Read the Writing Circle (2010) Online
Authors: Corinne Demas
Virginia heard what Bernard was saying, but the meaning eluded her until she saw Rachel’s fork drop to her plate.
“Oh my,” said Rachel softly.
“What?” asked Teddy. Virginia turned to look at her son, who was seated beside her. He threw down his napkin, pushed back his chair, and stood up from the table. “You’ve got to be kidding!” he said.
“Please, Teddy, sit down. Please!” cried Marika.
“Well,” said Joe after a moment had passed. “Congratulations are certainly in order.” He held up his glass.
“I’m sorry, Peachie,” said Teddy, “but I’m afraid I can’t deal with this. Come on, Marika, we’re leaving.”
“Please, Teddy, we can’t leave here now. We can’t leave all of this!” Marika gestured to the table, to the food, to the circle of people.
Bernard, his arm around Aimee, stared at his son. Aimee had her eyes pinched shut. Virginia knew Aimee was wishing that she was anywhere else except at this dinner table, with these people. She would have liked to have felt sorry for Aimee, but her heart was entirely focused on Rachel. She and Dennis would never make their announcement now. Bernard had stolen her moment from her, stolen not just that. Bernie, Virginia thought, how could you do this to her? How could you do this to our Peachie?
Rachel was looking at her father sitting next to her. Virginia could see how hard she was working to arrange her face so she wouldn’t betray how she was feeling.
A
DAM HADN’T PLANNED ON GOING HOME FOR THANKS
giving, but Kim had invited him to spend the holiday with her family, who lived nearby, and he needed an excuse to avoid going. He was afraid if he stayed in his apartment he might feel so sorry for himself he’d end up accepting Kim’s invitation, or worse, she’d discover he was alone and arrive on his doorstep with a platter of stuffing, gravy-soaked mashed potatoes, and turkey smeared with cranberry sauce, covered in tinfoil.
It was too late to get a plane reservation, so Adam drove out to Western Pennsylvania, calling his folks to let them know he was coming when he stopped for gas along the interstate. His parents still lived in the brick farmhouse where he’d grown up. They’d chosen to live out in the country, rather than in Pittsburgh, where his father worked, because they felt it was healthier for children, but the farmland around them had ended up being strip-mined. As a kid Adam had been fascinated by the excavation project, and sorry when the land was finally restored. But he’d taken a different view of strip mining when he began working on his new novel, which was set in the area. Though the hills had been returned to something resembling their original gentle contours, the landscape had been irrevocably altered. He’d first described the coal as a cancer that had been hollowed out of the earth, the skin then folded back over the incision. But that metaphor made the mining seem curative rather than exploitative. Coal was an intrinsic and ancient part of the earth. And though the fields had been reseeded, they were like scar tissue, covering the place where a vital—and in this case healthy—organ had been removed. Driving through these hills now, he felt as if the landscape he had been conjuring in his mind had been waiting for his return. It was vividly corroborating the sorrowful past he’d been trying to document.
When he arrived at his parents’ house, Adam made his way through the gauntlet of relatives and deposited his duffel bag on the twin bed in his old bedroom. While the room his two sisters had shared had been turned into a study, his bedroom had been preserved intact, a shrine to his adolescence. The wall over his desk displayed a mortifying collection of documents testifying to his supposedly exemplary youth: his science fair award, his commendation from the youth symphony orchestra, his literary contest honorable mention. He thought he’d stack them all in the closet, but when he lifted the first framed certificate off the wall, it left a rectangle whiter than the wall surrounding it, a ghost of his achievement. At the family dinner, he bore up as well as he could under his parents’ undiluted approbation, their enthusiasm for his girlfriend, Kim, whom they had seen pictures of, and their admiration for his job. He made more money than either of his parents ever did—a source of embarrassment for him and pleasure for them. He put up with numerous jokes about shoes. Several relatives wanted to know when they could read “this book” of his, and he cornered his mother in the kitchen to set this straight.
“I’m not even done writing it,” he told her. “And even if I do finish it, I don’t know that I’ll get anyone to publish it.”
His mother wiped her hand on her apron before laying it on the side on his cheek. “Of course you will,” she said.
At night, after a halfhearted attempt to help with dishes, he went out with his cousin Rick and got so drunk that he confessed his job sucked and all he wanted to do was work on his novel, but he didn’t breathe a word about Gillian. Even if he was totally wasted, he wouldn’t breathe a word about her.
THE LEOPARDIS
had planned only one meeting after Thanksgiving. Then there would be a long break until after Christmas. Adam would have been happy to meet every week, but everyone else, except possibly Chris, had too much going on over the holiday season. It was unbearable for Adam to think of going so long without seeing Gillian, but seeing her at the group’s meetings was unbearable as well.
Kim believed he had been what she called “moody” because of problems at work, and he did not correct her. Things at work were shitty—Phil, a guy whom he had once thought of as a friend, had edged him out on a project—but he didn’t really care. He just wanted to write, and when he sold his novel (dared he even think that? shouldn’t it be
if
?) he’d tell his job to go to hell and never look at another cross trainer again. Kim cleaned out his refrigerator for him, she bought a gizmo with wooden balls to massage his back, she made him pancakes, arranging the blueberries into a face with two eyes and a smile, the color of a bruise. It was easier to make love to her than not.
He went with Kim, Christmas shopping at the mall. She wanted him to buy new jeans.
“The ones I’ve got are fine,” he told her.
“I’d like you to get some that really fit,” she said. “Something a little stylish.”
“They’re just jeans,” he said, but he tried on various pairs for her: boot cut, straight leg, wide leg, and bought two, to please her. He kept thinking about what Gillian might like—if she noticed something like the fit of jeans. He wasn’t sure.
Kim was knitting him a sweater for Christmas. It was a complicated pattern, which involved a lot of needles with points at both ends and seemed to require more than her two hands. He knew he had to get her a Christmas gift, and he slowed as they walked past a kiosk displaying silver jewelry. Earrings were safe: they didn’t seem like a commitment of any sort. Adam ran his finger along a row, setting the dangling shapes in motion.
“Do you like any?” he asked Kim.
“These are nice,” she said. She was looking at a row of studs with nautical themes: starfish, dolphins, scallop shells. “Who are they for?”
Adam didn’t say anything, but he smiled, and Kim gave a little “ooh” when she realized he meant her. He bought her dolphins impaled on silver posts.
“Do I have to wait until Christmas?” she asked.
“Nah,” he said.
She took off the earrings she was wearing and inserted the new ones, admiring them in the mirror by the display. From a distance they looked more like crescent moons than tiny dolphins, perpetually leaping up in the air, over Kim’s soft earlobes.
THE LEOPARDIS MET AT NANCY’S HOUSE.
It was the first time Nancy had hosted a meeting, and it was clear that she’d gone to great lengths, baking a coffee ring, cranberry bread, and lemon squares. Mugs, glasses, and spoons were lined up evenly along the counter, a stack of cocktail napkins fanned out beside them. There was coffee, tea, cider, beer, and wine. Adam helped himself to a beer and was about to drink from the bottle when he thought better of it and poured it into a glass.
“We’re not accustomed to such splendor,” said Bernard. “Nancy, you’ll make someone a fine little wife someday.”
Adam thought Virginia looked as if she might smack him.
Nancy was obviously used to Bernard. “I intend to do just that,” she said. “And if you’re good, you’ll be invited to the wedding.”
“Who’s getting married?” asked Chris, who had just come into the room.
“Our beloved Nancy,” said Bernard.
“Will I be invited to the wedding?” asked Chris.
“I’ll invite you all,” said Nancy.
“Ignore Chris,” said Virginia. “You’re too gracious. You’re not obliged to invite any of us.”
“I don’t see it as an obligation,” said Nancy, but Adam guessed that, in fact, she might.
Gillian didn’t turn up until they were about ready to begin. He watched her cast her eyes around Nancy’s living room, appraising it, and wondered what the source was of the look of faint amusement on her face—the coasters laid out on the coffee table? the bowl of pinecones? the crocheted pillow that was probably a kid’s craft project?
“Hello, Adam,” Gillian said when she saw him. You would think there had never been anything between them.
Chris had a revised section of his novel that he wanted to read.
“It’s the courtroom event that was referred to in the version I read a few weeks ago,” he said. “You all suggested I develop it as a scene. So here it is.”
“I don’t believe I remember that,” said Bernard.
“It was my suggestion,” said Gillian. “As you once put it so persuasively, Bernard, we’re all deeply supportive of each other’s literary efforts.”
Chris cleared his throat ostentatiously.
Outside the Westshire County Courthouse, it felt more like August than April. Tulips, planted by the city, had succumbed to the heat a week before. The area around the ashtray by the door was scattered with butts that had missed their mark.
“As you see, there’s a break here,” said Chris. “I’m not sure if I want to leave it this way or connect the narrative better.”
“Just read,” said Gillian.
Chris started to say something, then went back to his manuscript:
No one would have picked him out. In the overheated third-floor room of the courthouse, fifty citizens waited to see if they were stuck with jury duty. It was only 8:30, but already hot. The chairs were set in rows facing a TV at the front, tuned to a cooking show. The reception was so bad it looked like it had been filmed in a snow squall. Two ceiling fans struggled to stir the warm air.
Some of the people dozed, some watched TV, some read. No one paid particular attention to the man in the second row. If they noticed anyone, it would have been the woman with tattoos banding her flabby arm. Or the kid with the chains who looked more likely to be on trial than judging one. The man had an Ivy League look. The kind of tan you get on a sailboat, not working in a field. He wore a blue striped shirt and neat, navy slacks. But the shoes were all wrong—hiking boots with mud still on them. Mud not more than a day old. He appeared to be dozing, but he wasn’t dozing.
Chris continued reading at his usual speed but slowed for the last part of the chapter, when the whole jury pool was sent to a courtroom for possible impaneling.
One by one the jurors were called up to the bench and the judge decided who to excuse. The defendant’s lawyer stood between him and the court stenographer. The defendant wore a suit obviously bought for the trial. He had a recent haircut.
The prosecuting attorney was a blonde in a lime green dress. Her dress clashed with the blue curtains and the American flag by the window. Both attorneys eyed each potential juror. No one eyed them more intently than the defendant, the man accused of a dozen rape charges and sixteen counts of indecent assault and battery.
“I think I must be missing something,” said Virginia. “Is the defendant Alfie Jurack?”
“Not Alfie,” said Chris, “his buddy.”
“Refresh me, please,” said Bernard. “Who is the gentleman with the tan. Not Dreever?”
“You’re not supposed to know yet,” said Chris.
“But he is relevant, I presume,” said Bernard.
“You bet,” said Chris.
“It should be
whom,
not
who,
” said Gillian.
“
Whom
is the gentleman with the tan?” asked Chris.
“One by one the jurors were called up to the bench and the judge decided
whom
to excuse,” said Gillian irritably.
“I was kidding, Gillian,” said Chris. “I knew what line you meant. And although you might not believe I know a direct object when I see one, I’d like to defend my word choice as an acceptable colloquialism.”
“Shabby grammar is never acceptable,” said Gillian.
“But we do need to be sensitive to narrative voice,” said Bernard. “In this case
who
—though I admit it makes me uncomfortable—might be a reasonable alternative. It’s the author’s call.”
“My guess is a copy editor will catch it,” said Nancy, “and request you change it.”
“I spend half my life defending my prose against copy editors,” said Chris.
“I’d like to address the overall effect of the scene,” said Virginia. “It catches our attention. We want to find out who this man is, and what he’s plotting. It does seem as if something’s going to occur as a result of his presence at this trial. Chris, as always, you create suspense quite beautifully. The descriptions have your usual economy. I might suggest the references to the heat at the beginning seem redundant.”
Chris flipped back to the first page of his manuscript. “I guess I might not need
warm
air,” he said. “
Stale?
”
“Just
air
would suffice,” said Virginia.
“I agree with Virginia,” said Nancy. “The scene does arouse our interest. And that jury room seems so real—I was stuck on a jury recently; I wasn’t actually called, though. I wonder if you might reconsider the word
blonde
for the attorney.”
“She is blond,” said Chris.
“That’s hair color,” said Nancy. “You called her ‘a blonde,’ which has a different tone than ‘she was blond.’ ”
“I think the tone’s intentional,” said Adam. He hadn’t planned on saying anything, but he wanted Gillian to notice him, to acknowledge he was there. “It’s the narrator’s attitude—cheeky.”
“If that’s what Chris intends,” said Nancy, “that’s one thing. But I thought the narrator was more neutral.”
“I’d like to comment on the stereotype of the ‘Ivy League look,’ ” said Gillian.