The Jane Austen Book Club (18 page)

In all fairness, she reminded herself, this was the first time he'd mentioned them. But she'd felt his not mentioning them on other occasions. So there was no need; her conscience was clear, yet she seemed compelled to defend herself. She tried to do this without sounding defensive. She turned to face Grigg and he was looking directly back at her. She hadn't expected that, hadn't expected to see straight through his eyes to—whatever. It gave her a sudden squeezed feeling in her chest; a sudden heat spread over her neck and face. She hadn't felt that squeeze, that heat for a long time.
She had no intention of feeling it now. What had they been talking about? “I like books about real people,” Jocelyn said.

“I don't understand the distinction.” Grigg's eyes had returned to the road. “Elizabeth Bennet is a real person, but the people in science fiction books aren't?”

“Science fiction books have people in them, but they're not about the people. Real people are really complicated.”

“There's all kinds of science fiction,” Grigg said. “When you've read some I'll be interested in your opinion.”

In just the time it took for Grigg to finish that sentence Jocelyn recovered her composure. He'd kept his tone neutral, but really, how rude. If he weren't being so unpleasant she would have pointed out the exit where she sometimes took the dogs to run. In the other direction was a bird sanctuary, which, in cooler weather, was also a nice hike. She would have told him how, in the winter, all the brown, dry fields here flooded. You could look across a tabletop of water and see the tallest branches of the trees. She might have said that only a native could love the summer landscape of the Valley, with the grasses all dead and the oaks parched and gray. She might have found herself saying something poetic, and God knows nothing good ever comes of that. No danger of it now, though.

A truck loaded with tomatoes passed them on the right. Jocelyn could smell it going by. Several tomatoes bounced off and hit the pavement when the truck swerved back into their lane. How could they possibly be traveling more slowly than a tomato truck?

Grigg switched on the radio, and some group Jocelyn was too old to know or like came out of it. Grigg didn't ask whether she was okay with the music or the volume or anything. Then, before she knew what was happening, he had taken the Jefferson
Boulevard/Downtown exit. “I-5 is quicker,” Jocelyn said, but it was too late.

“I like the Tower Bridge,” Grigg told her. “I like to see the river,” which, in fairness, you could do from the bridge, but it wasn't much of a view. I like to sit in the baseball traffic, he might as well have said. I like to be on the surface streets as long as possible, waiting at the stoplights. I like to be as late as I can manage to be. Hadn't the whole point of driving together been that Jocelyn would tell Grigg how to go and he would go the way she said? She liked nothing about Grigg this evening.

And she was not, had never been, the sort of stupid woman who suddenly liked a man simply because she didn't like him. Thank God.

The car vibrated on the bridge and Grigg's voice took on an odd tremble as a result. A cartoon voice, young Elmer Fudd. “I wonder which writer will eat with us? I hope you don't have to deal with anything, you know, too genre.”

The Capitol dome appeared in the distance, rising into the golden dusk dead ahead. Grigg stopped at another red light when he could have sneaked through on the yellow. “By the time we get there the whole thing will be over,” Jocelyn said.

The light turned green. Grigg was slow changing gear; the car made a peevish noise. They passed the dandelion fountain, a sad sight when there was no water in it, heat braiding the air above the metal spikes. Around the K Street Mall the car made a strange coughing sound—three times in rapid succession. Then it died.

For, if they should happen to begin out of Time, it is a thousand to one if they recover it throughout the Dance. But on the other Hand, had they waited a remarkable Place of the Tune,
and taken the Time at Beginning, they might have come off with Reputation and Applause.

 

—
KELLOM TOMLINSON
, Dancing Master

Grigg was out of gas. He was just able to coast to the curb, leave the car almost parked. Jocelyn had Triple A, but she'd left her card behind in her usual purse. She was carrying a tiny clutch bag with nothing much in it. Hadn't brought her cell phone, or she would have called Sylvia half an hour earlier to say they were going to be late. Poor Sylvia would be wondering where they were, why Jocelyn had left her to deal with Daniel and Pam all alone. Sylvia would never have left the house so ill prepared for disaster.

Grigg didn't have Triple A. “Is there a gas station nearby?” he asked.

“Not for miles.”

“God, I'm sorry,” he said. He unbelted his seat belt. “Why don't you wait here? I'll find a phone.”

“I'm going to walk the rest of the way,” Jocelyn told him. “While you're getting the gas.” She didn't think this was an unreasonable decision, but if it was, she didn't care. She was proud of how calm she was being. She had been kept waiting, insulted, and stranded. All this, with impeccable, icy self-possession. Who wouldn't be proud?

“How far is it?”

“Ten, twelve blocks.”

There was a vagrant across the street. He wore a Bay to Breakers T-shirt, the really classic one with the fish that looked like a shoe. Jocelyn had that same shirt, but his had Rorschach blots of grime down the front and he'd tied a bandanna around one of his biceps, as if he were in some kind of paisley mourning. He was watching them with a great deal of interest. He called
out something, but not something she could decipher. “True bread” was the closest she could come.

“It's too hot to walk that far,” Grigg said. “And not necessary. I'll find a phone and call a cab. I really am
so
sorry. I had the car in the shop just last week, because the gas gauge was screwy. I guess they didn't fix it.”

“It doesn't matter. I just want to be with Sylvia. I don't mind walking.”

“True bread,” the man across the street called out, more insistent now.

“I'm not staying here,” said Jocelyn.

What was ten or twelve blocks to a man in flat shoes? Grigg said that he would come then, too. They started off. This was not the best part of town. They crossed street after street at a quick pace, stepping over cans, flyers, and one plate of vomit. Jocelyn wiped her face and rubbed her mascara into her eyes. She couldn't imagine how she must look. Her hair was flat with sweat about her temples. Her skirt was sticking to her legs.

While Grigg looked fine. No jacket—he'd left that in the car—but no real wear and tear, either. It was more irritating to Jocelyn than anything else he'd done the whole evening. It was also sort of impressive. “What do you think of Sylvia?” she asked.

“She seems very nice,” Grigg said. “Why?”

“She's more than nice. She's smart and funny. Nobody kinder.”

“Sylvia is in love with Daniel,” Grigg said, as if he knew what she was up to, which, of course, she was and he did.

“There's no percentage in that.”

“But see, it's not for you to say. It's not for you to decide who she loves. You should stop interfering and let her work out her own happiness.”

Jocelyn went rigid beside him. “You call it interfering?” Her voice was both incredulous and deadly. It contained all the fury of finding herself walking fifteen, sixteen, seventeen blocks in the Valley heat because someone had neglected to fill the gas tank, of trying to be a good sport about it only to find herself insulted by this same someone. “To wish my friends happy? Where Sylvia is involved I hope I never do stop interfering,” Jocelyn said. “I won't ever apologize to anyone for that.”

W
ould you mind if I didn't go tonight?” Allegra asked.

All the air went out of Sylvia's lungs. Of course I mind, she said, but not out loud, she was still Sylvia. How can you be so selfish? How can you even think of sending me off to face your father alone? How can you not know what this night is doing to me? (Why did we buy you a hundred-twenty-dollar ticket?) Please, please come.

The phone rang before Sylvia managed a word. She guessed it was Jocelyn wondering where they were, but Allegra picked up the receiver, checked the caller ID, and set the receiver back in the cradle. She rolled onto her side so that Sylvia couldn't see her face.

“You've reached the Hunters',”
Daniel said. Sylvia hadn't changed the message, on the grounds that it was good for unknown callers to get a man. She'd neglected to factor in the impact of Daniel's voice on her, because usually, if the message ran, it meant she wasn't there to hear it.
“We're not home. You know what to do.”

“Allegra?” Sylvia recognized Corinne's voice. She sounded sad and possibly drunk. “We have to talk. When are you going to talk to me?

“I saw Paco today. He told me I've done two unforgivable
things.
You
should have been the one to tell me this. You should have let me defend myself. I think even you'll agree that's only fair.”

Corinne was obviously just getting started. Sylvia had recently cleared the tape, so there was plenty of empty time. She felt awkward overhearing this private message; Allegra, so open about the broad outlines of her sex life, was secretive about the details.

Maybe she'd talked to Daniel. Sylvia wished she could ask him whether he knew what Corinne had done. Sylvia needed Daniel's help to deal with Allegra. Sylvia needed Allegra's help to deal with Daniel. No one was being any help at all.

Sylvia picked up Allegra's wineglass and took it to the kitchen. She stood at the sink in nothing but her slip and waited for Corinne to finish. She could still hear her voice like a stream of water in the distance, no words, just a rise and fall. Sylvia washed and dried the glass by hand, the way Jocelyn was always telling her she should.

She was angrier and angrier with Allegra. Whatever had happened, whatever Corinne had done, Allegra was the one who'd left. You didn't walk out on someone you loved. You didn't sit silent while they poured their drunken hearts into your phone machine, as if you didn't even hear them. People in love found the one way to stay together.

She thought of Allegra's drawn face and reddened eyes. She thought of how hard Allegra was finding it to get to sleep at night, how at midnight and one and two, she herself would wake to hear some movie playing on the DVD player. Allegra had even talked of getting a pirated
Fellowship of the Ring
, although she thoroughly disapproved of pirating, although when they'd seen it in the theater she'd complained and complained about the way Gimli was being played for cheap laughs.

Sylvia thought how all parents wanted an impossible life for their children—happy beginning, happy middle, happy ending.
No plot of any kind. What uninteresting people would result if parents got their way. Allegra had always been plenty interesting enough. Time for her to be happy.

How dare you, she said, standing in the kitchen, to Allegra in the bedroom. How dare you hurt my daughter so much. You pick up that phone right now, young lady—you let Corinne apologize. You let her atone for whatever it was, those two unforgivable things that she did.

You let Allegra be happy now. You let Allegra be loved.

T
he band was taking a break. Bernadette, Dean, and Prudie were joined at the table by a writer named Mo Bellington. Mr. Bellington had too much hair and not enough neck. Nice teeth, though. Bernadette noticed people's teeth. Everyone did, but not everyone knew that they noticed. Bernadette's father had worked on Bernadette's teeth himself, with the result that, though she was now well along in her sixties, she had never lost a filling.

According to promotional materials on the table, Mo Bellington wrote mysteries that took place in the tiny town of Knight's Landing. His detective was a cynical sugar-beet farmer who unearthed femurs and knucklebones almost every time he roto-tilled. On the table was a postcard of the jacket of Bellington's most recent book. The title was
Last Harvest.
The two final
t
's were knives, blood dripping down the blades into a field below. Bernadette was pretty sure she'd seen covers like that before. Nor did the title seem original. But if the artwork wasn't wholly new, still she thought it reasonably well achieved.

“I guess you're my group,” Mr. Bellington said, looking with obvious disappointment at the empty chairs. There was loud laughter at a nearby table. At another, someone tapped a
wineglass with a fork, preparing to give a toast. Clearly there was livelier company elsewhere.

“More of us are coming,” Bernadette assured him. “I can't imagine where everyone is. Jocelyn is the most punctual person alive. I've never known her to be late. Sylvia, not so much so. And Allegra. Don't ask!”

Mr. Bellington made no answer and looked neither reassured nor entertained. He was a very young man to be writing books already. Bernadette could tell right off that he hadn't lived long enough to have much to say. His sugar-beet farmer would be thinly drawn.