyer of her redbrick colonial home and waited for the Book Club to arrive. A pure, sensual pleasure embraced her as she glanced around her house, making a last-minute check that all was in proper order. It was the first Book Club meeting of the year and she wanted everything to be perfect. The sparkling crystal wineglasses were set out on the Sheraton side table beside the bottles of wine: white, chilled, and red, opened to allow time to breathe—something she’d learned from her father. On the large dining table that had once been her mother’s, she’d draped snowy white linen and lined her grandmother’s crisp damask napkins in an intricate pattern that she’d admired once in a magazine. Someone could photograph this table and put it in a magazine, she thought with a shiver of pride.

And the ladies would be sure to admire the clever arrangement of fresh flowers and greens, cut from her own shrubs that very morning. She’d read somewhere how women of culture and breeding always had their clippers handy, and from that date on she’d hung a pair on a gros-grain ribbon beside her back door.

Her pièce de résistance, however, were the French appetizers that she’d spent hours researching, shopping for and preparing. She had to make something French, of course, because this month’s book was Madame Bovary, a classic that she’d insisted they read after feigning astonishment that no one in the Book Club had actually read the book.

In fact, she herself had never read it, but she’d go to the grave with that secret—and her SAT scores. She’d heard of it, of course, and seen the movie—the old version with Jennifer Jones that everyone knew was the best. Now she’d never have to pretend again because she’d read the novel at last and enjoyed it thoroughly.

Even if she was furious at the character of Emma Bovary. How could she throw away a perfectly good life and husband for the sake of her uncontrolled passion? Doris could feel her heart rate zoom and her breath shorten just thinking about it. What did it matter if Emma had “bliss” or “passion” or “ecstasy”? These had little to do with virtues that were the hallmarks of respectability. Indeed, even womanhood. Virtues such as patience, self-discipline, self-control, chastity, adaptability to others. Yes, especially that. Qualities that her mother had, that her grandmother had, that were instilled in her as a child by example not by name. Emma was, in her opinion, selfish and immoral. She deserved to die.

Well, she thought, stroking her neck, that might be a bit harsh. It was easy to sympathize with Emma’s romantic nature, especially at first. All new brides dream of a perfect marriage with love and passion in the moonlight, husbands on pedestals, pretty curtains on the windows, fringed lampshades, no other bride’s bouquet before hers. She certainly had.

But Emma went too far when she grew bored and forsake her duty, especially to her child. What mother could forgive Emma the desertion of her child! And though her husband may have been a bit dull and plodding, he wasn’t all that bad. Men were men, Doris decided, brushing away the uncomfortable image of her own husband with that phrase.

Emma Bovary should have settled with what she had. She’d settled, hadn’t she? Why, most women settled, dug in, called upon those womanly virtues, and made it work. And Doris was champing at the bit to make that statement tonight.

The Pennsylvania tall clock chimed seven times. Doris shook away her musings and glanced in the magnificent Viennese mirror in the foyer, smoothing her strawberry-blond hair that fell neatly to her double chin, but not too stiffly. That was one of her mother’s cardinal rules: Always make it look effortless. And, Treat your family like guests and your guests like family.

She thought of the Book Club as family—an extended family. With them she wasn’t the wife of the flamboyant builder and architect, R. J. Bridges, or the mother of eighteen-year-old Bob Jr. and fourteen-year-old Sarah. She wasn’t the PTA president or the chairwoman of the Children’s Welfare League. With these four women, some of whom she’d known for over twenty-five years, she was just Doris. With them, especially after a few glasses of wine, Doris might surprise even herself with comments on a book or an issue or a secret that just popped out like a bubble. With the Book Club, Doris always felt uncensored. They weren’t her judge and jury, they were her peers. Her friends.

Friends. A stab of disappointment coursed through her as she recalled that Eve Porter had sent her regrets and would not be coming tonight. How could Eve do that to her, she wondered, hurt? She could understand Eve’s not attending meetings at other women’s houses the past few months; she even forgave her for skipping the Christmas party. After all, hadn’t her mother said, Never bring your problems to a party? It was unforgivable to make things awkward for the hostess and Doris knew Eve was only being sensitive. But not to come to her Book Club meeting?

You just didn’t do that to a friend. Ever since Tom’s passing, the only person Eve had depended on was Annie Blake. It was as though all the years of close friendship the two of them had shared—their children playing together, shopping, hair appointments, taking turns for twelve years being room mothers for the girls—had been tossed aside.

The doorbell rang, and like Pavlov’s dog, a smile sprang to her face. She took measured, graceful steps to the front door.

It was Annie Blake. Lately she had a physical reaction to Annie, usually a sucking in of the stomach. Annie seemed to be everything she was not, to have all she did not. Doris held her smile in place by force of the virtue of self-discipline.

“Annie, how nice to see you. Won’t you come in?” She heard the tension in her own voice, saw Annie’s eyes search the room beyond her shoulders, then glaze over when Annie realized that she was the first one here and thus compelled to make polite chitchat. Doris bristled, feeling somehow dismissed in her own home.

“Let me pour you a glass of wine.”

“Thanks,” Annie replied, shaking off her coat. “I could really use one.”

“Oh?” Doris took Annie’s coat, fingering the cashmere wool with quiet envy. “Why is that?”

“It’s been a hell of a day. What is it about the New Year that makes women want to change their lives—and be in a hurry to do it? Is it the New Year’s resolutions? My phone’s been ringing off the hook and poor Lisa is at her wit’s end.”

Lisa, Doris knew, was Annie’s secretary. Again, she felt a slight shudder of insecurity in the presence of this dynamic woman who had such things as her own secretary. That was inconceivable to Doris. She herself had never wanted to work “outside the home,” as she put it. In fact, she thanked God daily that she was wealthy enough not to have to. Yet, there was a worldliness about professional women that intrigued her.

“Red or white?”

“White. Hope it’s cold. I’m parched.”

“But of course.” She made it sound like the French, mais oui!

Following Annie’s long strides into the dining room, Doris surveyed her sleek crepe wool pantsuit in a rich chocolate-brown that slid along her toned, well-exercised body. Her cream-colored silk blouse had the top three buttons left open against her long, slim chest in a sexy insolence that irritated Doris. She thought Annie looked foolish—at her age.

No one could ever say that she didn’t dress her age, or know what was appropriate, in dress, style and manner. Her figure might not be as slender as it once was, but she wasn’t a girl anymore, was she? And she didn’t dress like one, not like Annie who wore the same clothes as Doris’s college-aged daughter. Everyone knew children were embarrassed to see their mothers dress too young or sexy.

Still, a frown deepened in her plump, pinkened cheeks as she caught sight in the mirror of the rounding bulges at her own hips and belly that the belt of her expensive ice-blue silk dress seemed to accentuate. Her heart withered knowing instinctively that Annie wouldn’t be caught dead in a dress like this. Her daughter would call it an “old lady” dress.

“Oh, these are real cute,” Annie exclaimed with enthusiasm at seeing the several elegant trays filled with the appetizers Doris had slaved over. “What are they?”

Doris approached the table with a proprietary air. “They’re canapés,” she replied, enunciating carefully and establishing her superiority at knowing such things.

Annie’s eyes flashed with amusement and something else that Doris refused to acknowledge as pity. “No, I mean, what’s in them? Is that shrimp or crab? I’m allergic to crab.”

Doris blanched but smiled again and replied through thin lips, “Crab.”

Doris watched as Annie reached for a spinach quiche and nibbled it in mincing bites while looking around the room with thinly disguised boredom.

“Have you seen Eve?” began Doris. “She’s not coming tonight, you know.”

“I know,” Annie confirmed, dabbing her mouth with one of Doris’s grandmother’s damask napkins as though it were paper. “I tried to drag her over, but you know Eve when she’s got her back up.”

“Well, I hardly think she’d need to be dragged over to my house. She’s been here many times, for many years.”

“Oh, it’s not that,” Annie replied quickly.

Doris was pleased to see her retreat. Eve was her friend, after all.

“She has to be dragged anywhere,” Annie continued.

“You know how she’s been lately—isolated. She’s got to snap out of it.”

Doris raised one brow. “That’s an interesting way to describe a woman’s period of mourning. I’d always assumed a year was appropriate.”

Annie skipped a beat and when she spoke again, her normally low voice dropped an octave. “I wasn’t referring to mourning. Perhaps you haven’t noticed that Eve’s been having a hard time of it. She’s not herself and I’m worried about her.”

“Depressed? Our Eve?” Doris tsked. “She’s just going through a bad spell. She’ll be fine.” She reached out to pat Annie’s arm in a condescending manner.

Annie held herself erect. “I know she will. I’ll see to it.”

“Is that part of your job description, too?” Doris asked with a steady smile.

Annie’s eyes narrowed as she studied Doris’s face with the focus of a cat eyeing a plump canary. Silent and still, but lethal. Doris returned a rigidly polite smile.

The doorbell rang again, sounding to Doris like the bell of a boxing ring. She promptly excused herself, feeling breathless and numb, as though she’d just received a solid right hook but hadn’t yet hit the mat. It was only the first round. She was relieved beyond words to find Gabriella and Midge at her threshold, almost hauling them into the house with shrill welcome.

They entered laughing, shaking off snow, explaining as they removed their winter coats how they’d managed to “chow down” some pasta in Little Italy before heading out to the Book Club, which worried Doris tremendously. “I hope you’re still hungry.”

They hurried to assure her they were as they each flopped large leather bags crammed full with manila folders and type-filled papers onto the floor. They each pulled out well-worn paperback copies of Madame Bovary. Gabriella’s had dozens of yellow sticky slips poking out and Doris smiled, knowing that when Gabriella prepared, the discussions were always lively.

As they moaned about their harried day, Doris listened quietly with her hands folded thinking to herself, Two more working women. She knew this, of course, but tonight, on the verge of her fiftieth birthday, it hit her differently, like another punch from another angle. They seemed so very busy, so very alive. They seemed to have such purpose.

Midge was a therapist and an artist. Gabriella was a nurse and a mother. That’s how they described themselves, each giving emphasis to the conjunction and. Both worked at the University of Illinois which fostered the close friendship they shared. The Odd Couple, Doris always called them because they couldn’t be more different.

Midge was unmarried, a feminist who wore her long, dark skirts and artsy sweaters like a uniform. She was boldly antifashion, or as Doris once whispered behind her palm to Eve, a reverse snob. Secretly everyone in the Book Club admired Midge’s scrubbed, handsome looks, her unmade-up face and nails and her long, striking mane of natural pepper-and-salt that she defied dying and wore as proudly as a flag flapping loose around her straight shoulders. Not that any of them would choose that style for themselves, but they all agreed it worked for Midge with her tall, willowy, flat-tummied body and her complicated, fierce intensity.

Gabriella, in contrast, was all accommodation and smiles. This amused Doris, who couldn’t imagine how anyone could be so cheerful working a part-time job with four children at home. Gabby’s flat, round face was carved in half by the smile that always dominated it. Her smile revealed a mouthful of large white teeth and squeezed her dark-brown eyes into small half-moons over enormous round cheeks. Gabriella wore little makeup either, but she loved color and swathed her plump, short body in bright oranges, shocking pinks and sunny yellows in swirling patterns. With her golden skin she resembled a soft, ripe pear.

Now that everyone had arrived, the group slipped into the comfortable pattern of prediscussion chitchat. First they complimented Doris on her clever French menu while she preened and pressed them each into making the most critical decision of the evening: red or white wine. While they nibbled and drank, they poured out good feelings and mutual affection as liberally as the wine. This phase finished, they eased into catching up with what had happened in each of their lives during the past month.

Doris was boasting shamelessly about Bob Jr.’s exploits at Georgetown. “He made the crew team. Just think how much fun it will be to visit him in Washington D.C. this spring, when the cherry trees are in bloom! Can’t you just see my Bobby on one of those cute little rowboats on the Potomac?”

“A scull,” corrected Midge dryly. She’d lived and studied in Boston, and delighted in pricking pomposity.

Doris flushed furiously, feeling another punch.

Gabriella’s husband still hadn’t found another job. Each month that passed, Gabriella had added more hours to her schedule at the hospital. Now she was working at least thirty hours a week. Fernando was growing increasingly depressed and anxious, so it fell to Gabriella to not only work harder, but to be cheerful and make everyone in the family happy and relaxed.

“Fernando is looking for just the right position,” she said with a wide smile that assured everyone it was just a matter of time and not to worry—she wasn’t! Only Midge knew the truth and she met Gabriella’s gaze with a reassuring nod.

Midge’s mother was coming for a visit from Florida next week and she didn’t know how she was going to stand it. “The woman drives me crazy,” she moaned, shaking her head. “She thinks she has to make this maternal pilgrimage every year to visit her single daughter. All she wants to know is when I’m going to get married again.” She reached one of her long arms over to grab a canapé. Waving in the air to make a point, she added, “You’d think she’d get it into her head she’s not going to be a grandmother.”

“Why not? Just because you’re not married doesn’t mean you can’t be a mother,” said Annie.

Midge held the canapé still in the air and looked at her like she was nuts. “For God’s sake, Annie, I’m fifty years old!”

“So what? You’re fit, you eat well, you’re in prime physical condition. Who says you can’t have a baby? There are lots of older women having babies today.”

“I say I can’t have a baby. I’m not the nurturing type.” She popped the appetizer into her mouth. “Besides, why would I want to breastfeed and change diapers at this point in my life? I’ve worked hard to find out who I am and I don’t want to look back. Hooray for fifty, I say.”

Doris leaned closer to catch every word of this conversation.

“I don’t think being fifty has anything to do with it,” Annie argued back.

“Yeah, well, it has a lot to do with your eggs,” chirped in Gabriella. “She might look young but her eggs are dried up. I’ve seen those old eggs under the microscope and I know.”

Annie’s face darkened, then she stuck out her chin and said, “I don’t believe that’s true for every woman. What about those older women having babies you read about in the paper? Some of those women are in their sixties. They look like grandmas, but they had the babies.”

“Those are surrogate eggs.”

“Not all,” Annie said resolutely. “There are lots of women in their forties having babies. What about Susan Sarandon?” When Annie got that tone, no one could convince her otherwise; she had her mind made up.

Gabriella, having heard this sad argument many times in the Women’s Health Center, sighed and shook her head, knowing the futility of listing facts and data.

“In fact,” Annie said clinking her glass, “I’ve got some news myself.”

Everyone quieted and leaned forward.

“John and I’ve decided to have a baby. Actually, we’ve been trying for months now.”

There was a long, strained silence.

“Well, don’t everyone shout at once,” Annie quipped, a blush betraying her.

Gabriella rushed to hug her. “I was busy biting my tongue for what I’d just said about old eggs. Of course I’m happy for you, if this is what you want.”

“Is it what you want?” Midge asked, cocking her head.

“Or is it what John wants?”

“Both of us. He’s wanted a baby since we got married but after Tom’s funeral I finally decided that hey, it’s now or never, right? The ol’ biological clock is ticking away.”

That old clock has run down, Doris thought to herself. Annie was forty-three years old! Who did she think she was kidding? She should be worrying about menopause, not having a baby.

“Are you sure you want to be making lunches and driving carpool when you’re fifty-three? Sixty?” she asked.

“And won’t it interfere with your work?”

“It’ll all work out,” Annie said in her typical bravado. “I don’t intend to let it interfere with my job. I’ll get lots of help, and as for being sixty, what’s sixty? I think young therefore I am. That’s my motto. It’s how you feel inside that counts.”

“Well, your insides are going to feel tired,” Doris replied dryly. “Trust me.”

There was a chorus of agreement, yet they did not give voice to the arguments uppermost in their minds: how, at her age, the odds of getting pregnant were slim and the odds of Down’s Syndrome high.

Annie’s shoulders slumped and she crossed her arms tightly across her chest.

“Well, I think it’s terrific,” Midge surprised everyone by announcing in a loud, authoritative voice. “The rest of us are moping around worrying about wrinkles, and moaning about hot flashes, gray hair and sagging boobs, and you’re out there getting pregnant.” She raised her glass high in a toast. “You go, girl!”

Suddenly it was a rallying call. The mood shift was electric and everyone was raising their glasses, laughing loudly. Relief and victory was visible on their faces as they made jokes about menopause and aging and all the horrors of the inevitable change that they were marching toward like soldiers. Good soldiers facing certain doom. Now they had Annie to hold up as a symbol of defiance. They gloried in her fertility. It was a shared fertility.

In all the excitement and laughter, no one heard the doorbell ring, or the front door open. No one saw a small, slim woman in the long black wool coat enter the foyer, her library, hardcover copy of Madame Bovary clutched in her leather-gloved hand, her dark-brown hair tucked into a beret. She stood quietly on the outside of the tight circle, looking in, her pale-green eyes guarded. She stood and waited, her face a closed book.

Doris sensed a new presence in her home and turned her head. Her heart beat furiously with pleasure as she caught sight of the woman at the threshold. She felt a gush of triumph. Doris just knew she’d come to her house!

“Eve!” she called out in a high-pitched voice and ran toward her, open-armed.

Heads turned, sounds of delight pierced the air, and in a blur of color and motion, Eve Porter was kissed and hugged and loudly welcomed back, again and again. In return, Eve smiled and wept and told them all how she missed them, too, and could they forgive her for staying away so long, and yes of course, she’d read the book! With words and movements they gathered her carefully, firmly, lovingly back into the circle of the Book Club, each feeling a joy, a deep satisfaction that the circle was complete again, stronger, now that the missing link had returned.

Later that night Doris was floating on air, feeling that the whole evening had been a complete and utter success. Everyone had exclaimed how this was one of the best meetings ever as they left, and it was true. She did know how to throw a good party. Treat your family as guests and your guests as family. The crystal clinked in her hands like bells as she cleared away the last of the wineglasses from the library where the Book Club had completed one of their best book discussions. Annie had vehemently defended Emma’s passion and rung Emma’s husband, poor dull Charles, through the ringer. But Doris was smug with the satisfaction of the group’s ultimate support of her own position that, to put it crudely, Emma was a slut.

“Thank God they’re gone,” R.J. said with a grunt as he strode into the library. Her husband always made a powerful entrance; it was ingrained in him like a whorl in a slab of hardwood. “Couldn’t stand another moment of that damn squealing.”

Doris bristled. “We do not squeal. We were simply laughing and talking.” She picked up the tray of appetizers in a huff.

“Leave that. I’m hungry.” When she put the tray back onto the coffee table, he poked around them with his index finger, then pointing to the canapés he asked, “What are they?”

Doris narrowed her eyes and thought suddenly of Annie Blake. She and R.J. were a lot alike. Blunt, bold, beloved by all—and shrewd.

“Crab.”

He frowned in distaste and reached for the quiche, picked one up and tossed it in his mouth like a peanut. “These are pretty good,” he said with his mouth full. “What was all that caterwauling about?”

“Oh, R.J.,” she exclaimed, deaf to the insult, “it’s wonderful. Eve’s back in the group. I knew she wouldn’t miss a meeting at my house. She’s too good a friend. You should’ve seen Annie’s face,” she said smugly. “I could tell she didn’t know she was coming. What did she think? Eve and I’ve been friends for years. We live only a few blocks apart. We raised our children together, for heaven’s sake. Remember how Sarah and Bronte liked to wear the same thing every day? And how they got braces at the same time? One just doesn’t forget that kind of friendship. I’ll never understand women like Annie Blake. She thinks she’s so superior just because she’s a lawyer.”

“She’s a damn good lawyer.”

“Well, she should know enough to dress her age.” R.J. glanced at her, smirked and swirled the ice in his glass of Scotch. “She looks pretty good, if you ask me.”

Doris knew that look in his eye and suddenly felt as if she’d absorbed a wallop in the solar plexus, the KO punch that dropped her to her knees. All the success she’d felt earlier drained like blood, leaving her pale and shriveled.

“You should do some exercise,” he continued, popping another quiche into his mouth. “Join the club. Now, don’t get huffy. You want to look good too, don’t you?”

She looked at his tall, muscular trim body that had survived years of football, then handball and now golf. “I wasn’t aware that I didn’t look good.”

“Come on, you’ve put on twenty pounds at least.”

It was thirty. Doris sucked in her stomach and hunched her shoulders. “Who would I be losing weight for? I like the way I am. I’m not pretending to be twenty any longer.” Then, seeing something in his eyes that was somewhere between disgust and resignation, she hastened to add, “But I’ll think about it. It’d be good for my health to walk more. And now that the holidays are over, I suppose I should start a diet. To lose these few extra pounds.”

He’d already stopped listening to her and was walking toward the television.

Doris tightened her lips against the banshee’s howl in her chest, fought for control, then turned her back and left the room in a silent fury. He hadn’t really listened to her in years. He hadn’t paid a compliment to her like he’d just paid to Annie in years. He hadn’t approached her in years, not sexually, not the way a man approached a woman he was attracted to. Not the way a man should feel about his wife. Certainly not the way she’d read about in books.

Turning her head before climbing the stairs, she saw him bend over to insert one of those movies into the VCR. A lump formed in her throat that she couldn’t swallow down, a craw full of anger and hurt and shame that he sought pleasure alone, with a movie, rather than in her own, lonely bed. She’d assumed it was impotence; she’d read that about men his age but didn’t dream of ever asking him about it, even though the magazines always said that she should keep open the lines of communication. It was just too embarrassing, even to say the words: impotence, sex, orgasm. She felt a shudder of revulsion at the thought of saying, even whispering, those words to him. She didn’t even know what a G-spot was much less where to find it.

But she was curious…oh so curious.

Grasping the railing until her knuckles whitened, she watched as her husband, her lover, stretched out to grab another handful of her artful French canapés, then ease his broad fifty-four-year-old backside into his favorite leather chair, swinging the library door shut with his free hand.

Doris’s head slumped and she felt very old as she slowly climbed the broad staircase to her room. As she brought one foot over the next, she recalled the arguments Annie and the rest of the group had raised in defense of Emma Bovary. Annie was passionate, as usual, in her defense of Emma, claiming she had remained true to her dreams until the end, even if those dreams were unrealistic, superficial. Midge had said how sad it was that women were so often betrayed by their dreams.

“And the men they loved,” Gabriella had added.

It was Eve’s heartfelt statement, however, that rang true with the Club, eliciting nods of agreement and sighs of sympathy—even from Doris.

“We shouldn’t be so quick to judge or condemn. If Emma had had one true friend, someone who could steer her straight, and who she could pour her heart out to, then I really believe she’d have pulled through.”

“She should’ve been in a Book Club,” Gabriella said to a chorus of agreement. “She needed to talk to women.”

“Yeah,” added Midge, nodding. “But instead she depended on men for all her happiness and look what happened to her.”

Everyone had laughed, except Doris. Now, however, as she entered her bedroom and stood before the immense California king-size bed that was big enough for even large R.J. and plump Doris to sleep in and still not touch all night long, Doris started to laugh. It came out as high, choking sounds in her throat, then altered to a low keening wail that would not be controlled.

Eve sat down at her kitchen table and slowly sipped the hot milk she’d prepared. She didn’t know if it was an old wives’ tale that hot milk helped you to sleep but she thought it was worth the try. Since Tom’s death, she’d hardly had a decent night’s sleep, waking up several times a night in a sweat of panic. If this didn’t work she was going to try Prozac. She took another long sip when the phone rang.

“Just wanted to make sure you got home okay.” It was Annie, and Eve knew she was really asking how she’d handled her reentry to the club.

“Sure, thanks. But really, Annie, it’s only a few blocks.”

“So, what’d you think?”

“I thought you and Doris were going to duke it out on the Oriental rug.”

“I wish. I love a good fight. Besides, she’s such a know-it-all. She likes to ram her opinions down our throats.”

“Doris feels things very intensely. She has strong opinions about everything.”

“So does R.J. It’s beyond me how she and that husband of hers can live together.”

“It’s a big house.”

Annie laughed.

“It was great to be back.”

“It was great to have you back. Everyone was saying so.”

Eve smiled, knowing it was true. “Annie? You know when I was talking about how great it was to have a friend to pour one’s heart out to? How it saves one’s sanity?” She paused, her eyes crinkling at the thought. “Well, I was talking about you.”

There was a pause. Then came Annie’s voice, much subdued. “Ditto.”