The Confession Club (ARC)

by Elizabeth Berg

  Dodie sighs. “Fine. Everybody self-pleasures, people and animals, too.”

  “Not everyone,” Rosemary says.

  “Who doesn’t?” asks Toots.

  Silence, and then, “Fish,” says Rosemary.

  “Are you sure?” asks Maddy. “I’m going to google it.” She pulls her phone from her purse and everyone starts talking.

  “Dolphins!” Maddy yells. “They do it!”

  Toots bangs her hand on the table. “Order! Order! Maddy, put away your phone. We’re supposed to have our phones turned off at Club!”

  Iris raises her hand. “Rosemary?”

  “What.” Her voice is miserable.

  “I just want to say that I think you did a good and noble thing. I do! And maybe the only thing is … May I offer a post-game analysis?”

  “Might as well,” Rosemary says. “Everybody else is saying everything else.”

  “I think … well, maybe you should have let him leave the lights on. I think he was seeing you in a way that you weren’t seeing yourself. And I think that for a woman to project confidence about her body is the sexiest thing she can do.”

  Dodie says, “That’s exactly it! I was just sitting here trying to remember this movie where there’s this beautiful young woman standing sideways in front of a full-length mirror looking at herself naked. I think she’s Italian or something, she has an accent. But anyway, she’s just had sex and her lover is still lying in bed and she says to him that she really wishes she had a potbelly. That’s the kind of attitude you need!”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I have a potbelly, all right,” Rosemary says. “I have a cauldron belly. I just hide it well.”

  “So maybe you should feel that your belly is sexy, no matter how it looks,” Dodie says.

  “Well, it’s not sexy,” Rosemary says. “For Pete’s sake.”

  “Then just pretend!” says Dodie. “Far as I can see, ninety-nine-point-nine percent of sex is pretend.”

  Rosemary turns to Dodie. “Do you still have sex?”

  “Oh, good grief, no. No!”

  “Do you miss it?” Rosemary asks.

  Dodie folds her hands on the table. “You know what I miss?”

  “What?” Rosemary asks, in a near whisper.

  “Ice cream. That’s what I miss. I’ll tell you what, I can’t wait to get a terminal illness where I need to gain weight so I can eat all the turtle sundaes I want. I hope I’ll still want them then. But to answer your question, no. I don’t miss sex. I miss companionship. I miss being able to sit in a room with someone for hours and not have to say a word, but feel that someone’s right there who knows me real good. And me him. That’s what I miss.”

  “We know you real good, Dodie,” says Toots.

  “I know you do, but it’s not the same,” Dodie says. “But, oh, girls, I hope you know how much I appreciate each and every one of you.”

  A long silence, and then Rosemary sighs and says, “I’m going to have more dessert. Anyone else?”

  “Yes!” they all say.

  “All rise,” says Rosemary. And then, “Hey, get it?”

  What Happens Here Doesn’t Necessarily Stay Here

  John made it to Las Vegas in good time, but he can’t seem to get farther. No one will pick him up. He has spent all day at the side of the road—no luck, with even the truckers passing him by. Maybe he’s gotten too dirty, despite his efforts to keep clean.

  If he could find some work, he could get enough money to help. He could get a new shirt, maybe a new pair of jeans. He doubts he’d get enough for a motel room. It’s been easier to get day jobs in other cities. Here, in the city where people make a religion of luck, he’s had none.

  He sits on a bus stop bench to count what money he has—a little stash he was handed by a sympathetic drunk coming out of a casino. Thirty-seven dollars. Enough for a few meals, anyway. He’ll eat after he rests for a while, then find a place to sleep. He knows there are shelters for the homeless here, but he won’t use them any more than he did anywhere else he’s lived. Too much happens there: Theft. Sexual advances. The prospect of lying next to someone who snores or talks all night. Fights. No, he’ll find somewhere outside. He has a blanket, a warm woolen one he found for three dollars. Same place he found a book of poems by Ted Kooser. It was a thin volume, and a paperback, easy to carry, so he bought it. Fifty cents for your soul to take a trip to the stars.

  He leans his head back and closes his eyes, then opens them when he hears someone settling in beside him. He looks over to see an older woman, maybe in her seventies. She has jet-black hair and eyebrows, an emphatic no to gray. A lot of makeup. A lot of perfume. Black pants, a white shirt, a red bow tie; he guesses she works in one of the casinos. She’s holding a bag of food and the smells remind John of how hungry he is. His stomach growls and he puts his hand over it. “Excuse me,” he says.

  She laughs and looks over at him. Gorgeous eyes, a clear green. “Don’t apologize—that doesn’t bother me!”

  He smiles at her and she cocks her head, taking him in. “Are you hungry?” she asks.

  He shrugs.

  “Here,” she says, holding out the bag. “It’s prime rib. The chef gives it to me all the time, and to tell the truth I’m tired of it.” She puts the bag on his lap. “Got some twice-baked potato in there, and some creamed spinach, too. It’s good!”

  “Wow,” he says. “Thank you.”

  They sit in silence for a while, and then the woman says, “You handy at all?”

  “A bit. Do you need something done?”

  The woman ticks things off on her fingers. “Regrout the showers. Paint the white trim in the hallway. Fix a little nick in the kitchen wall. Can you do that?”

  “I can.”

  “Well, then come with me. You might as well have a shower and wash your clothes, too.”

  He hesitates, and she says, “I’m not looking for anything else, and I trust you aren’t, either. Are we clear?”

  “We’re clear.”

  “I’ll give you breakfast in the morning, and then you’re out. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m Trudy. What’s your name?”

  “John. John Loney.”

  The bus appears, and she stands. “Don’t sit with me. I like to put my feet up on the seat if I can. Just get off the bus when I do. And I’ll pay your bus fare—I got a card.”

  John settles himself in the seat across from Trudy. He doesn’t know why he gets these lucky breaks all the time. But he’ll take them.

  He looks out the window until they arrive at the quiet street where the woman’s condo is. It’s a clean white building, maybe twenty stories, nicely landscaped; he’s pretty sure there’s a pool in the back. They get into the elevator together and the woman pushes the button for the top floor. “Life of Riley, huh?” she says. And then, “I like to help folks out. I’m just an old hippie, you know? And anyway, doing good always does seem to come back to me. You know. Karma.”

  “Right,” he says.

  She opens the door to the condo. “Straight down the hall, last room on the left is the guest bathroom. Take yourself a good shower. There’s a bathrobe on the hook in there. Probably be a bit small for you but it’ll do until we get your clothes clean. I got a little guest room opposite the bathroom. You can sleep in there. I’ll give you a toolbox and the paint supplies you’ll need. Now, I’m going to lock my bedroom door tonight. I’m a real good judge of character, but I’m going to lock my bedroom door.”

  “I don’t blame you. Though you might do better to lock me in rather than yourself.”

  She thinks about this then says, “Aw, hell, you won’t do me wrong, will you?”

  “I won’t. I’ll clean up and then I’ll get going on what you need done. Let me know if you think of anything else.”

  “All right. Bu
t before you start, eat your dinner. I’m going to heat it up and put it on a plate for you. It’ll be ready by the time you’re out of the shower. Then my charity work is over and I’m going to watch HGTV. It makes me hopeful to watch that channel. I like Fixer Upper and Home Town. Lord. We need to fix and to value things.”

  When John comes out of the shower, Trudy has just finished setting a place for him at the table. Seeing him come into the kitchen, she gestures for him to sit down. “Perfect timing,” she says. She loads a plate up and puts it before him. Prime rib and all the fixings, the gold-rimmed plate on a pink scalloped placemat.

  He sits, cuts into the meat, and looks at her expectantly. She’s taken the seat opposite him. He’d thought she’d go into her bedroom—everything he needs for his work is on the kitchen counter. But she sits opposite him and watches him eat.

  “I feel bad eating all this in front of you,” he says. “And you with nothing.”

  “Me with nothing, huh?” She laughs, a smoker’s laugh, and goes to a cupboard. She pulls out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and pours herself a few fingers’ worth, then sits down again.

  “Better?” she asks.

  He gestures to his plate. “I’ll gladly share.”

  “No need.” She takes a drink, leans back in her chair, and sighs.

  “You’re an awfully handsome man—anyone ever tell you that?”

  “Some people have.”

  “What do you think of that?”

  “What do I think of it?”

  “Yeah, what do you think when people tell you that?”

  “I dunno—I guess I don’t think of it at all. It’s nothing I admire about myself. A trick of genes is all it is.”

  “Well, you’re a good-looking man.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I had me a good-looking man once. He and I got together later in life, but he got sick. Lung cancer. I took care of him the best I could but I lost him, and then I couldn’t be in Texas anymore. I came here and got a job ferrying drinks, and now I’m just waiting for my time to come. I’m not too sad—I feel like I got a good ride out of life, but everything that meant the most to me is over now. I got my job over there with all the knuckleheads, I watch my shows. Sometimes I babysit for the young couple down the hall—they have a couple of three-year-old twins; they’re an awful lot of fun. But I know I’m circling the drain.”

  John starts to say something and she holds up a hand. “It’s true. I don’t mind. Too many people carry on about dying when they’ve had a good long life, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why. What do we expect?”

  Silence, then, and John supposes her question is not rhetorical. “I guess we expect that even if we live a life full of disappointment, we’ll get what we want in the end.”

  She shrugs. “Maybe it happens, sometimes. What do you want, John, before you head out to who knows where?”

  He focuses on his plate. “I don’t think about what I want, really.” Dangerous to do that. Dangerous for a man who screws everything up to want something.

  She takes a swallow of her drink and then leans in closer to him. “I got a feeling about you. You aren’t like most of the others I see. You’re alive in there. You ought to think about what you want, and then go and get it while there’s still time. You deserve it.”

  He looks up at her, surprised.

  “Like I told you, I’m a good judge of character.”

  “I’m not much of a good sort,” he tells her.

  “Sure you are. Look at the way you hold your knife and fork. You got manners. You’re sensitive. You speak real nice. Someone raised you right.” She takes one last swallow, then gets up to put her glass in the dishwasher. “Rinse your dishes and put them in here when you’re done,” she says. “Your clothes are in the dryer; it’ll buzz when they’re done. Clean out the lint trap. And don’t forget to prep well before you paint. Last time someone painted for me, she didn’t prep and it was a messy job. Plus she stole my favorite lipstick.”

  “That’s a shame,” John says, and he means it most sincerely.

  “Aw, it was just a lipstick,” she says. And then, yawning, “Good night.”

  “Good night.” After she leaves, he sits still for a moment. People surprise him, they still do. The good side of them and the bad side of them. He eats a bite of potato, more meat, spinach.

  By God, it’s good!

  In the morning, Trudy knocks at his door, awakening him. He hasn’t slept so soundly in he doesn’t know how long. He washes up, shaves, dresses in his clean clothes, strips the bed, folds the sheets neatly, and carries them into the hall. “Would you like me to put these in the washer?” he asks. Trudy is busy at the stove scrambling eggs. He’s not hungry, since he ate so much last night. He’s not used to eating this much. But he’ll eat those eggs.

  Trudy’s dressed in jeans and a flowered blouse, no makeup. He wants to tell her she looks lovely that way, but better not.

  “Just leave the sheets in the bedroom,” she tells him. “I’ll get to them later. You’ve earned some breakfast; you did a real nice job.”

  She eats breakfast with him, and she piles jam high on her toast like his mother used to do. In honor of them both, he does the same thing.

  “I’ve got to make a run to Walmart,” she says. “I’ll give you a ride out to the highway, if you want. You’re hitching, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I figured you weren’t staying here.”

  “No. Headed for San Francisco.”

  “Well, I’ll take you to the highway.”

  It’s cool on the highway this early in the morning. John is glad for his fatigues jacket. He’s been standing there for just a few minutes when he sees someone across the road push a dog out of their car, then speed off. The dog is a skinny black mutt, fairly good size, and it’s confused. It starts to run after the car, then stops. A semi rushes by and the dog crouches down low, shaking. It will get killed out here.

  John crosses the road, holds out his hand, and speaks gently, calling the dog to him. After a moment, the dog begins to come, half crawling. Poor creature. When the animal is close enough, John can see she’s a female, all ribs and hopeful eyes. Poor creature.

  Well, she’s his now. He makes a collar and leash from his belt. Then he stands at the side of the road and sticks out his thumb again. The first truck to come pulls over.

  “Okay if the dog comes along?” John asks.

  “Yeah, sure, the dog is why I stopped,” the driver says. After John lifts the dog in, the driver takes a better look. “That dog’s starving.”

  “I know,” John says. “I just saw someone dump her from a car, and I worried she’d get hit.”

  “We ought to feed her,” the man says. “I’m Grundy, by the way.”

  “John. And I agree we ought to feed her.”

  “There’s a rest stop coming up has a pretty nice grocery section,” Grundy says. “We’ll fix her up. Tell you what, I’d like to get my hands on people who do that to a dog. She’s lucky you were there—she would have been hit for sure. Fact, you ought to name her Lucky.”

  “I was thinking of ‘Karma,’ ” John says.

  “That’s good, too.”

  John puts his hand under the dog’s muzzle. “What do you say, is it Karma, then?” The dog wags her tail, just a short little movement, one time. John pats his lap and she hesitates, then lies down, her muzzle on his knee, but looking anxiously up at him. He supposes she’s ready for reproach. But “Good girl,” he tells her, and strokes her head.

  “Nice dog,” Grundy says. “She’s got retriever in her.”

  “I thought so, too,” John says. “Flat coat.”

  “That stop I told you about is twenty miles away. They got canned food or dry. I think we should give her the canned food right away, and we’ll take some dry to carry along.
You got any money?”

  “I do, a bit over thirty dollars.”

  “We’ll get her a harness and a leash, too. I don’t like collars pulling on a dog’s neck the way they do. There are some nice harnesses you can buy. If you ain’t got enough, I’ll kick in.” Grundy looks over at the dog. “Ain’t that right, Karma? You’re all right now.” He looks over at John. “Where you headed?”

  It only occurs to John now that they’re going in the opposite direction of where he was headed. But he says, “This way, I guess.”

  The men fall into silence, the dog sleeps, and John thinks about Trudy, resigned to her life ending in Las Vegas, her great love lost. And him? What about him?

  He closes his eyes, recalling a time his mother talked to him about love. He couldn’t have been more than ten. They were sitting at the kitchen table folding towels, and he’d just told her about his first crush, Madeline Woodward. He told his mother how pretty she was, with her long braids and her big brown eyes, and how she said she’d marry him and they would have five children. But when he lay in his bed and thought of her at night, it made him sad. Why did it make him sad?

  His mother said, “Oh, it’s miserable to love, Johnny, I’m sorry to tell you so. Miserable for me, anyway, because I feel it too hard. I feel everything too hard. And what happens then? What do you think? You go from the lovely direct to the pain—you can’t help it.

  “I hurt when I see the lightning bugs flitting about like a magic show. I hurt when the congregation sings at Christmastime, amid all the candles and the greenery and the incense and the hope of the old story. And och, how I wailed when you were born, Johnny, a beautiful baby boy, just handed to me! A life, put in my very hands! I’m done in a hundred times a day, so I am.”

  She held his face in her hands. “I hope you’re not like me. But I fear you are. The Irish, you know, we’re a sensitive lot, wrapped in the cloak of melancholy. We’re always longing for love, writing the poems and singing the songs, but when we find it, good or bad, it’s only miserable.”