The Reading Circle (8 page)

She had taken a deep breath and read it over a second time. Did it strike the right tone? She couldn't let anyone else read it and decide for her—not Periwinkle, not Renette, not any of the other female club members she respected as friends and confidantes. This, she knew without a doubt, was strictly on her.

In the end she had not pressed Send. She had not even saved it to her Drafts folder. She had chosen not to force the issue, deleting it in cyberspace, exiling it to a place the human mind could not go or even fathom. That much she could do without flinching. Unfortunately, she could not delete the ongoing conflict from her brain so easily.

J
eremy McShay glanced at his watch and saw that he had put things off until nearly three o'clock Sunday afternoon. He had gone back and forth about it the last few days but had finally made up his mind. Better late than never. If he hurried, there would be just enough time to drive down to Cherico for the
Forrest Gump
review from his cozy little bungalow rental on a dead-end street just off Nashville's busy West End. In truth, he did not have appreciably more square footage than Maura Beth did in her efficiency on Clover Street down there, but it somehow made him feel like he was actually getting somewhere in life to be living in a house and not in some generic apartment complex for singles.

He had tried that once at Walking Horse Place when he had first gotten his job at New Gallatin Academy and had found everything in the complex to be noisy and frenetic. There were even times he had been unable to concentrate on grading papers with the booming wall vibrations from his neighbor's thumping electronic equipment.

“Can't you do something about all that noise?!” he had complained to Mrs. Bit Wilson, the chain-smoking, haggard-looking apartment manager. Her diminutive office always smelled like a cross between cheap, floral room deodorizer and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts.

She had looked at him briefly as if he had lost his mind but agreed to send out notices reminding the tenants of the regulations regarding playing stereos and TV sets too loud, too late in the evening. He was certain, however, that she had done no such thing since his neighbors above, below, and on either side of him kept right on booming away.

Ugh! As he had so many times before in his life, he devoutly wished he had been born in another century. He would gladly forego some of the creature comforts of the millennium for some peace and quiet, and a genuine appreciation of great literature among the general population. Was that asking too much?

His stylish but practical mother, Susan McShay, who ran a successful crafts boutique in the Cool Springs Galleria south of Nashville, had warned him more than once about expecting the lowest common denominators in life to fade away anytime soon. “I cater to a small percentage of people at Beads and Crafty Needs who want to make quirky, original things with their own hands—fair enough! But I don't pretend they're the norm. Sweetheart, I know you want everyone to appreciate William Faulkner, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Shakespeare as much as you do, but unfortunately there are far too many who prefer to buy their throwaway reading material at the supermarket checkout counter these days.” That had not stopped him, however, from believing he could somehow make a difference, or from overreacting whenever he didn't get his way, unfortunately.

As for today, he wanted to get to Cherico in time to show up and apologize in private to Maura Beth, preferably at her apartment before the
Forrest Gump
hoopla got under way at the library. What had gotten into him that afternoon when he had flown off the handle the way he had? More than once, he had replayed everything in his head and ended up cringing every time. Not that he had made his peace with football and Headmaster Yelverton. He still thought the priorities of New Gallatin Academy were misplaced and that there was genuine merit in his “Living the Classics in the Real World” program he was determined to implement. But he had finally come to his senses and realized that he would just have to bear down and work for change instead of cursing the status quo and driving up his blood pressure; and that would require that he remain with the job he had and not run away from the challenges ahead of him.

He also genuinely missed Maura Beth, and he wanted her back in his life. Whenever he said her name—sometimes silently, sometimes out loud—something inside of him seemed to vibrate pleasantly. Perhaps it was not too late. Perhaps he could still turn things around. He debated whether he should give her a call and let her know he was coming. In the end he opted to surprise her, hoping that would pump up her adrenaline enough to make it easy for her to forgive him. So he bounded out of his bungalow at precisely a quarter after three, climbed into the old Volvo he had brought back to life with his tinkering, and headed west on I-40 out of Nashville to the exit that would lead him to the Natchez Trace. Maybe he would even catch a break and not get stuck behind some tourist going fifty miles an hour on the scenic, but interminably winding, two-lane parkway.

 

Jeremy had listened to his Debussy CD containing “Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun” three times in succession now. It was one of his favorite classical pieces, and although it was only ten minutes in length, he never tired of its soothing, delicate passages. Sometimes he thought how miraculous it would be if he could somehow live inside those strains, inhabit those melodies in a way no one had ever thought of before. In effect, he would become the music.

But it was going to take more than Debussy at his best to get his little Volvo past the hulking white Winnebago with the blue Michigan license plate that had caused him to suck its exhaust fumes for the past twenty miles.
GREAT LAKES,
it read on the bottom of the plate, and Jeremy found himself wishing that this thing hogging the road in front of him was on the bottom of one of the Great Lakes right now.

He was falling further behind his ETA in Cherico by quite a bit. At this rate he would be walking into The Cherico Library with the
Forrest Gump
review well under way, and he definitely did not want to reenter Maura Beth's life coming off like someone who could not be bothered to show up on time.

He remained focused enough to know that honking his horn and flashing his high beams off and on would do him no good. That was what jackasses given over to road rage liked to do. That said, there were long stretches of the picturesque parkway that had obviously not been designed with passing in mind. It was a project that forbade commercial traffic of any kind—truckers beware!—and any emphasis on speed, therefore, made no sense. Every now and then, there were roadside exhibits prepared by the National Park Service that allowed vehicles to pull over and partake of history lessons regarding this important pioneer link between Nashville and Natchez; but unfortunately for Jeremy, none had appeared in quite some time.

“Okay, Michiganders!” he said out loud, leaning into the steering wheel. But he knew whoever had invested in that monstrosity—and it was usually retired couples traveling around to see the countryside at their leisure—had not deliberately plotted to be in front of him as they both headed south. So there was more frustration than anger in his tone of voice. If only he had left the house five minutes sooner. Maybe even a minute or two earlier. He might well be ahead of them now, giving them the slip in his rearview mirror.

With no choice but to follow, he lost himself in thought. What
did
you call people from Michigan? Were they Michiganders or Michiganites? Did it matter? He was still trapped behind them and powerless to do anything about it. Nonetheless, he decided to keep thinking of them as Michiganders.

He recycled Debussy, hoping that the music would keep him calm. Or at least calmer than he would have been otherwise. Both vehicles and their passengers were starting to lose the light, and if anything, the Michiganders slowed down even more as they negotiated the hairpin curves that wound their way through thick pine and hardwood forests just beginning to bud out from winter weather.

Jeremy checked his watch again. It was getting close to a quarter to six, and he hadn't even gotten to the Alabama line yet. The last wooden exit sign had pointed the way to the nearby town of Collinwood, Tennessee. From past trips, he calculated it would be another fifteen miles or so until he hit the border—then another fifteen minutes from there to the Mississippi line.

“C'mon, c'mon, c'mon,” he was saying absent-mindedly, knowing the Michiganders could not possibly hear him. But he kept uttering the words anyway. They kept coming out of his mouth while Debussy simultaneously filled up his head and the small space inside the car. How ironic to have such an idyllic environment surrounding him while only enormous and constant frustration loomed directly outside and ahead!

He considered his cell phone. Never one to embrace new technology, he still used the flip variety that came free with the plan. Maybe he should forget about surprising Maura Beth and just tell her he was on the way but was probably going to be a little late. One of the drawbacks of his ancient phone was no hands-free dialing, so he began looking for a spot to pull over safely. Then he would make that call.

He tried Maura Beth's home number first. If he failed to find her there, then he would try the library. She had to be in one place or the other. But he had no sooner finished his task than technology's ultra-annoying graphic flashed onto his cell screen.

NO NETWORK
! it said. The phone might as well have been telling him to go to hell in a handbasket.

Well, he should have known. Why would there be a network available way out here in the middle of nowhere among these stone outcroppings and unspoiled forests of rural Middle Tennessee? Who would be making the calls anyway—wild turkeys needing to catch up on their gossip, raccoons wishing each other, “Happy Birthday!” and deer telling their friends about this brand-new place to graze that they simply had to try?

Jeremy managed a smile, but he suspected he needed to get where he was going to avoid further inane speculation. So he tried Maura Beth's number again just to be certain. The same message all but slapped him in the face.

He had no choice other than to drive on, hoping eventually to enter a viable cell. The time and the light were both slipping away, so he began speeding up. With the Michiganders no longer blocking his way and his view—and what a relief that was!—he quickly reached sixty. Patrolling park rangers had been known to give tickets for going much over that, so he decided to put the car on cruise control. After a couple of tries, he got the Set button to stick right around sixty. There might still be enough time to make it to Cherico if he could continue at that speed instead of crawling along under fifty behind some recreational behemoth.

Then his little Volvo crested the top of a steep hill, and that was when he saw he was home free. “Yahoo!” he shouted, surprising himself with his choice of words. He had never used that expression in his entire life, but at the moment he was smiling as the Yahoos of
Gulliver's Travels
came to mind in brilliant literary fashion. Jonathan Swift—at least the political satirist side of him—had long been a favorite of his, often echoing his own dissatisfaction with the foibles and failings of today's society.

What suddenly had him so pumped, however, was the sight of the Michiganders and their moveable residence pulled over to the side and parked in one of the many picnic areas that had been so thoughtfully included for the convenience of tourists. It was getting a little dark for a picnic actually, but Jeremy hardly cared what whoever was inside intended to do at that particular mile marker. The important thing was that he would no longer be drafting them all the way to Mississippi.

“Free at last!” he cried out next, as the Michiganders shrank into a small patch of white in his rearview mirror.

He focused once again on the winding road ahead. He was becoming more and more aware of the beams of light streaming out from the front of his car as the dusk continued to drain the landscape of its color. When he crossed into Alabama very soon now, he would pull over to the side of the road again and try to pick up another cell. Surely he would have left no-man's-land behind by then.

No such luck was in store, however, when he tried Maura Beth's number once again a few miles and minutes later. This was still a very unpopulated area of both Tennessee and Alabama, as his cell phone informed him in no uncertain terms.

He drove on, playing Debussy yet another time. It crossed his mind that this would be a very effective version of hell for someone like himself. The same beautiful music over and over, but with no chance of communicating with anyone ever again. What unbearable torture!

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a dark shape emerging from the nearby woods. In the second or two it took Jeremy to identify what was about to intersect with him at a moment in time, the small but graceful doe appeared to leave the ground and fly across the asphalt in a frantic effort to avoid a collision with Jeremy's Volvo. It all came off like a scene from a movie playing across the surface of the windshield, and somehow, deer and car were able to fend off the impending disaster. But while the deer scampered into the piney woods severely frightened but untouched, the car did not fare nearly as well. Jeremy's violent, last-second tug at the steering wheel sent the vehicle careening down a steep embankment and toward the oldest and sturdiest pine tree in one of the many venerable stands lining both sides of the parkway.

The strains of Debussy were still filling up his head as he saw what was coming up at the speed of light. “Maura Beth!” he cried out reflexively.

And then there was only the sound of metal bending and glass shattering as the car struck the trunk of the tree head-on.