The Dirty Book Club

by Lisi Harrison

  Angela Kelly worked in the back room. She balanced budgets, placed orders, and took inventory. She listened to Fleetwood Mac and quoted Betty Friedan. She wore clogs and blowsy tops that slid off her shoulders. She smelled like strawberry shampoo and incense. And we had sex for the first time on her thirty-fifth birthday.

  (Yes, Marjorie, you were right.)

  We were hungry for each other all the time and fed our cravings as often as we could. Reason said I was betraying Patrick, but passion wasn’t convinced. The sensations were so different—so explosive and liberating they couldn’t possibly be compared. With Patrick, sex was a means to an end. A botched recipe for making babies. One of the many items on our holy to-do list. With Angela it was pleasure for the sake of pleasure, nothing else.

  I kept our secret for many years. The only thing I shared was my newfound joy.

  Patrick assumed his unwavering devotion had turned me around. You girls chalked it up to laughter, our club, and martinis. Angela said, “Eros.”

  You were all right.

  I needed Patrick, the three of you, and Angela to feel complete. Unable to find fulfillment in one place, I siphoned it from three different sources.

  I was ashamed by my capacity for betrayal. And yet, I was enjoying it too much to stop.

  In 1986 we read Henry and June, and everything changed again.

  Dotty, you called Anaïs Nin “bogus.” You didn’t believe she could love Hugo, Henry, June, Eduardo, and Richard all at the same time.

  And Gloria said, Women don’t pile lovers onto their plates like we’re at some all-you-can-eat buffet. We select them carefully, one dish at a time, and dine.

  So I was counting on you, Marjorie, to speak up and say everything I had been thinking and feeling. All those affairs you had with pilots. My God, your cockpit had runneth over. How could you possibly judge Anaïs?

  But you did.

  I agree with Gloria, you said. Sex is a buffet, but not love. Love is a sit-down dinner for two, not two vaginas, though, that’s not how I like to eat. No offense, but Anaïs lost me with that whole June obsession of hers.

  You’ve never been curious? I asked, desperate for you, Marjorie, to pave my way. But all you said was: It’s not natural.

  Madonna thinks it is, I tried.

  The Virgin Mary? Dot laughed. She said no such thing!

  No, Madonna the singer.

  That’s when Marjorie asked who I was fucking.

  Patrick.

  Who else?

  No one!

  You’re lying, Liddy. What’s her name?

  Her?

  Lighters flicked. Martinis were gulped. Chairs scraped along the flagstone as you slid in closer to catch my tears while I confessed everything.

  When I was done I expected sympathy. I got contempt. Not because I cheated on Patrick or had sex with a woman, but because I didn’t tell you about it sooner.

  We’re the Dirty Book Club, Dotty said. We keep secrets from the world, not each other.

  To you, what I had done was cheating of the worst kind, and you were right. Because we were nothing without trust and I killed it. I killed us. It was another death on my long list of many.

  The Dirty Book Club 1963–1987.

  With this loss, I turned to Angela instead of God. Sex instead of scriptures. Vodka instead of holy water. The green futon in the coffee break room became my pew. It was there that I did all of my kneeling and worshipping. Taking Angela’s body into my mouth instead of Christ’s. Until that spring afternoon in 1988, when Patrick poked his head in the coffee break room and witnessed it all.

  Angela was fired immediately, and I watched her go without a fight, thinking that with enough repenting and prayer Patrick and I could rebuild what we once had.

  But he couldn’t get past it.

  The betrayal against him was one thing, and the betrayal against God and our congregation? Well, that was two more.

  Three sins, you’re out.

  Doors slammed in my face, my parents’ being the first among them.

  Angela refused to take my calls. And I was too proud to contact Gloria and Dot, because we hadn’t spoken in months. So I checked into the Holiday Inn with the money I made at the Good Book. While I was there I made an overseas call to you, Marjorie, asking if I could join you in Paris and start over.

  I got your answering machine.

  I left a message.

  You never called back.

  My savings dried out.

  On my last night at the hotel the concierge delivered an envelope. Inside was the deed to the Good Book (in my name!), a set of keys, and a note written on our Dirty Book Club stationery. It read:

  Liddy,

  Please consider stocking the shelves with DBC-approved literature, turning the coffee break room into our private meeting place, and hiring four topless bartenders. Three guys for us and a lesbo for you.

  Sixteen days until the next full moon. Better get cracking.

  XXX The Dirty Book Club.

  P.S. You owe us a letter from that old Henry and June meeting. Don’t forget.

  And so my dear friends, this is that letter. Thank you for resurrecting me from the dead and saving us. You have renewed my faith in all that is holy. See you in sixteen days!

  —L.M.H.

  Born again

  * * *

  M.J. GLANCED AT Addie, expecting to find her ashamed; after so brazenly rejecting the three things that defined Liddy’s life—a child, the bookstore, and this club—how could she not be? But all she said was, “Who knew that old lezzer wanted kids? I always assumed she didn’t want any.” Then she plucked a chunk of deli meat out of her julienne salad and dropped it on her napkin.

  “Sure makes you appreciate the miracle of conception,” Jules said.

  “Contraception is the real miracle,” Addie told her.

  Jules blinked. “So does that mean you’re not—”

  “I can’t believe the Dirty Book Club broke up,” M.J. interjected. “Twice!”

  “The second time didn’t surprise me at all,” Jules said. “Trust is everything. And when that’s gone . . .”

  “That’s your takeaway?” Britt said, judging. “Wow, I always pegged you for an optimist but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “To me that letter was about how they were there for each other in the end,” Britt said. “You know, a real forgive-and-forget kind of thing.”

  “Hands up if you googled Anaïs’s girl crush to see if she was hot?” M.J. said, raising her hand. Was it a weak transition? Yes, but this conversation had become a minefield of explosive topics and if she didn’t lighten the mood it would blow up in her face. “Really? I’m the only one who image-searched June Miller? Well, for the record, she wouldn’t sway me gay. And what about the book itself? Personally, I think it lacked drama. Like a sense of what was at stake for Anaïs and Henry if they got caught.”

  “A bunch of lawless sex addicts if you ask me,” Jules practically spat.

  “Sex by its very nature is lawless,” Addie said.

  “And marriage, by its very nature, is not,” Jules countered. “There are rules in marriage, and they were married.” She sighed. “At least they didn’t have children.”

  “I’m confused. Who are we talking about here?” M.J. asked, “Anaïs and Hugo, or Patrick and Liddy?”

  “Both.”

  “Maybe it’s a good thing Liddy couldn’t conceive,” M.J. said. “If she had kids she probably would have stayed married to Patrick. She would have forced herself to live a lie.”

  “But she would have had kids,” Jules said.

  “Kids but no sex.”

  “True,” Britt said. “Kids are to sex what coffee is to alcohol—a total buzzkill.”

  “That is not true,” Jules insisted. “I have tons of sex in my life.”

  “Courtesy of Fat and Natural,” Addie said. “Not Brandon.”

  Jules stomped her foot. “You don’t know the first thing about—” She inhale
d deeply. Then a blustering exhale, “Brandon was right. You girls are not very wholesome.”

  “Why would he say a thing like that?” Britt asked with a nervous grin.

  “He didn’t think you could be trusted. He said it the moment you left the hospital.”

  “He was right about that,” Addie said.

  “Meaning?” Britt and M.J. said at the same time.

  “Cut the innocent act, M.J. You went behind my back and told David I was pregnant.”

  A rush of heat needled M.J.’s skin. “No, you went behind my back and told him yourself, after we said no cell phones.”

  “No, I didn’t!”

  “You must have because he’s the one that brought it up.”

  “That’s impossible. What did he say?”

  “We ran into each other on our decks while you were surfing with Destiny and he said you were playing the kid card. Basically implying that you trap men with fake pregnancies, so I defended you by saying it was real. That’s all.”

  “ ’Scuse me?” Jules said. “When did you go surfing with—”

  “He wasn’t talking about fake pregnancies, M.J., he was dissing on me for hanging out with a fifteen-year-old. He thinks I befriend girls who look up to me so I can feel important. It’s bullshit. But either way, I never told him about—”

  “Shit. I’m so sorry. I thought—”

  “When did you go surfing with Destiny?” Jules asked again, eyes wide and marble-hard. “Why didn’t you say anything? Why would you cuckold me like that?”

  “Babcockold,” M.J. said, desperate to lighten the mood.

  No one laughed.

  “You were in the hospital,” Addie explained.

  “And when I got out?”

  “It’s no big deal, Jules. Destiny needed someone to talk to, that’s all.”

  “About what, abortion?”

  “Reality.”

  Jules uncrossed her legs and stood. “You know Brandon wanted me to quit the ‘Downtown Beach Club.’ And I was sick over it. I couldn’t imagine being responsible for breaking us up. But if we’re keeping things from one another, then maybe it’s for the best.”

  “Forgive me, Jules, but you’re not the first person on my list of People to Turn to When Contemplating Abortion,” Addie said.

  “Maybe if I was, you’d have a daughter of your own someday and you wouldn’t need mine!”

  “Am I on your list?” Britt asked.

  With a swift, hair-swinging turn, Jules scooped up her purse. “I’m not like you girls. I get pregnant; I have a baby. I get married; I stay faithful. I stand by my obligations no matter how hard they get.”

  “What about your obligation to this club?” M.J. asked, her voice urgent and thin.

  Jules removed her key necklace and placed it on the coffee table.

  “So that’s it?”

  “Maybe she’s right,” Britt said. “My kids are back from camp, so I’m not doing much reading these days.” She laid down her key.

  “You can’t do this!” M.J. said.

  “You’re leaving anyway,” Britt told her. “We couldn’t continue even if we wanted to.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I’m staying in Pearl Beach. I’m going to start writing again.”

  “Well, I’m leaving.” Addie removed a clump of necklaces, bracelets, and hair elastics from her purse. She attempted to separate her key from the tangle, but quickly gave up and tucked it in the pocket of her blazer. She relinquished her napkin of deli meats instead.

  And just like that the Dirty Book Club was over; a potential social life that never made it to term.

  How to Make Love Like a Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-Two

  Pearl Beach, California

  Monday, August 29

  Waning Gibbous Moon

  CALI WAS A charming cliffside restaurant. Lit by paper lanterns, furnished in shabby-chic flea-market finds, and stocked with farm-to-table ingredients, it was a Pinterest poster’s no-brainer. And the conversation was surprisingly entertaining. Dan was right. His Red Cross buddies did have friend potential.

  “Tampons, huh?” M.J. asked. “I guess it makes sense.”

  “It does when you’re low on QuikClot and the Syrian girl in your arms is bleeding out,” said Marco. He was jockey-short and San Tropez–tanned. “O.B.’s are the Ziplocs of field medicine,” said his wife, Catherine, who was taller, Nordic blond, and missing her two middle fingers so it looked like she was calling “bullshit” on everything. “We use them constantly.”

  “For what?” Winsome asked. She was a fund-raiser for the organization with the ability to make a shapeless caftan look sexy, as proven by Aaron, member of the Disaster Action Team (and her fiancé) who couldn’t keep his capable hands off her.

  “We use O.B.’s for nosebleeds and gunshot wounds,” he told her. “They even make great replacements for air filters in diesel engines.”

  “And curlers,” Catherine enthused.

  Marco reached for his beer and shook his head; he knew what was coming.

  Catherine directed her “bullshit” hand at him and said, “Mr. Carry-on here, doesn’t let me bring products on missions and my hair gets super limp without mousse. Like, itchy limp, you know?”

  M.J. nodded. She really did.

  “So when we were in Mosul, I took a few wet strands and rolled—”

  Marco gripped the sides of his head. “A few?”

  “Fine, nineteen, but I swear my waves gave hope to those poor women in Khazer camp. Like even in Mosul, miracles can happen.”

  “Speaking of,” Winsome said, “my sister just got that endometrial ablation procedure. Can you imagine? No more periods?”

  Aaron waved his organic cotton napkin. “Waiter, I’d like to order a new subject.”

  Everyone laughed, even M.J., who always found joy in playful banter between friends. When the Dirty Book Club imploded she thought she’d never hear it again.

  “Are you sure you can’t join us in Haiti?” Marco asked Dan as their smiles settled. “It’s a short one. A few days of hurricane relief and we’re out.”

  M.J. began stabbing the bush berries in her seasonal green salad. Anything to avoid the longing in Dan’s his eyes while he contemplated the offer or the dopey grin she’d have to flash to hide the fact that this was an uncomfortable topic. But uncomfortable it was. Enough to make her palms sweat and her stomach clench. Dan wanted to leave the Red Cross, she told herself. His idea, his choice. His idea, his choice. His idea, his choice. It didn’t matter how many times M.J. thought those words. She still felt guilty for holding him back.

  “I am starting my own practice, remember?” Dan told Marco. Then, with a light squeeze to M.J.’s thigh—“Besides, I’ve spent too much time away from this wonderful woman. I need to stand still for a while.”

  Need or want? M.J. was tempted to ask, but did she really want to know?

  “He must love you to bits,” Catherine said, raising her white sangria in honor of Dan’s devotion. “Sacrificing a trip like this is major.”

  “I sacrificed a lot, too,” M.J. blurted. Her cheeks instantly burned with the shame that comes from sounding desperate. But why should Dan get all the credit. Or rather, why should she take all the blame?

  “It’s true,” Dan said, his hand on her shoulder this time. “M.J. was promoted to editor in chief of City magazine and turned it down to be with me.”

  M.J. smiled weakly at him, apologizing on behalf of her ego, and at the same time, thanking him for leaving that shitty little “co” word out of it.

  “Wow, what an opportunity that would have been,” Winsome said, while her furrowed brow seemed to ask, “Why the hell aren’t you taking it?”

  “M.J.’s really much more of a writer,” Dan explained. “And she has the capacity to do great things—”

  “It’s capability,” M.J. said. “Not capacity.”

  It was Dan’s turn to stab bush berri
es.

  “We could always use a journalist in the mix,” Aaron said.

  “That would certainly raise awareness,” Winsome added.

  Dan leaned back against his chair. “Interesting idea.”

  M.J. nodded, though she couldn’t fathom anything worse.

  “It would take your mind off the Downtown Beach Club,” he said. Then to the others, “She’s been a little mopey since it closed last week.”

  “The Downtown Beach Club closed?” Catherine looked at Winsome as if she held the missing piece. “What happened?”

  “Actually,” M.J. announced, “writing about your missions sounds like a great idea. So how would it work?”

  * * *

  DAN POKED HIS head out of the bathroom, his mouth foaming with toothpaste. “Remember that old lady in New York?” It was the first thing he had said since they left Cali.

  M.J. closed her journal, laid it down beside her on the bed. “What old lady?”

  “The one who walked into her friend’s umbrella and tore her eyelid?”

  Her knees weakened at the memory: Dan insisting they escort her to the emergency room, blood spurting from the wound, the taxi driver swerving through traffic. “I fainted the minute we got out of that cab.”

  Dan returned to the bathroom, spat. “Exactly.”

  “Exactly, what?”

  “You don’t do wounds. I don’t do words. So stop correcting my grammar in public and I won’t ask you to scrub in next time I suture an eyelid.”

  “So that’s what the silent treatment was about?”

  “Yes, and it’s not over yet.”

  “When will it be over?”

  “When I have the capability to forgive you,” he said, peeing.

  “Actually, you should say, ‘When I am capable of forgiving you.’ ”

  “And you should say, “I’m sorry, Dan.”

  “I can’t.”

  He flushed. “Why not?”

  “Because I’m a writer now, and one of the first rules in writing is ‘show, don’t tell.’ ”

  “Then show me how sorry you are.”

  “Now, that I can do.” M.J. pushed Dan onto the bed, crawled on top of him and thought, End scene.