The Book Club

Annie waved away his suggestions, annoyed by his worry about her drinking. “I’m not the least hungry. My craw is crammed full with sadness and death and depression.” She shook her hands in front of her, releasing the tension. “God, that funeral was just too, too sad. It’s really staying with me. I’m sick of death and sympathy. Don’t you feel the need to do something, oh, I don’t know, something to reconfirm life?”

“Eating confirms life….”

“No. What I really want right now is to go to my own home, have a nice, cold drink from my own glass, then make hot, passionate love with my own husband—all afternoon.”

John’s frown turned upward. “Sounds good to me.”

“I thought it might,” she said, catching his smile. Her palms itched to rub over his smooth flesh, to feel the warmth of his life’s blood. To rub skin against skin. He was a beautiful man, inside and out, and she loved him, needed him, more at this moment than ever before. This emotional tide had to be a result of the funeral, she decided. It wasn’t usual for her to have these gushy feelings race through her, but today in church she’d had some kind of epiphany. Watching Eve walk down the aisle of the church behind Tom’s casket, Annie was struck by how fiercely Eve had clasped the hands of her two children. In a flash Annie realized that Eve was gaining as much strength from Bronte and Finney as she was giving to them. There was a bond there, an energy, that was palpable.

For the first time in her life, Annie felt the desire to have a child of her own.

“You know,” she said, leaning over and linking arms with him, “since we’re talking about reconfirming life, and since we’ll be making love…there’s another idea I’ve been toying with.” She waited till he glanced from the road to her. His gaze was at first curious. Then, the second time he glanced her way, he caught something in her expression. His face stilled and his eyes sparked with intense concentration, as though he anticipated her next comment.

She spoke slowly, wanting to be sure of her words. “John, I know you’ve wanted a child for a long time. While I was standing at the curb, waiting for you, I was thinking how life is so short, so precious. I don’t think we should wait any longer.”

A moment passed while a flush of color crept up John’s cheeks. When he glanced her way a third time, she could tell from the excitement bubbling in his eyes that he was overjoyed, but trying his best not to appear overanxious, lest he spook her. She held back her smile, thinking that John would make a terrible lawyer. His eyes would give him away every time.

“Are you sure?” he asked, almost stuttering.

“Aren’t you?” It was terrible to tease him.

He cleared his throat, utterly serious. “Sure, I’m sure. But I want to be certain that this isn’t just some reaction to Tom’s death. I mean, hell, Annie, this is so sudden. We’ve been married for five years and this is the first time you’ve ever agreed to so much as discuss having a baby. Every time I’ve brought it up you’ve stopped me cold. We aren’t getting any younger. I sort of gave up on the idea of ever having a baby. And now suddenly you want one? What about your law practice? What about all that pro bono stuff you’re so hot to do? How does a baby fit in with all that?”

Her eyes danced merrily as she poked at his arm. “So…you’re saying we shouldn’t have a baby?”

“No!” He almost shouted the word. He pulled to the side of the road and stopped the car. “No,” he repeated after a deep breath, his shining eyes fixed on her. “I’m only trying to make sure you want one.”

That was so like John, she thought, looking into his clear, honest eyes. She stroked his arm lovingly. Her heart felt ready to burst. She wanted to give him the world, but she’d start with a baby.

“I’m sure,” she replied, holding his gaze. Then, to deflect the intensity of the moment, she poked his arm one more time and winked, saying, “But I don’t think I want to make one right here. Gearshifts and bucket seats can be pretty damn uncomfortable. So put the pedal to the metal, boyfriend, and take me home to bed!”

Midge drove home from the funeral to the far eastern side of Oakley, an area considered “risky” by the other women of the Book Club. The neighborhood bordered the western boundary of the city of Chicago, an area populated by low-income families, gangs and high crime statistics.

It was also an area where old buildings were being converted into fabulous lofts, an area where ethnic restaurants thrived, and where artists, bead makers, writers and eclectic religions could afford to rent large spaces. Pockets of creativity thrived in western Oakley and it was fast becoming “hot” property.

Back in the 1970s when Midge returned home after college and a failed marriage in Boston, the transient area fit her needs. She was searching for large, open space in which to paint that was affordable, architecturally beautiful and reasonably safe. This was usually synonymous with antichic—and that suited Midge fine. She was never one to worry about fashion. In fact, she made a point of living against the grain. She’d purchased a large loft in one of the area’s first conversions, long before the current wave of lofts hit the country, and liked it so much that she bought the whole building for a good price during a period when the owner thought the area was going downhill.

Over the course of time she’d watched the area spiral from a solid blue-collar neighborhood to an increasingly crime-ridden one, then later find rebirth under the loving care of a gay community. Gradually the neighborhood evolved into the charming blend of solid ethnic families, gay couples and artists that it currently was. In the process, she’d watched her investment go up, down, and back up again like an economic roller coaster, all because people were afraid their houses were worth less if minorities moved in. When people congratulated her on her investment, Midge always snorted and replied, “Hey, it pays not to be prejudiced. Why not try it sometime?”

Still, prejudice was an everyday fact of life for Midge. As an art therapist, she worked with young children and teenagers who were seething in anger against poverty and prejudice. She saw that anger as a powder keg waiting to explode. What made her job—her life—hard was that, when her work was done and she came home drained, there was no one to wrap arms around her and hold her, to tell her that she was loved and secure.

Midge well understood loneliness, and her heart broke for her friend, Eve, knowing what was in store for her. The transition from married to unmarried, from beloved to forsaken, was long and bitter. In time, a strong individual adapted and prospered, like any solid building. But, as any building needed loving tenants and a cohesive community to avoid crumbling, so Eve would need the love and support of her friends.

At least Eve had her family, Midge thought as she approached her building and pulled out a large metal ring of keys. The broad-based, redbrick building covered half a city block and housed several small studios and shops at street level. The top two floors had been converted into lofts, many rented by the shop owners. In the rear she’d created an enormous garden from what was once an old rubbish heap. Today, vegetables, flowers, a gazebo, chimes and birdbaths flourished in the haven for all to share. She was proud of the way she maintained this building and the relationships she’d forged with her tenants. They were her family.

Yet, they were not family. A realist, she didn’t kid herself about that fact. As she made her way up the dark flight of stairs to her own door, the sound of her heels on the wood stairs echoed with a hollow loneliness. Yes, she knew this journey so well. She stood at the threshold of her loft, her arms hanging dejectedly at her sides, not ready to step inside and face her isolation.

It was an airy space, bold and modern, even masculine in the rugged disregard for feminine comfort or style. Much like herself. Usually she felt a tremendous release of pressure when she shut the door behind her. She’d throw her coat and purse over a chair and sigh with relief upon entering her own space. She might grab some cheese and crackers or a bowl of cereal—she never much cared what she ate—then head straight for a book or her paints.

Sometimes, however, the loneliness hit hard and unexpectedly. At times like these, there was a silence so intense she could hear herself breathe and she felt closed in, buried alive. Today, something about the funeral stirred the depths of a melancholy she strove to keep at bay. Was it witnessing the demise of a family? Or was it seeing the endurance of family ties even under the worst of adversity? The image of Eve clutching the hands of her children stayed with her. So beautiful…and for her, now so unattainable.

Midge closed the door behind her, mentally closing the door to those depressing thoughts. Tom Porter was her age when he died. At fifty, it was unlikely that she’d find that kind of security and joy in a marriage or with children. She had to face the fact that when she was depressed or frightened, she’d have to dig deep and find her own security. When she wanted to watch a movie in bed on a cold night, she’d better get a cat for company. When she woke up alone on Christmas morning, well…Midge paused and took a deep breath. Well, she told herself with a stern voice, she’d just have to look around and see all that she had to be thankful for. She had a career, her art, good friends. This was her life; she’d made choices and now she must live them out.

She moved quickly to do something, anything, to divert the melancholy. Stretching out her arm, she punched the button on her answering machine and waited while the tape whirred. The nasal voice pierced the silence.

You have no messages.

Gabriella stepped into her modest, brick home in north Oakley and walked straight to her bedroom, not saying a word. She closed the door and quickly stripped off the confining navy linen dress and the sweaty, dark nylons, sighing mightily when her skin breathed openly again. She hated to wear constrictive clothing; it felt as though she were wrapped in a vise. But today especially, standing in the stifling, thick humidity of the crowded church, holding back her tears and agonizing for her friend, Eve, and those poor, fatherless, bebés… It was all she could do not to weep out loud, like that crazy redhead. After the mass she soundly kissed her husband and each one of her four children and made them promise never, ever, to die before her.

She pulled back her long, thick black hair with a clasp, then sat in the cool porcelain of her tub. As she sponged down her round, softening body, her pent-up sadness trickled down into the drain with the rivulets of cool water. No, she sighed, closing her eyes as a worried frown creased her brow, she didn’t need any bad thoughts to hover over her. She didn’t want any of the sadness of the funeral to infiltrate her home. She wasn’t superstitious…but things were going too good lately. Just too, too good.

Oh God, why did she even have the thought? It tempted fate to think of one’s good fortune. Whenever things went too well, something always happened to clobber her. Gabriella abruptly turned off the water, wrapped herself in a soft cotton towel and quickly dressed in a flowing, bright-yellow sundress.

“Mami, I’m hungry.” Her youngest was still dressed in his summer best, leaning against the kitchen counter watching television and nibbling Gummi Bears.

“First you change your clothes, eh? And hang them up, too,” she said, rubbing his hair as he ducked away. “I’ll make lunch. Go on now, put down that candy and no more TV.”

Gabriella began pulling out the pots and pans to prepare a quick lunch for her family. Weekends were always hectic, but she loved being at the center of it all. The mother was the heart of the family, no? Her eldest two boys had soccer games at the high school and she never let them leave without a substantial meal in their bellies. Her sixteen-year-old daughter, however, was always dieting and it was a constant battle to get her to eat anything. What to make, she wondered, rummaging through the stuffed refrigerator. She turned to look over her shoulder when she heard her husband’s step.

Fernando was a bear of a man, broad with dark hair all over his body and a soft rounded belly that protruded over his belt. He often scratched or patted it when he was lost in thought. He was scratching his belly now, Gabriella noticed as she followed his path into the kitchen, and her brow knitted when she caught sight of the pensive expression on his face. They’d been married for twenty-five years and she could pick up signs of a quake better than any Richter scale. And right now, her alarms were going off.

“Are you okay?” she asked him as he stepped beside her to grab a beer from the fridge. “Did the funeral get you down or something?”

Fernando flipped off the cap and took a long swallow. “Yeah, I guess so,” he replied in a distracted manner. “Tom Porter was about my age, you know.”

“Your heart is fine,” she replied too quickly, dismissing the notion. Gabriella was a nurse and knew well that heart attacks struck men of Fernando’s age with little warning. Her eyes narrowed as she studied his face, and when she saw the pallor there, blood rushed to her own. “You just saw the doctor for your physical. Your cholesterol was normal. Why?” she asked, feeling a sudden alarm. “Do you have chest pains or something?”

He shook his head and took another long draft from his bottle. Gabriella’s hands stilled on the counter and she waited quietly for the quake. His lips pinched, the only movement on his face, but his eyes were restless.

“Remember I told you that there was a memo circulated around the office about a merger? They said there were going to be large-scale layoffs.” He didn’t look at her but spoke to the wall.

Gabriella did indeed remember that. They’d talked for hours about the possibility that Fernando’s job as district manager of the electronics firm would be in jeopardy. Then Fernando had pointed out how he never missed a day of work, how he often stayed late to solve problems, and how he’d worked for the firm for over a decade. He’d seemed so confident and she slept easy at night believing he would be the last one any company would let go. But now, seeing the heartache in his eyes, she feared the worst. Her earlier premonition played in her mind and she silently cried out, No, no, don’t let him lose his job. Madre de Dios, please don’t make us go through this. Gabriella knew poverty and feared it.

She didn’t say any of this to Fernando but took his large hand into her small one.

“They canned me,” he said with brutal honesty. “Gave me my notice. In six weeks, I’ll be out of a job.”

He looked at her with both wariness and anger, as though he expected her to explode, to blame him for his failure as he surely blamed himself. For a moment she felt frozen by the shock of the words. This wasn’t an it-could-happen scenario. This was the real thing. He was fired, let go, laid off, whatever words they used to stop his career—and his paycheck.

Her head lowered as she tried to make sense of it. “I…I don’t understand,” she ventured in a small voice. “You said you thought they’d keep you. That it wouldn’t…How could they let you go?”

“Not just me. Fifteen hundred got the pink slip, most of them in middle management. It’s happening all over.” His hand plowed through his cropped black hair. “That’s what worries me. There’ll be a lot of competition out on the street for my level of position.” His face creased and his hand left his hair to rub his brow, shielding his eyes.

She heard the worry in his voice, worry not for himself but for his family. As a young man he had worked his way through college while still managing to give his parents a portion of each paycheck. They’d married young, had children early and he’d never stopped working hard for his family. Gabriella looked at her husband’s face and saw the defeat that would kill him more surely than any cholesterol.

What did she have to be afraid of if he lost his job, she wondered? She loved him. He was her husband, the father of her children. She’d seen in Eve’s eyes the depth of a woman’s desolation when her husband died. What did the loss of a job matter when compared to that loss? She moved to wrap her short, plump arms around him, her head barely reaching his shoulders.

“We’ll be fine,” she said, and was relieved to feel his arms wrap around her in a bear hug. Laying her cheek against his chest, she relished his scent on his clothes and the warmth of his arms. “You’re alive and well and we have four wonderful bebes. And I have a job, so we know we’ll make do until you find another one. And you will, too. Soon. You just wait and see. We’ll be fine,” she repeated. “We just have to keep the faith.”