The Book Club

by Mary Alice Monroe

  Both women trotted in silence as the head of the machines relentlessly rose to simulate an incline. Each woman was thinking of her mother-daughter relationship. Each woman’s brow furrowed and her mouth grimaced as she struggled with the uphill battle.

  * * *

  Doris wiped the counter clean of bread crumbs, coffee grinds and cereal in long sweeps. She washed the breakfast dishes with smooth, languorous strokes, then crisply folded the newspaper into thirds, stretched taut to close the cabinets that R.J. and Sarah left open, and bent at the waist to water the plants. Then she headed downstairs to the laundry room to start the first load of wash for the day.

  She’d performed these simple chores every morning for what seemed forever, and in the past she’d found comfort in the mindless, repeated motions that ordered her thoughts each morning as much as her house. The mother-wife’s tai chi, she liked to call the routine.

  Lately, however, this ritual wasn’t satisfying. She was restless, feeling unfulfilled, with a sense that there was something more out there for her. A nagging isolation that had her peeking outside her kitchen window at the empty sidewalks more frequently. Especially lately. Watching Eve beginning a new life for herself was akin to that feeling of emptiness she always felt standing at a train station or an airport gate, waving goodbye to a loved one as they walked briskly away, on to some adventure, leaving her behind.

  It seemed everyone was so busy now—R.J., the children. Especially in the spring. Busy, busy busy! Whereas she pretty much had nothing to do save for the same old, same old. Taking care of her home used to be enough. But now, at fifty, she wanted a little more action in her life, too. Some direction to walk briskly in, a goal to stride toward. She wanted a change that didn’t involve hot flashes.

  She yawned loudly as she made her way down to the basement. Goodness, she could hardly keep her eyes open. Why was she always so tired lately? And she could feel one of her “moods” settling in. They came and went at random, seemingly unconnected to any food she ate or wine she drank or any particular event. No matter what she did to try to rid herself of them—a shopping trip, a movie, a phone call to a friend—she just couldn’t. Outwardly she’d laugh and smile, but inside, the blackness overwhelmed her, coloring her world gray, squeezing her heart so tight she sometimes couldn’t breathe.

  She reached into the clothes hamper from her bathroom and lifted out a pair of R.J.’s dirty socks, then a pair of silk boxers. He’d taken to wearing silk more often now rather than saving them for a romantic evening. Her father would never have worn silk boxers. He was strictly a plain white cotton brief man. Anything else would have been looked on with disdain. She thought of the plain white cotton bra and waist-high underwear she was wearing under her caftan dress and suddenly felt as shapeless and old as the “granny” nickname Sarah gave the underwear. She’d feel silly in those slinky jobs she saw in the catalogues. Doris looked again at R.J.’s hunter-green silk shorts and felt ambivalence. They were kind of embarrassing, but she nonetheless appreciated her husband’s efforts to be sexy. Maybe she should try something slinky?

  She tossed the boxers in the delicate pile and pulled out one of R.J.’s shirts from the hamper. In the air she caught a whiff of a strange perfume emanating from the Egyptian cotton. Doris paused, arm arrested in midair. Slowly, she brought the shirt closer to her nose, then took one, quick sniff.

  It was a strange scent—unquestionably a woman’s. She threw the shirt away from her, as though it burned. Shutting her eyes, she saw the silk boxers, and his eager face when he left last night for another dinner meeting. Of course other women would be included, her heart argued. But somewhere in her brain came the whisper, “Maybe not a dinner meeting. Maybe just a dinner.”

  A prickly wave of heat swept through her. She swayed and grabbed the back of a nearby chair, then lowered herself into it, physically ill with the thought that R.J. could be fooling around.

  Fooling around. What an archaic expression, she thought with a bitter laugh. Something her mother would say. Like sowing his wild oats, or boys will be boys. How very forgiving. Doris thought there was one good ten-cent word for it: cheating. Or a commandment: adultery. Plain and simple.

  Perched on the edge of a rattan chair, Doris considered her options. What would she do if it were true? Where could she go? Why couldn’t she be enough? She was a good wife, wasn’t she? Didn’t she entertain for him at his parties? Take an active role in community politics? Wasn’t she always well dressed and respectable? What more could she be for him? What more could she do to keep him? Did he want her to be some cheap floozy? She thought again of the catalogues that flooded her mailbox and the Merry Widows advertised there. Could he want that? Could she?

  So many questions and Doris felt void of answers. She only knew that, for whatever reason, biological or psychological, her husband was moving further and further away from her, spending more time away from home. It was as though his marriage to her represented to him stability, laurels to rest on, comfort and ease—all that made him feel old.

  And Lord knew, he was running away from that reality most of all.

  * * *

  An hour later, Doris paused at the entrance of the club’s restaurant, searching for familiar faces. She scowled seeing the crowded tables and the hustling waiters. Saturday afternoon brought out all the families and crowded the pool and tennis courts. Her gaze swept the floor; so many new faces. This used to be such a quiet town. R.J. was partly to blame for this population explosion. After all, he practically had a stranglehold on the new houses built in Riverton. Huge mansions were squeezed onto small, expensive lots so tight they were practically touching one another. Her own home, which she’d inherited from her parents, was enviable for many reasons, not the least of which that it was surrounded by two acres of wooded, riverfront land, the equivalent of four prime estate lots in Riverton. The land was priceless—and was in her name. She’d die before she gave in to R.J.’s relentless pleas that she divide it up and sell.

  His demands had increased in number and vehemence in the past few years as land grew more scarce and pricey. She stuck out her jaw and thought of R.J.’s arrival home in the wee hours of the morning smelling of Scotch and cigars. This summer he’d purchased a silver phallic-looking sports car convertible with money that should have gone into savings, started working out at the gym, began Rogaine treatment and was planning a white-water rafting trip down the Colorado River with Bobby. Neither she nor Sarah had been invited. He’d chided her that they’d paint streaks down their chests and beat their breasts. “It’s a guy thing,” he’d said.

  When she tried to talk to Midge about it, she’d laughed and waved it away as male menopause. “Sooner or later the old coot will come to his senses,” she’d said.

  Maybe, Doris thought, remembering the whiff of strange, musky perfume from his white shirt. But maybe not.

  She found the Book Club members gathered around an umbrella table on the terrace. Her heart beat lighter when she saw the way their faces lit up as she approached, making her feel special and loved. Their high-pitched calls of welcome were as sweet sounding as the chirping of the birds in the nearby trees.

  “There you are,” exclaimed Eve. “We were afraid you wouldn’t make it.” Eve’s blue eyes were bright with joy and her cheeks flushed from exercise. Doris felt a sudden rush of love for her; affection that was akin to pleasure rippled through her.

  “When have I ever missed one of our petites soirées?” Her heart skipped to find a seat saved for her between Eve and Midge, a small gesture that meant so much. Across the table Gabriella’s smile was as brilliant and warm as the sun overhead, and beside her, Annie, whose smile was a little more cloudy behind her sunglasses.

  The menus arrived and while Doris read the specials of the day she listened to Midge, Eve and Annie discuss their workout schedules. They were laughing, making jokes and telling stories in that br
eezy manner only possible with the best of friends.

  Doris couldn’t seem to rise up from the gloomy clouds of her life, and in contrast to their sunny smiles, her spirits grew all the more gray. In her mind she berated herself for not beginning that exercise program she’d sworn she would start today. She’d really meant to. She’d promised herself after closing the novel, Moby Dick, late last night that tomorrow she’d begin. But she hadn’t.

  Doris squirmed in her chair, feeling the tightness of her blouse straining at the buttons against her full, aching breasts. The waistband of her skirt was pinching like a cinch. She felt as bloated as a whale. Irritation flared to hear these slender fit women complain about the flaws of their figures, they with bodies she’d pay a fortune for. She didn’t know how she’d gained so much weight in the last five years, why it was suddenly so hard to lose it, and why lately she was always tired or aching in her joints.

  How had she turned old overnight?

  “I’m going to take up jogging in the park across the street,” Eve declared after announcing that she wasn’t renewing her membership. After the many expressions of disappointment from the group, she assured them, “It’s so convenient this way and I have so little time with my new job. Besides, I prefer being outdoors to the confinement of the gym.”

  Doris caught Annie’s eye over the top of the menu, and in a flash of communication they both understood the real reason. Surprisingly, a shared sympathy flared in their eyes before they looked away.

  “Oh, I understand,” said Gabriella with a sympathetic shake of her head. “I’m leaving the club, too, when my membership ends. Since I took on more hours at the hospital I can’t be bothered with gyms or workout regimes, either. I’m on my feet all day, and when I get home I’ve got dinner to make and the kids on my case. I can’t wait to lift these puppies and collapse in front of the television after I finish the dinner dishes. Fernando loves me. He doesn’t care if I lose my waistline as long as I keep my sanity.”

  “And your job,” quipped Midge.

  Gabriella’s face darkened and she looked sharply away.

  Doris ran her hand along the ridge over her hips where once upon a time she had a waistline that R.J. could span his hands around.

  “Ladies, ladies, ladies,” chimed in Annie. “What’s all this about husbands? We love the darlings, but we have to take care of number one first. We’re going to live for a long time. Twenty, thirty or more years, God willing. Who wants to be sick for thirty years?”

  “She’s right,” Gabriella added. “Nurses know this, but we’re the worst. Exercise is the key.”

  “It’s hard to think of anything exercise doesn’t help. We’re crossing into a new phase, girls, but it doesn’t have to be sedentary or dull. If we exercise we’ll keep our bodies in shape and our minds from getting soggy.” Midge raised her water goblet. “And our boobs.”

  “I want mine to kiss the sun every morning,” Annie said with a laugh.

  “Well, good luck, sweetheart. Hope springs eternal,” answered Midge.

  “Don’t forget the law of gravity—what goes up must come down,” Eve said with hand motions.

  Annie sipped from her glass smugly. “That’s why God created plastic surgeons.”

  “Uh-uh, no way I’m going under the knife.” Gabriella shook her head. She had seen too much. “This is it,” she said throwing her small, rounded shoulders back and sticking out the full expanse of her chest. “Love me or leave me.”

  “Wrong cliché,” Eve chided. “I read somewhere that the rallying call is, ‘Use it or lose it.’”

  “For the brains or the bod?”

  “Both,” answered Midge. “Use your brain or lose the brain cells. Use your muscles or watch them atrophy.”

  “She means all your muscles, ladies,” Annie said in a low, deliberately sultry voice. Then with a laugh she pointed her finger at them and exclaimed, “Aha! I’ll bet you’re doing your Kegels right now.”

  Everyone laughed, blushed and sipped their wine.

  “Since you brought it up,” Midge said to Annie, “what’s going on in the baby-making department?”

  Annie frowned and reached for her wineglass. “Whoever said making a baby was fun? We arrange our lives around my body’s calendar. We chart when I ovulate, we go to the doctor’s office and get poked and prodded. John’s having an affair with a test tube, and when I’m so-called ready, it’s bim bam, I’m serviced like some ewe by the local stud. I even read in some book that if we wanted a boy we have to put cowboy boots at the foot of the bed when we do it.” She leaned forward, her voice edgy. “For twenty years I tried madly not to have a child and now that I want one I have to try madly again. What kind of justice is that?”

  “Women always pay,” replied Midge with a huff.

  “I have to admit I’m glad I had mine right away,” Gabriella said, flattening her hand against her bosom. “Even though there were years I was exhausted and wondered if I shouldn’t have had some fun first. We were so young.”

  “Who knows?” replied Annie jerking one shoulder, irked. She didn’t want to hear about Gabriella’s boundless fertility at the moment. “It goes both ways. All I know is that John and I have lost something with all this. What happened to spontaneity? To romance?”

  Eve laughed and pointed her finger at Annie. “You asked for it. Welcome to motherhood. You’ll be lucky to get a smooch at bedtime after the baby’s born.”

  “No, no, you’ve got it all wrong,” Gabriella said with her infectious laugh. “You’ll be so tired at night you’ll be hoping all you get is a smooch!”

  Everyone shared in another round of laughter.

  Except Doris. This talk of love and motherhood was a brutal reminder of her own sorry state of affairs. Her foul humor redoubled. She shifted her weight and picked up her menu in a huff. It was her own bad spirits lately that made her so contrary, she knew. But understanding this didn’t stop her from feeling that way. Listening in stubborn silence to the relentless, effusive chatter about diet, exercise and sex was like listening to nails scratch along a blackboard. It made her skin crawl, and she was remaining in her chair by sheer force of willpower. Their successes underscored her own failure—days, weeks, months of failures.

  She raised the menu and studied the dessert section with a perverse determination. Why not? she thought grimly. She had a right to some pleasure in her life. She scanned the menu: ice cream, pie, cake... That Apple Brown Betty looked good.

  “I thought you were starting up at the gym today,” Midge said, dragging Doris into the conversation.

  Midge’s eaglelike eyes gleamed and Doris instantly realized that Midge didn’t miss a trick. Midge could always tell when she was down. She might have felt grateful for the concern if she wasn’t in such a mood.

  “I will, I will,” she said in a tone that said, lay off. She returned her attention to the menu.

  “When?” Midge would not be put off. “You’ve been saying that since Christmas. Come on, Doris.” She raised a corner of her lips in a wry smile. “There’s more to this club than a restaurant.”

  It was typical of Midge to prod with stinging humor. Today, however, Doris didn’t feel like laughing. She looked up and offered Midge a scorching gaze intended to wilt. Midge was no sweet flower and she’d been her friend since high school. They knew each other far too well for games of finesse. A prickly silence followed as the two women eyed each other across the table.

  “She’s just trying to encourage you,” Gabriella said, diverting a confrontation. “She didn’t mean to insult.”

  “Yes, I did.” Midge exulted in confrontation. “Doris, I love you too much to see you suffer. It’s time to start your program. Today. Come on and join us, it’ll be fun. Doris,” she said in a louder, sterner tone. “Put down that menu and listen to me.”

  “No!” Doris reared
and raised her chin. “I’m sick to death of all this endless talk about exercise, aging and weight. Hot flashes and wrinkles, looking good or feeling better. Menopause. Sick of it!”

  “Me, too,” added Annie. “I don’t believe in menopause.”

  “I’ve got news for you,” Midge replied, wagging a fork in Annie’s direction like a sword. “It’s going to happen to you, my dear, whether you believe in it or not.”

  “It’s going to happen to all of us,” said Doris. “Who cares? I’m just plain tired of worrying about my figure. I don’t care if I have the same figure I did at twenty because I’m not twenty. I’m fifty. Fifty! Do you hear me? I can say the word. I’m not afraid to say I’m getting old.” She was breathing heavily and feeling the sweaty sweep of another hot flash. In her mind’s ear she could hear her mother say, That’s right! Wake up and smell the coffee! Yet her heart didn’t buy it. Inside, she was terrified.

  Their waitress approached and stood at the suddenly silent table with her pencil poised over her pad.

  “What’ll it be, ladies?”

  Eve cleared her throat and picked up her menu. Midge and Gabriella exchanged worried glances and shrugged. Annie watched Doris quietly behind her sunglasses, her head tilted in thought.

  Doris lifted the menu again with a shake that shook away all thoughts of tight waistbands, stalled exercise programs and strange perfume. A sudden voracious hunger made her want to devour everything on the menu.

  “I’ll start with a cup of lobster bisque,” she said in a high, tight voice. “Then I’ll have the bacon club sandwich. French fries on the side. Oh, yes, ketchup, please. And for dessert, hmmm...” Did she dare? Yes. “I want the Apple Brown Betty, à la mode. And coffee with cream.” She lowered the menu and her gaze swept across the astonished faces of her friends, the message shining in her too bright eyes. I dare anyone to say anything!