The Book Club

Three

Between the dark and the daylight,

When the night is beginning to lower,

Comes a pause in the day’s occupations,

That is known as the Children’s Hour.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,

The Children’s Hour

For mothers of school-age children, the first signs of fall are not the yellowing of leaves or a nip in the night air. They are the back-to-school sales, the purchase of book bags, binders and pens, and the mix of panic and excitement on the faces of their children.

Doris Bridges sat back on her heels on the floor of her library and fingered the old, worn copy of Dr. Seuss’s children’s book. She was feeling a wave of melancholy, having just said goodbye to her eldest son, Bobby Jr., on his way to college. He was the first to leave the nest and his absence left a gaping, empty space in her heart. Opening the book, she was flooded with memories of the countless times she’d read this story to Sarah and Bobby in this very room. They’d all loved Dr. Seuss’s fantasy worlds—the children no more than her. How she used to enjoy watching their small tongues roll the strange sounding syllables in their mouths. Each child had a favorite. Sarah’s was the faithful elephant who would not desert his friends in Horton Hears A Who. Bobby’s was the rhythmic, marching beat of Green Eggs and Ham.

She’d secretly loved it when they tussled over who could climb into her ample lap, finally settling the dispute with one leaning over her left thigh and the other over her right. If she closed her eyes, she could almost feel the soft pressure of their heads resting against her breasts this very moment, feel the moistness of their foreheads after a bath and smell the sweetness of their wispy hair. Ah, such a perfume! Ambrosia. God must have created it just for mothers. The scent stirred primal instincts to love and protect the babies.

Her babies…Doris sighed heavily and opened her eyes, feeling a wave of weepiness. All that lay on her lap now was an open book, in hands that were so much older. Wide, freckled hands with large rings and painted nails. She remembered when she hadn’t worn large rings for fear they’d scratch the babies.

The sound of her children’s voices was still so clear in her memory; at times such as these their high-pitched singsong overwhelmed all other noise. So precious! As were the treasured images of her young family, with R.J. beside her, laughing his big, boisterous laugh. Where did the time go? Where did they all go? She sometimes felt that all she had left were these books. That like Horton, the big, clumsy elephant, she wanted to stand up in this huge, painstakingly decorated house that amounted to no more than a speck of dust in the real world and shout from the top of her lungs, “I am here! I am here!”

She lowered her head and sniffed, feeling a vast, dark cloud envelop her.

R.J. walked into the library with his usual bluster and stopped a few feet from her. From behind her lowered lids she saw that he stood with his feet wide apart and could envision his hands on his hips. She cringed, knowing without looking that he was frowning in disgust to find her once again wallowing, teary eyed, in her memories. She felt so sad, so often lately, and though she tried to hide it, sometimes the tears just spilled out. That lack of control frightened her—and it annoyed R.J. to no end.

“You’ve got to get out more,” he said, frustration ringing in his voice.

“Oh, I’m all right,” she replied with summoned cheer, forcing a tremulous smile and quickly wiping her eyes. “I just got a little emotional when I saw this book. Remember how I used to read it to the children? It was one of their favorites.”

“Listen, I forgot to give these to John this afternoon,” R.J. said, ignoring her question. “Could you run this over to him?”

She looked up over her shoulder to see R.J. dressed in a sporty linen trouser and blue jacket ensemble and smelling of aftershave. His thinning brown hair streaked handsomely with gray was slicked back and he had what her mother called “spit and polish.” In his hands he held a large manila envelope out toward her.

“Are you going out?” She in turn ignored the envelope.

“I’ve got to be downtown in half an hour. I don’t have time to drop these off myself. Just tell him I need his take on these blueprints asap.”

It was more of a command than a request and Doris set the children’s book in her lap with a heavy sigh that spoke clearly of her unwillingness. She’d looked forward to an hour of reading before she prepared dinner. Besides, she didn’t like going over to John’s house; she might run into Annie. Lately, the quiet rivalry between them had escalated into a war. They still attended the Book Club together and the lunches and what-have-you. But underneath the polite smiles, both women recognized the teeth were bared.

“Why can’t he come over and pick them up? He works for you, after all.”

“He’s working on his house. Knee-deep in drywall.”

“He’s always working on that house. It’s like they’re living in a camp. Nothing ever works, there’s no place to sit, and the junk and materials are all over the place. You’d think he’d bring in some help and just get it done.” Her exasperation knew no end when people couldn’t get their living quarters in order. “I don’t know how they can live like that.”

“What do you care? He wants to do it himself.”

“But they’ve been remodeling that old house for over a year. I don’t know how Annie puts up with it.”

“Annie’s a good sport. And she’s not hung up about stuff like that.”

The underlying criticism stung and made her resent Annie just that much more.

“Besides,” R.J. continued, “John’s not just any carpenter, he’s a goddamn artist. And that old house just happens to be a Frank Lloyd Wright.” He shrugged. “I don’t blame him. He doesn’t want anyone else mucking it up. He and Annie are taking their time, getting it done right.”

“Aren’t you suddenly the artistic one?” she replied acidly, wanting to return a small dig of her own. “If I remember correctly, you’re the one always grumbling about how long it takes John to get anything done.”

“It does. I hate for things to go slow when it’s costing me money. But I’m smart enough to know John’s the best and leave him alone, at least on his own projects. He can do what he wants in his spare time.” He looked at his wristwatch and frowned. “Come on, I don’t have time to yak about it. Just drop it off, will you? You’ve got nothing better to do.”

That hurt—in so many ways.

“Here,” he said, holding out the manila envelope in front of her and giving it a brisk shake. “You can always hang around and talk to Annie.”

Doris heard the terseness in his voice that signaled an explosion if she didn’t back off. So she accepted the envelope, and the task, with a testy grab. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that talking with Annie was precisely what she wanted to avoid, but he wouldn’t understand or care. As far as R.J. was concerned, he and John were friends so Annie and she must be friends. It made things easier for him.

She recalled meeting Annie Blake five years earlier when R.J. hired John away from a rival Chicago building firm. John Svenson was their head carpenter, a well-respected craftsman, and R.J. had spotted his potential immediately. Doris had never understood why John took the job as design consultant for Bridges Building Company when his job description was, as far as she could tell, chief lackey. His pay was pitiful and it was only R.J.’s perversity that kept it low. John was loyal and worked like a dog for him. She knew R.J. liked to be in control, to have people beholden to him and thus emotionally chained to his side. So, instead of actual money, he preferred to give perks. And one of those perks was a great deal on a run-down Frank Lloyd Wright that R.J. had purchased for renovation. To a craftsman like John Svenson, the house was a once-in-a-lifetime dream. R.J. knew it and had used it as bait.

Fortunately, the two men clicked and within months became inseparable. R.J. was the front man, the architect with the plans and the deal. John was the quiet artist, adding style and focus to the designs. It was an award-winning combination. It was inevitable that the wives would meet and it was expected that they’d become equally good friends.

Well, she’d tried, Doris told herself. Didn’t she invite her to join the Book Club? But Annie Blake was a renegade who didn’t like to follow Doris’s lead and there was a subtle struggle between them during book discussions as to who was the leader. There was no hope they’d ever become friends, Doris decided, dragging herself up to her feet. R.J. offered her his hand and she struggled not to lean too heavily lest he comment on her weight.

“I don’t know why you two gals don’t get along better,” he said when she was on her feet. “You two are like oil and water.”

“Baking soda and vinegar is more like it.” She didn’t mention that lately Annie’s attachment to Eve was the last straw. It made Doris feel as if she were in seventh grade again and someone was trying to come between her and her best friend.

“Where are you going tonight?” she asked R.J. as he went to the desk to retrieve some papers.

“I’m meeting some clients at the club. I’ll be late.”

“I’ll wait up.”

“Don’t bother. If it gets too late, I’ll just stay at the club. I don’t like to drink and drive.”

“Then don’t drink.”

He merely snorted while he patted his pockets, locating his keys. He pulled them out and tossed them into the air, then caught them with a boyish flip of his wrist, smiling. Doris narrowed her eyes, noting a flashing on his baby finger; it was a narrow gold-and-black onyx ring with a single diamond in the center that she’d never seen before. It was a handsome ring, discreet, yet her nose crinkled as if she’d suddenly caught a foul scent. She knew R.J. never bought himself jewelry. And her father had always distrusted men who wore pinkie rings.

He bent at the waist to deliver a chaste, dry kiss on the top of her head and an affectionate pat on her shoulder.

“Thanks for dropping that off.”

She held herself erect though her calves were killing her, watching as he strode from the room with a jaunty gait, without so much as a backward glance. R.J. always had such purpose and drive and it was clear he was a man with a mission tonight. Doris slowly replaced the Dr. Seuss book onto the library shelf, patting it into a neat line with the other books. Then she calmly, methodically, held out her left hand and with her right, twiddled the wide band of diamonds on her wedding ring, musing over the fact that in twenty-five years of marriage, she could never once recall R. J. Bridges worrying about drinking and driving.

Annie hung up the phone in her kitchen and smiled with satisfaction.

“You look like the cat that ate the canary.”