The Dirty Book Club

by Lisi Harrison

“Not long enough,” she answered.

  “I’m your Realtor, Addie, why haven’t I seen it?”

  “I didn’t think I had the key.”

  “Didn’t?” M.J. asked. “And now?”

  “That night when everyone left their keys on M.J.’s table, I noticed that mine was different.” Then with a devilish smile: “Different enough to think that maybe I do have the key.”

  * * *

  DARKNESS DIDN’T DESCEND that night, it settled slowly, the way a post-op patient might get into bed. Everything in the town’s center felt sluggish now that tourist season was over. Sidewalks were empty, restaurants quiet, headlights from the occasional passing car stretched by.

  “Welcome to Verizon,” Addie said with a listless slur. She ushered them into the sealed-off bookstore, where the smell of ink and inspiration had been replaced by a stale must.

  “So it’s official?” Jules asked.

  “We’re in escrow,” Britt announced.

  M.J. congratulated her as if another sterile, soulless chain store is exactly what Pearl Beach needed because she couldn’t call it what it really was: the murder of Liddy’s only living child. She couldn’t say that, soon, the “first editions” inside these walls will pertain to outdated cell phones, “hard covers” to protective cases, and “characters” to keyboard strokes. It was out of her hands.

  Addie flicked on the lights.

  Boxes had been packed and stacked along the water-stained walls. The cracked ceiling had been stripped of its dancing bookmarks. And the autographed shelves had been lined up, execution style with signs that read EBAY taped to their backs.

  “Is it safe in here?” Jules asked, her gaze fixed on the gaping hole above what used to be the Pride aisle.

  “Anything that can fall through already did.” Addie winced through a shock of pain as she lowered to sit on a row of boxes marked TRAVEL GUIDES. She closed her eyes. “Including my future.”

  M.J. peeked at her father’s Timex. The airport shuttle would be picking her up in one hour, and Dan was probably one beer into fretting over when she’d be home. “I’m scared I’ll miss my flight if we don’t get started.”

  “I’d be more scared of catching that flight than missing it,” Britt said.

  M.J. could have easily agreed but clung to denial. “Africa is going to be great.”

  Addie snorted.

  “So where y’all hiding this secret room anyway?” Jules asked.

  “Back there,” Addie said as she handed Jules her purse. “Key’s inside.”

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “I’m not allowed. They’ll punish me.”

  “Punish you?”

  “I used to spy on their meetings. Put my ear against the wall, hold my breath like a sniper, and listen.”

  “Snipers hold their breath to listen?” Jules asked as she rummaged through Addie’s purse in search of the key. “Why? You can’t hear aim.”

  “It slows their heart rates so they can shoot between beats,” M.J. explained. “It keeps them steady.”

  “Okay, but why do you need to be steady to eavesdrop?” Jules asked Addie.

  “Why do you need to pronounce the V in eavesdrop?”

  M.J. checked her watch again. “Did you ever hear anything?”

  “Nah, the walls are too thick. But one time, just before my fourteenth birthday, Marjorie ran out crying. At first, I thought she was a movie star they had kidnapped and she was trying to escape. She was so glamorous, I swear, even her cigarettes smelled different.”

  “Did you talk to her?” Jules asked.

  “No. She just stared at me like I was a dangerous animal she wanted to pet and then she took off. Everyone chased after her and that’s when I snuck in.”

  “What was it like in there?” M.J. asked.

  “I remember the lipstick on the martini glasses. That hat box full of envelopes. The four open copies of Story of O. One of them had doodles in the margins. A few penises and some boobs, but mostly wings. Same as mine, see?” Addie lifted the necklace from her cleavage, dragged the charm across its chain.

  “How have you not mentioned this before?” Britt asked.

  “I don’t know,” Addie said. “Suppressed childhood memories usually do take priority over condemned apartments, job loss, unexpected pregnancy, miscarriage, and hospitalization, so, wow, Britt, I’m not sure.”

  Jules retrieved the tangle of necklaces, bracelets, and hair elastics from Addie’s purse and held it above her head like Lady Liberty’s torch. “Let’s get in there.”

  M.J. gripped the fleshy part of Addie’s arms and guided her toward the back of the store.

  “Tell us about the envelopes?” Jules asked.

  Addie looked at her blankly.

  “Inside the hat box.”

  “There were hundreds of them. Some from TWA and others from American Airlines. I also remember the ashtray, like how it was overflowing with butts. One of them was still smoking, so I picked it up and took a puff and . . .” Her voice began to trail, her eyes fluttered closed.

  M.J. gave her a nudge. “Then what?”

  “I started coughing and that’s when they came running in. Except Marjorie. I don’t know where she went. But the rest of them?” Another head shake. “They were pissed at me for snooping, and I was banned from the Good Book for a month.”

  “That was your big punishment?” Britt asked. “Banned from a bookstore? Ha! You must have been stoked.”

  “More like destroyed. Reading was my life.”

  Stunned, the girls stopped walking.

  “What? I didn’t have a lot of friends back then.”

  “And now?” M.J. asked.

  Addie tapped her cleavage. “Now I have wings.”

  * * *

  THE DOOR TO the right of the hearth was easy to miss. It didn’t have a shiny brass knob or a foreboding Keep Out sign. It was made of the same caramel-colored planks as the other walls. And its hinges—if it even had hinges—were masterfully concealed. If not for the brief interruption in the wood—a chink, about hip-high and shaped like an upside-down exclamation point—the entrance would have been undetectable. And Addie’s key fit inside perfectly.

  Dark and windowless, M.J. could practically chew the stale cigarette smoke. It filled her lungs and clogged her nose like dust. And yet, she felt a kinship in its presence. How it clung to the room for decades: loyal as a friend, stubborn as a memory refusing to fade.

  She found her phone, activated her flashlight, and saw a text from Dan: A reminder that the shuttle would be picking them up in forty-five minutes. A chorus line of emojis followed: the African Flag, an airplane, a glass of wine. She quickly assured him she was on her way and then trained her flashlight app on whatever was blocking the door.

  “Addie, will you open that so we can see?”

  “The door stays closed,” she whispered.

  “Why?”

  “In case they find us.”

  “They’re in France!” Britt said.

  “And they gave you the key,” Jules added.

  “Still.” Addie took the phone from M.J. and used it to find the Tiffany lamp that hung in the center of the room. With a tug of its dangling chain, she illuminated the mirrored table beneath it, which seemed as round and bright as the full moon, and the four Prim-covered books that had been laid out like a place setting.

  The space was no bigger than a starter office at City; something a newly promoted fact-checker might celebrate. And yet, the view was heart-stopping: Hundreds of identical books cloaked in white dust jackets rose from floor to ceiling on every wall, packed on shelves tight as secrets.

  “Whoa,” M.J. said. “Is this what an acid trip feels like?”

  “I had this vision in my head for years,” Addie said. “I thought I dreamed it.”

  “This isn’t a dream,” Britt said. “It’s porn for broken iPads.” She pulled a book from the shelf and peeled back its cover. “My Secret Garden.”

  Jules did the sam
e. “Lady Chatterley’s Lover.”

  Then the others. “Vox.”

  “Forever.”

  “Tropic of Cancer.”

  “Beautiful Bastard.”

  And so it went until M.J. reached into her crocodile bag, grabbed their once-discarded keys, and released them to the table.

  “You saved them!” Jules beamed.

  M.J. said she had been meaning to toss them but forgot. Because she didn’t have time for sentimental speeches or teary-eyed attempts to keep them from breaking up. Addie was leaving. Dan was waiting. Her future writing career pending. She had to go.

  “So now what?” Britt asked. “No one read the book.” She slid the cover down to reveal its title, How to Make Love Like a Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale, by Jenna Jameson with Neil Strauss. “Can we still read the letter?”

  “I don’t think so.” Jules pulled a sealed American Airlines envelope from one of the copies. It read For: Addie Oliver in serious black ink.

  Addie backed away from the table, drew her thumbnail to her mouth and bit.

  “Do you recognize the handwriting?” M.J. asked, and then wanted to take it back. Only one of those women worked for American Airlines and they all knew it.

  But Addie was just standing there, biting. Her body was swaying slightly from the pain medication.

  M.J. checked her watch: twenty-five minutes. She really had to go. “What if you hold it up to the light,” she suggested. “You know, dip your toe in the water . . .”

  “And then?”

  “If you like what you see, we dive.”

  “We?” Addie asked, suddenly awake and attentive, as if the haze had been burned off by that one little word. She gripped the back of her chair and examined the three women for twitches or tics or anything that might signal looming betrayal.

  After several minutes, each of which was probably being counted by Dan, Addie took the envelope, raised it toward the stained-glass shade, and ripped it in half.

  “What the ham?” Jules gasped.

  “I can’t handle any more bad news.”

  “How do you know it’s bad?”

  “It’s always bad,” M.J. answered for her.

  Addie grinned, because it always was.

  And that was that. There was no closing ceremony. No turning keys or crossing bands of smoke rising as one. Just a quick hug when they dropped M.J. off in the Mini Cooper, a promise to give it back when she returned from Africa, and a pall of sorrow, because Addie and their secret room would be gone when she did.

  * * *

  THOUGH SHE WAS three minutes late, M.J. sauntered into the cottage with an early person’s pride. How delightfully smug she would feel rocking on the porch swing—Louis Vuitton steamer trunk packed and final pee taken—when Dan screeched into the driveway. The guilt he’d feel for doubting her. The light she’d shine on his hypocrisy. The window seat she’d demand in exchange for the badgering she endured.

  But Dan’s bags were no longer by the front door. A sheet of yellow legal paper was there instead. Taped over the peephole and festooned with his semi-legible doctor’s scrawl. There was also an airline ticket. Not to Bangui M’Poko International Airport, but to JFK. And the flight was leaving at seven the next morning.

  Tears began to gather like a team of first responders, waiting for their orders, ready to react. The ocean thudded and fizzed. Something like a metal fan turned inside M.J.’s stomach; she could feel its blades scraping against her gut, taste the rust. Or maybe it wasn’t a fan at all. Maybe it was Fortune’s wheel gearing up for another ill-fated spin.

  Fingertips cold and heart hammering, M.J. leaned against the door and thought of Addie. How easy it would be to rip Dan’s letter in half. Destroy the bad news before it destroyed her. But she had learned to tolerate adversity as if it was a pair of three-inch heels. Now she was one of those girls who was used to the pain. And so she read.

  Dear M.J.,

  Go back to New York. Sign Gayle’s contract. Become the best editor in chief City magazine will ever know. Climb the corporate ladder and don’t stop until you reach 35,000 feet. Then wave to the doctor in the airplane. The one blowing you kisses as he flies by. And know he loves you enough to let you go.

  You’re welcome,

  Dan

  M.J. called his cell phone. It went straight to voice mail. She sent a text. It went unanswered. She kicked the door. It really hurt.

  “I drove today,” she cried to a room full of Dans who weren’t there.

  How dare he make that decision for her—for them! She never even had a say. Could he be any more arrogant?

  Unless it was a test.

  What if he was stalling the flight crew with the hope that she’d come bounding toward him all adorably snotty and disheveled, protein bars tumbling from her backpack, as she pledged her bone-deep commitment to him and the Red Cross.

  Because she could do that. There was still time.

  Or she could unpack the malaria pills and cargo shorts, fill her steamer trunk with black cashmere, board that flight to New York, and wonder if Fortune just spun her a lucky break.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-Five

  Los Angeles International Airport

  Saturday, September 17

  Full Moon

  “MA’AM,” SNIPPED THE flight attendant, “your device.” He flicked his chin at the window, indicating the passing runway markers, the trails of brown grass zipping by. “We’re taking off.”

  M.J. apologized and turned off her phone, but her attention remained fixed on the screen. Though dead and dark, she searched it for a possible explanation. Something that might help her understand what Addie meant when she texted:

  It’s bad, isn’t it? Must be or you would have called by now.

  It wasn’t until she woke up from her nap, choked down a rubbery omelet, searched her crocodile bag for gum, and brushed against those two pieces of paper that she understood: Last night, when Addie was beside her in the Mini, or maybe when they hugged good-bye, she slipped M.J. that letter.

  THE DATE: May 26, 2016

  THE DIRTY: How to Make Love Like a Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale by Jenna Jameson with Neil Strauss

  THE DETAILS: By Marjorie Richards

  This book is about bad decisions, the resulting consequences, and surviving anyway. This book may as well be about me.

  Chapter one begins: “There comes a moment in every life when a choice must be made between right and wrong, between good and evil, between light and darkness,” and as you can imagine, porn star Jenna Jameson chose darkness. I, however, chose light along with adventure, sex, and freedom. But in 1981 the darkness found me anyway.

  I was at the Rolling Stones concert in Los Angeles with some gals from work. We had a seventeen-hour layover, an ounce of weed, and a twenty-dollar bet that said I wouldn’t show Mick Jagger my tits. I won the bet and lost my shirt—literally. I was waving it over my head and accidentally let go. I didn’t care. My friends didn’t care. The guys next to us certainly didn’t care. But the cops did.

  While they were yanking me out of the crowd an attorney from Pearl Beach handed me his card. A Richard Gere type who got me off the hook and into bed, all before my 8:00 AM flight. He also got me pregnant.

  My roommate Ingrid set me up with a doctor in Paris who said I’d be out of bed in two days and back in the sack by the end of the month. But I couldn’t go through with it. All I could think of was Liddy and Patrick and how badly they wanted a baby. So I decided, what the hell? Why not bake the bun and give it to them when it’s cooked?

  Of course, Liddy was over the moon, but Patrick had one condition: I had to tell the Richard Gere type that the baby was his so he could bless the adoption. It was the “light” thing to do.

  As you might have guessed, I did not get a blessing. I got a proposal from a stranger named Charles Oliver and the promise of a life I never wanted. But what I wanted no longer mattered. I quit my job. I moved back to America. I had nightmares of being buried alive
.

  Then, just as I was leaving a DBC meeting, you kicked. (The book was Family Secrets—how apropos.) Anyway, that kick must have knocked some sense into me because from that moment on I was all in.

  You were born on the Fourth of July amid fireworks and the joyful tears of my best friends—all of whom thought they’d never see the day. And Charles, of course. He was elated. Everyone was elated, except me.

  I felt detached and disoriented. Like the time Suzette Rodgers and I got our luggage mixed up. I unzipped her bag and didn’t recognize a thing. “These are my clothes,” I thought. “But why don’t I know them? Why do they feel so unfamiliar? Am I losing my mind?”

  But with you, Addie, it was different, because you did belong to me. I assembled you in my body, I felt you grow, we have the same green eyes. But none of that mattered. You may as well have belonged to someone else.

  I asked Gloria and Dotty if they felt connected to their babies right away. Of course they said yes. And Liddy? She connected with babies who were never even born. So I did the things that mothers do: I cooed and took pictures and strolled around town with a proud smile on my face. But you may as well have been a box of Pop-Tarts. Actually, I felt more connected to those.

  I stopped eating and sleeping. It got so I couldn’t get dressed or hold you. Sometimes I would leave you in your crib from the time your father went to work until he came home. Forgetting to feed us both. “See,” I’d sob into my pillow. “I wasn’t meant to have kids.”

  One day the crying was so bad (yours or mine, I can’t remember) I boarded a flight to Paris wearing slippers and a housecoat. Once again, Ingrid took me to that doctor of hers and I was diagnosed with postpartum depression: a mood disorder caused by big drops in hormone levels after you give birth. Who knew?

  I flew back home two weeks later, medicated and motivated, ready to make up for lost time. But your father saw it differently. He thought my diagnosis was French for “bat-shit crazy” and filed a restraining order against me.

  I called the apartment day and night. I waited outside his office for hours. I even stormed the court during one of his racquetball games. And he arrested me for harassment.