The Reading Circle (3 page)

I
t was Evie Sparks, of all people, who had come up with the solution to her husband's secretarial dilemma with Mrs. Lottie Howard. In fact, January was nearly over when she had revealed her brainstorm over breakfast just before he had set out for work as chief executive at City Hall.

“I had this idea about Lottie because I know what a pain it is for you to go through another hiring procedure,” she had begun, sitting across the table and munching on a piece of buttered cinnamon toast. “Of course, you'd be perfectly justified in letting her go, no matter what.”

“You know damned good and well that's one of the New Year's resolutions I'm bound and determined to keep—waving bye-bye to that maddening woman,” Councilman Sparks had said. “I just need to get all my ducks in a row first.”

Then he returned to his plate of scrambled egg substitute and turkey sausage, alternated daily with a bowl of vanilla yogurt and blueberries. Durden Sparks, the consummate politician, knew that maintaining his job went hand in hand with maintaining his physique. He knew he had won election after election because of a combination of good looks and clever manipulation. Women still sighed over his deep-set, dark eyes and a mesmerizing display of white teeth, even as the gray hair continued to spread ever so slowly from his temples to the sides of his head. If it were possible for a man to become tenfold more attractive to the opposite sex in his middle years, Councilman Charles Durden Sparks was living proof and then some.

“I remember all your resolutions, Durden. There's that one, of course, and then the one about getting Maura Beth Mayhew and the library out of your hair for good. No one knows better than I do that you won't rest until you see ground broken next year on the industrial park.”

He had drawn himself up proudly and underlined with his outstretched hand an imaginary sign suspended in midair. “I will continue to maintain that The Charles Durden Sparks Industrial Park has a wonderful ring to it.”

But he could tell from her casual tone of voice that she was not taking his priorities as seriously as he would have liked. “If you're going to say I should have already fired Lottie and that I should take Nora back, the answer is no. That connection with Layton Duddney is over and done with. Another lifetime. Finis.”

She swallowed a bite of her toast and took a sip of her coffee. “That wasn't what I was going to say at all.” She cocked her head to the side, reminding him exactly of their spoiled poodle, Bonjour Cheri, who was lying at her “mommy's” feet at that very moment. Both dog and wife had that same precious little face with the cutesy, short clipped hairdo framing it precisely. “I was thinking that you ought to give Lottie a taste of her own medicine.”

“How so?”

She put down her toast and sat up straight in her chair with her hands limply posed in front, looking remarkably like she was about to beg him for a treat. “I mean that you should start abbreviating the hell out of things the way she does all the time. Leave notes on her desk about important things for her to do, but instead use those big letters in all caps. Then conveniently skedaddle somewhere with Chunky and Gopher Joe, and let her try to figure out what you meant until you get back and enlighten her. Turnabout is fair play.”

He enjoyed a good laugh and then nodded her way. “Now, why didn't I think of that? You're absolutely right. Two can play at hieroglyphics.”

“From what you've told me, she actually seems to enjoy tripping you up. Just let her find out what that's like.”

 

Days later, Mrs. Lottie Howard
had
found out, and he only had to do it to her once to drive home his point. She had padded into his office and earnestly apologized to him in the aftermath. “Okay, you win. I get the message. Or, rather, I didn't get it.” She glanced briefly at the note he had left her, which she had cupped in the palm of her hand. “Couldn't even come close to figuring out what you meant by D-T-Y-L-B-A-U—I-B-B-A-N.”

He gave her one of those triumphant “I stumped you!” looks she had delighted in giving him over the past few months. “Don't take your lunch break as usual—I'll be back at noon!”

She had taken the time to match the letters with his translation and actually chuckled there at the end. “Good one, Mr. Sparks!” Then, even though he had not asked her to, she began explaining. “I actually thought I was being efficient. Or maybe I've just become addicted to texting shortcuts. You don't know this about me—actually nobody does—but I spend a lot of time on Facebook chats at home, especially late at night. As the young people say, ‘It's awesome!' ”

He had leaned in, deliberately withholding his trademark smile from her. “Perhaps you should work harder at getting a life, Lottie. At any rate, your obsession almost cost you your job, I hope you realize.”

And that had been the end of it. Mrs. Lottie Howard, as it turned out, was a keeper after all.

 

The drive out to the Cherico Nursing Manor was much longer than Councilman Sparks had remembered. So many twists and turns in the old two-lane road full of dangerous potholes—one that badly needed a new coat of asphalt, and one they had budgeted for back in November at the controversial hearings that had forced City Hall to continue supporting the library.

That was what Maura Beth Mayhew, pretty and enticing as she was, would never understand in that compartmentalized librarian's brain of hers. The roads, the utility poles and underground cables, the sidewalks, the sewers, the stop signs and traffic lights—indeed, the entire infrastructure had to come first in the budget. The citizens needed those things in place to conduct their ordinary lives in a successful manner without thinking about it. As for books—well, they could buy them somewhere if they were so darned addicted to them. When times were tough and money was tight, why must a struggling town like Cherico keep the library afloat at all costs? Heh,
costs
being the operative word.

Councilman Sparks had darkened the front foyer of Cherico Nursing Manor only once before, and that was to visit Layton Duddney just after he'd first been admitted a few years back. But now he needed to confirm things for himself. His “mole at the Manor,” as he thought of her, had assured him that Nora Duddney had already come and gone that late January morning. He would not be running into her in what would be a beyond awkward confrontation.

“She only stayed about ten minutes, sir,” Nurse Trella Goodell had told him over the phone just before he had set out. “No one ever stays much longer. I mean, what would be the point? He just sits there, propped up in bed, staring at the TV if I turn it on for him. Or staring at the wall and all his pictures if I don't. I don't mean to be disrespectful, Mr. Durden, but he's just a pair of empty pajamas, and that's the God's honest truth.”

But Councilman Sparks wanted to see for himself as yet another year in office moved along, as he moved toward establishing his legacy for the town of Cherico. Not that he had doubted Nora when she had admitted her father was truly no longer there.

“Daddy's gone south for the winter,” she had explained to him a few months earlier, tearing up all the while. “And it looks like winter is gonna last all year now.”

Finally, Councilman Sparks found himself in the parking lot of Cherico's only nursing facility. It had all the charm of a one-story pedestrian motel on the outside, even though he knew the staff inside was more than qualified to look after its many aged patients. There was a part of him that hoped he would never live long enough to have to be “committed” to a facility like that; but it was in sharp conflict with the other part that was convinced he was going to live forever and go down in The Guinness Book of World Records as a result.

Enough of these idle musings. It was time to get this task over and done with. So he headed in with a snap to his step and was soon signing his name in the ledger that displayed Nora Duddney's spidery signature several lines and hours above his. The officious receptionist, a frowning man with severely thinning dark hair whose gold nameplate on the counter identified him as Victor Prather, picked up the phone and notified the assisted living wing of the visitor waiting in the foyer.

“She'll be right out to get you,” Victor told him after the brief conversation had ended.

“Nurse Trella Goodell, I assume.”

For a few awkward seconds Victor looked put-upon, as if the woman's identity should be kept secret, but he finally exhaled in what sounded remarkably like a tone of resignation. “Yes, she's the main one on duty over there today.”

At first Councilman Sparks wanted to lean over the faux marble counter and make a smart remark. “You like your job a lot, do you?” came to mind. But he thought better of it.

After only a minute or so, Trella Goodell emerged from one of the corridors and shook the councilman's hand warmly. Here was an older woman who exuded empathy while obviously not having missed many meals. The roundness of her fleshy face, combined with its prominent laugh lines, surely gave her patients an additional sense of comfort as she tended to their needs. As a result, “jolly old girl” were the words that had most often been used to describe her.

“You've come at a good time,” Trella continued, after they had exchanged the usual pleasantries. “He's just up from another of his dozens of naps. Of course, he spends most of his time asleep, as you probably know.”

“So you've told me.”

“Lookie here, Mr. Duddney!” Trella announced quite loudly, as she ushered Councilman Sparks into the man's cozy bedroom a few minutes and twists and turns of corridors later. There were lots of framed pictures tacked to the white walls for decoration, but this small assisted universe of his lacked much personality otherwise. “You have another visitor. Two in one day. First your daughter comes, and now Mr. Sparks is here to see you!”

This pale, withered specimen whose visible flesh seemed to blend perfectly into the pale beige pajamas he was wearing appeared frozen in place, propped up against the pillows of his bed. There was an unexpected dignity to it, however, as if he were patiently posing for an artist doing his portrait. Momentarily, Layton Duddney barely moved his bald head, which still sprouted a handful of wispy white strands and peered at the couple standing in the door frame.

“Time . . . t'eat . . . yet?” he managed, moving his mouth in what seemed to be slow motion.

“You just ate an hour ago,” Trella told him, her professional smile still in place. “I brought you your tray.”

“Didda . . . eat it?”

“You ate your string beans,” she told him. “A bite of the chicken breast. It was grilled today.”

He began to perk up, and there was a sudden flash of recognition in his eyes. “Dessert?”

“Yes, you had dessert. Rice pudding. You liked it. You always like it when we have rice pudding.”

He began peering intently at Councilman Sparks, slowly looking him up and down. “Who's he? . . . I don't need changin'!”

Trella's tone became even more patronizing. “No, Mr. Duddney. This is not the orderly. This is Councilman Durden Sparks. From City Hall. From Cherico. From in town.”

There was only the one word from Layton Duddney: “Why?”

Trella moved closer to the bed, momentarily leaving Councilman Sparks in the background. “Because he likes you.”

But there was no response.

“May I speak to him?” Councilman Sparks asked, moving to her side.

“Go right ahead. Just don't expect anything.”

Councilman Sparks took his time. This was harder than he thought it was going to be. He couldn't help but remember when Layton Duddney had been a much younger and far more vigorous man who had conducted the business of Cherico for many years alongside his own father. The two had been an unbeatable pair of politicians, weathering every storm that had ever come their way. They had always managed to sweep suspicion and controversy under the Persian rugs of their City Hall offices. And they had also done their fair share of good things for the community.

“If you play your political cards right, Durden,” Layton had once told him, “you can lead a charmed life.” And that, along with other incentives, pep talks, and revelations from his own father, had settled him on a career as a Cherico city councilman.

“Layton,” Councilman Sparks said, feeling something catch in his throat as he spoke. “I'm Durden. When I was a teenager, you used to call me Durdie. I remember distinctly the summer Mom made you stop, though. She said it made me sound like I needed a bath.”

Layton remained in silent posing mode.

“I told ya,” Trella said, her smile absent for once.

Councilman Sparks decided to try again. “Layton?”

Suddenly, there seemed to be a spark of recognition again, and Layton gave the councilman an intense, almost angry stare. “I said . . . I don't need changin'!”

Trella was shaking her head. “It's no use, Mr. Sparks. I think he gets worse every day, like I've been telling you over the phone. But at least now you can say you've seen it for yourself.”

That was all Councilman Sparks could take. He quickly thanked Trella for her time and assistance, and then headed out of Cherico Nursing Manor as fast as he could negotiate the succession of corridors. He had always told himself that the end justified the means. He had always had the best interests of the people of Cherico at heart. He had to believe that.

Long before Layton Duddney had lost it, he had taken Councilman Sparks aside and talked turkey with him. “This little town will die on the vine unless you're strong and aggressive. You think the people and the companies and the businesses with money out there know where the hell we are anymore? Your daddy and I figured out a long time ago that the main chance had passed our little Cherico by. We had the lake and the Tennessee River going for us, but we just pretended that they weren't even there. So we did what we could to keep Cherico on the map, and that's what you gotta do, son. And after both of us are gone, you gotta keep at it. That'll be your legacy, son. That'll be your legacy.”