\u201cI need a good book.\u201d Mary Jane Russell stared at the graying part\u00a0at the top of\u00a0her mother\u2019s head, a dull line between the tightly permed blonde curls on the rest of her head. They were in Betty Russell\u2019s dining room having their Friday night tuna, egg noodles, and cheese casserole. Betty used her fork to scrape a shred of tuna from between her teeth, speaking as she did.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t get your fascination with books. Television and movies were good enough for your father and me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI remember you reading,\u201d Mary Jane said.<\/p>\n
Betty rolled her eyes. \u201cYour father enjoyed a few books, as do I\u2014and of course, we read our Bibles.\u201d Scooping a spoonful of saltine cracker crumbs from the top of the casserole bowl, she blew on them before placing it on her tongue. \u201cAre you looking for fact or fiction?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMy book club members don\u2019t care for non-fiction.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen why did you ask for my advice?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI wasn\u2019t asking for advice. I was commenting on my need to find a book to recommend for next week\u2019s meeting.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI think reading a book every week is a bit taxing. You\u2019ve got your real estate business to think about, and the others in your group have jobs and responsibilities. Some of them have children. They were fruitful and multiplied.\u201d Betty drew in her lips and narrowed her eyes as she watched her daughter push a chunk of tuna around her plate with her fork.<\/p>\n
Mary Jane lowered her head for a moment, then raised her eyes and looked across the table at Betty. \u201cReading a good book is balm for the soul, Mother, and the book club is good for business. It\u2019s all part of networking. Jane Corson is a real estate lawyer, and Sandy Perkins works with new employees at the university. They\u2019re both good contacts for my agency.\u201d<\/p>\n
Betty sighed. \u201cJesus is balm enough for the soul.Your father and I never let reading get out of hand, and why join a club? If you read a book, read it quietly, keep it to yourself, and attend to business.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t remember Daddy reading anything except the newspaper, Sports Illustrated, <\/em>and car repair manuals.\u201d<\/p>\n Betty arched her eyebrows and leaned toward Mary. \u201cYour father was a man of substance and faith.\u201d<\/p>\n Mary Jane looked at her mother in silence.<\/p>\n They ate tuna casserole. Their forks clicking against the plates were the only sound in the room. After several minutes, Betty left the table. Mary Jane continued to eat as she stared at the print of Currier and Ives\u2019 \u201cHome for Thanksgiving\u201d on the wall behind where her mother had been sitting. Faded, the glass dusty, it had once hung on her grandmother\u2019s dining room wall beside a copy of the Lord\u2019s Prayer. She had been looking at it for as long as she could remember.<\/p>\n Betty returned with a book and handed it to Mary Jane. \u201cYour father was reading this book when he passed on. He kept it on the back of the toilet in his bathroom.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cInside the Crosshairs: Snipers in Vietnam<\/em>. \u201cDaddy read this?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cReligiously, a few pages every morning as he went about his business in there.\u201d<\/p>\n Opening the book to the first chapter, Mary Jane read aloud. \u201c\u2018All in a Day\u2019s Work: The Single Well-Aimed Shot.\u2019 That\u2019s a chilling title for a chapter.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBorrow it if you\u2019d like,\u201d Betty said. \u201cYour father said it was chapter and verse on how to be a good sniper. He wished there\u2019d been a book like that when he was over there.\u201d<\/p>\n Mary Jane continued reading. \u201c\u2018In terms of economics, the innovative use of snipers in Vietnam meant that nearly every bullet produced a body count\u2014a statistic drastically different from bullet to body ratios for other wars…\u2019 I don\u2019t think my book club would care for this.\u201d Closing the book with a loud clap, she slid it toward her mother.<\/p>\n \u201cJust leave it on the table, dear. I\u2019ll put it back in your father\u2019s bathroom after we do the dishes.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s been dead for five years and it\u2019s still his bathroom?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI have mine, he has his. There\u2019s no reason to take his away from him.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s dead, Ma. He\u2019s not coming back. The dead stay dead.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t need two bathrooms. I leave his just as it was the last time he used it: the toilet lid up, his toothbrush on the side of the sink, and that book on the back of the toilet tank. Besides, Lazarus came back. Jesus raised him up. The Bible says the saved will arise on the Day of Judgment and ascend into Heaven singing and dancing and clapping. We\u2019ll follow Jesus up a golden staircase to the foot of God\u2019s throne and sing his praises for eternity. It\u2019s possible that between the time Jesus resurrects your father and the time we follow him up the golden staircase, your father will need to go to the bathroom. It will be a comfort to him to find it just as he left it, with a full roll of toilet paper and a good book to read.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t think the Bible says anything about singing and dancing and following Jesus up a golden staircase.\u201d Mary Jane covered her mouth with her hand. She didn\u2019t like the idea of spending eternity singing praises to anyone or anything, but there was nothing to be gained by arguing with her mother. There was certainly nothing but a whirlwind to reap by telling her that making a shrine out of her husband\u2019s bathroom was pathetic. There was a time when she would have started an argument, one that would have ended with her mother shouting, crying, and going into her bedroom. She would slam the door and stay until Mary Jane went home, or to a bar where she\u2019d get drunk and complain about her mother to anyone who would listen.<\/p>\n It was after such an evening ten years earlier that she had driven across the Connecticut River into Turners Falls, ending up at a bar where she had spent hours washing shots of Jim Beam down with pints of beer. Later, driving back to Greenfield, she swerved to avoid a coyote standing in the middle of the road and crashed into a tree, totaling her car. She woke up in the hospital, a deep gash on her right cheek and her left leg missing from just above the knee. Now, by putting her hand over her mouth, she was telling herself to shut up and to allow Betty to see a smile when she lowered her hand. It was too costly to get worked up.<\/p>\n \u201cI suppose it doesn\u2019t matter as long as you\u2019ve got your bathroom and don\u2019t need Daddy\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ve no use for it.\u201d Patting the sniper book, she sighed. \u201cI still read books, sometimes.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s the last book you read, Ma?\u201d<\/p>\n Betty clicked a spoon against the edge of the dish, her brow wrinkled, and took a deep breath. \u201cPlumb Stupid, <\/em>or something like that.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHow was it?\u201d<\/p>\n She shrugged. \u201cI don\u2019t remember. Plumb stupid, probably.\u201d<\/p>\n They laughed and cleared the table. When the dishwasher was loaded and running, Mary Jane pulled on her jacket and kissed her mother\u2019s cheek.<\/p>\n \u201cNext Friday?\u201d<\/p>\n Betty smiled. \u201cNext Friday. Do you have a date tonight?\u201d<\/p>\n Mary Jane shook her head. \u201cNo. I\u2019ll go down to the Pint, have a beer, and listen to whoever\u2019s playing music.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t drive if you have more than one beer.\u201d<\/p>\n Mary Jane patted her prosthesis. \u201cI\u2019ll park at home and walk downtown.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u00a7\u00a7\u00a7<\/p>\n She stood at\u00a0the entrance to the People\u2019s Pint brew pub. Five fiddlers, a mandolin player and a guitarist at the rear of the room were playing French-Canadian tunes. There were no open stools at the bar, and all the tables were taken.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019ll be twenty, twenty-five minutes before I can seat you,\u201d the hostess said\u2014Angela, according to the plastic badge on her t-shirt.<\/p>\n Mary Jane sighed. \u201cI think I\u2019ll go home.\u201d<\/p>\n Angela pointed to a small round table where a man sat alone. \u201cYou could sit with Dr. Sawey. He teaches at the community college, and he\u2019s by himself.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know him.\u201d<\/p>\n Angela pointed at two full tables. \u201cThose people didn\u2019t know each other when they came in, but they all wanted to eat and drink and listen to the music, and I convinced them to sit together. They seem to be enjoying themselves. Dr. Sawey doesn\u2019t bite, and he isn\u2019t a lecher, in spite of the way he looks.\u201d<\/p>\n Mary Jane shrugged. \u201cSure, why not?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll introduce you to him. What\u2019s your name?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMary Jane.\u201d She followed Angela and stood beside her at Sawey\u2019s table.<\/p>\n \u201cHi, Dr. Sawey. This is Mary Jane. Can she join you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSure.\u201d Sawey stood and gestured for Mary Jane to sit. Tall and thin, she thought his wing bones looked as though they might cut through the back of his shirt. In his mid to late sixties, he was bearded, his hair pulled back in a gray ponytail, his shirt open to the third button, and there was a small POW\/MIA pin on his breast pocket\u2014a medallion with what appeared to be a cross embossed on it hung from a silver cord around his neck.<\/p>\n She sat and Angela handed her a menu.<\/p>\n \u201cHow\u2019re you doing, Ange?\u201d Sawey said.<\/p>\n \u201cDoin\u2019,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n \u201cThe divorce go through?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSix months ago.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe kids?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWith the creep. I see them Saturday afternoons for two hours.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHow\u2019s that going?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI can\u2019t be with them without a social worker in the room.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019ll get better.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, right.\u201d She gave him a quick smile and walked back to her stand by the entrance.<\/p>\n \u201cTed Sawey,\u201d he said, holding out his hand.<\/p>\n \u201cMary Jane Russell.\u201d She looked at his medallion.<\/p>\n He held it out for her inspection. \u201cYou think it\u2019s a cross, right?\u201d<\/p>\n Mary Jane\u2019s face felt warm.<\/p>\n \u201cMost people do at first glance. It\u2019s a T<\/em>, for Theodore. There\u2019s no way I\u2019d wear a cross.\u201d<\/p>\n She was about to say \u2018if it walks like a cross and quacks like a cross\u2019 when the waiter came. She ordered a turkey burger and pale ale. By the time the waiter left, she had decided her comment was better left unsaid.<\/p>\n \u201cThe hostess said she\u2019d had a Lit. class with you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAngela,\u201d he said. \u201cGood student the first semester, burned out the second. Her husband left, took the kids. She was drunk and drugged up for months. Got an A the first semester, flunked the second.\u00a0\u00a0 I helped her get into rehab.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDo you give that kind of help to all your students?\u201d<\/p>\n He made an evil smile. \u201cJust the ones I want to have sex with.\u201d<\/p>\n She puffed air and shook her head. \u201cYou\u2019re that kind of professor?\u201d<\/p>\n Sawey laughed. \u201cNo. I wanted to see your reaction. That\u2019s the kind of professor I am. I say outrageous things and sit back to watch peoples\u2019 expressions.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n He was silent for a moment. \u201cI suppose because if they were true, I\u2019d be more interesting than I am, and I\u2019d get laid more.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re not interesting?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t find myself interesting.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat does interest you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBooks. Writers. Students.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cStudents you can screw?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re a piece of work, Mary Jane.\u201d He smiled. \u201cI\u2019m interested in students who show promise and progress. students I can help grow.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re an altruist.\u201d<\/p>\n He shook his head. \u201cI\u2019m a teacher.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMaybe an English professor is just what I need.\u201d<\/p>\n He laughed. \u201cThat\u2019s something I\u2019ve never heard anyone say. Why?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m the president of the Greenfield Saturday Night Book Club.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPresident? A book club needs a president?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSomebody has to organize things.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThen call yourself Convener, or Secretary, or Club Chair. Anything but President.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong with President?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re asking for a lecture.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSo lecture me.\u201d<\/p>\n He cleared his throat. \u201cPresidents like to present themselves as saviors, but they\u2019re all egomaniacs who crave power, demand respect and do anything to get their way. Presidents of powerful nations or self-proclaimed presidents-for-life who have assumed dictatorial power over people they claim to represent, presidents of tiny island nations, presidents of ivy league universities and rural community colleges, presidents of corporations, city councils, school committees, neighborhood watch associations, presidents of rod and gun clubs, yacht clubs, community cable television stations boards of directors, presidents of Polish-American, Italian-American, Hispanic-American, Sino-American, Irish-American, Afro-American, Mayflower-American, Native-American, Serbo-Croation-American societies, presidents of hospital boards, bar associations, medical associations, teachers unions, prep school boards of trustees, truckers unions, trucking companies, tea parties, presidents of animal rescue centers and country clubs, presidents of legislative bodies and presidents of book clubs; all of them cry \u2018respect me\u2019, \u2018love me\u2019, \u2018obey me\u2019, \u2018give me my way because I know what is best for you, my people and the cause I serve. I am your savior, worship me.\u2019 I don\u2019t have much use for saviors.\u201d<\/p>\n Mary Jane choked on her beer laughing. People at the next table applauded.<\/p>\n \u201cYou don\u2019t think much of presidents,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n \u201cA president cost me my right leg.\u201d He pulled up the right leg of his jeans to reveal an artificial leg. \u201cNixon winding down the war in Vietnam did this to me.\u201d<\/p>\n Mary Jane pulled up the left leg of her slacks.<\/p>\n \u201cDamn,\u201d Sawey said.<\/p>\n \u201cJim Beam and a \u201994 Mercury did this to me.<\/p>\n \u201cWhiskey and a god, eh?\u201d Sawey laughed.<\/p>\n Mary Jane smiled. \u201cBesides Nixon, what did it to you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cA land mine. Another guy stepped on it, and I was too close. His death saved me, but I paid for it with my right leg.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBetter that than your right arm.\u201d<\/p>\n Sawey clasped his hands behind his head and chuckled. \u201cWhere in the hell did you come from, Ms. Mary Jane?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI live within walking distance of this place, on Congress Street.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIs walking distance any shorter for you than it is for someone with two natural legs?\u201d<\/p>\n She shook her head. \u201cIs it for you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI run marathons.\u201d He unclasped his hands and let his open palms slap against the table top. \u201cAnd I live one block away from you on Grinnell Street. How is it that I\u2019ve never seen you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t spend my time with academic types.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSmart move. I prefer the company of the maintenance staff to most of my colleagues at the college. Janitors and Plumbers and electricians and groundskeepers don\u2019t believe they\u2019re God\u2019s gift to the ignorant. They\u2019re also usually better card players, better deer hunters, better drinkers, and a good many of them are better and smarter people than most of my fellow faculty members. What do you do for a living?\u201d<\/p>\n The waiter brought her turkey burger and pale ale. She answered as she took a bite. \u201cI sell real estate.\u201d She took a card from her purse and laid it on the table.<\/p>\n \u201cRussell Realty, so that\u2019s you? I\u2019ve always liked the alliteration in your company\u2019s name.\u201d He slipped the card in his shirt pocket.<\/p>\n \u201cIt was unavoidable.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou said maybe I could help you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI need a good book.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMost people do, whether they know it or not.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMy mother tried to push a Vietnam book on me, In Back of the Crossed-eyes<\/em>, something like that, about snipers in Vietnam.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBehind the Crosshairs<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou know it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI lived it. Michael Lanning, the author, was my platoon leader when my leg got blown off. It\u2019s a terrible book, frightening.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMy book club doesn\u2019t do non-fiction.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAll books are fiction. Everything\u2019s a fiction: history, sociology, psychology, physics, theology, and philosophy, even memory. All fictions. It\u2019s your book club, and you\u2019re the president?\u201d<\/p>\n Mary Jane washed a mouthful of turkey burger down with beer. \u201cIt\u2019s not my book club; it\u2019s just a book club, although starting it was my idea, and we\u2019ve been calling me the president since the beginning.\u201d She smiled. \u201cI could be called something else.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt doesn\u2019t matter. I like to rant.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAny ideas about a book for me?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI wrote a novel about Vietnam. It\u2019s my only book. Scribners published it, and it lost a lot of money. Never even made the New York Times <\/em>Worst Seller list, and it\u2019s long out of print. I\u2019ll give you copies if you think your book club would read it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s the title?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cA Farewell to Glory<\/em>. It\u2019s derivative. Everything I write is derivative. It\u2019s the fate of the English professor.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIf we read it, would you come to our meeting?\u201d<\/p>\n He emptied his glass. \u201cLet\u2019s go back to my place.\u201d<\/p>\n She waved a hand in the air near his face. \u201cWhy professor Sawey, you\u2019re awfully forward.\u201d<\/p>\n He flushed and shook his head. \u201cFor the copies of my novel for your club.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s it about?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHave you read Hemingway?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo. He\u2019s too depressing. Wasn\u2019t he hung or something?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cProbably not well enough to suit him.\u201d<\/p>\n She looked at him in silence.<\/p>\n \u201cBesides,\u201d he said. \u201cIt\u2019s \u2018hanged\u2019 if you\u2019re talking about a person\u2019s suicide or execution, and how can you say he\u2019s depressing if you\u2019ve never read him?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBecause he hanged himself.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, he didn\u2019t. He blew his brains out. Suicide\u2019s a Hemingway family tradition.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSee, depressing. Why would I want to read him?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cTo understand.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cUnderstand what?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFutility. Despair. Beauty. Clarity. Nothingness. The perfect sentence. The death of God.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFutility and despair aren\u2019t good topics for someone who sells real estate, and the death of God certainly isn\u2019t for the Greenfield Saturday Night Book Club.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThen you probably wouldn\u2019t like my book. It\u2019s about the same things, just not as well written as Hemingway\u2019s stuff.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt would be different.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHow so?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIf you would speak to us, we wouldn\u2019t have to like the book so long as we like you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDo you think your members would like me?\u201d<\/p>\n She smiled. \u201cWhy wouldn\u2019t they?\u201d<\/p>\n Instead of answering, he asked, \u201cWhat are the last five books they\u2019ve read and discussed?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSense and Sensibility<\/em> by Jane Austen, Predator<\/em> by Patricia Cornwell, Wuthering Heights<\/em> by Emily Bronte, Notorious Nineteen<\/em> by Janet Evanovich, and Ellen Glascow\u2019s Barren Ground<\/em>. We like to mix older books with recent ones.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThey\u2019re not exactly uplifting stories.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut they\u2019re not about despair and nothingness.\u201d<\/p>\n He moved his head from side to side. \u201cThey\u2019re all by women. Why make an exception for me?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re local, and you\u2019re giving us the books.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ve got five cartons of them that I can\u2019t give away. Having you take them will be like a gift from Heaven.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGood. I\u2019ll finish my burger and beer, and we\u2019ll go to your place.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u00a7\u00a7\u00a7<\/p>\n \u201cI converted the\u00a0second and third floors into apartments,\u201d Ted Sawey said as they walked up to a large purple Victorian house. The gingerbread trim was painted the same pink as the trim around the windows and doors. The front door was a brilliant crimson.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ve wondered who lived here,\u201d Mary Jane said.<\/p>\n \u201cLike it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo. Every time I look at that purple, I shudder at the thought of trying to sell it. Especially in today\u2019s market.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou hate it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt would be a bear to sell, unless you repainted it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI have no intention of selling it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAre the apartments rented?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe second floor\u2019s got three bedrooms. An art professor and her son live there. She uses the third bedroom for a studio. The third floor\u2019s a one bedroom. A local prep school rents it for visiting faculty.\u201d<\/p>\n He opened the front door, and they walked into a large hall lit by a single spiral fluorescent bulb in a ceiling fixture. The staircase to the second floor was on the left and blocked by a door. A second door led to the first floor apartment. Three bicycles were lined up along the walls, secured by chains fastened to a pipe screwed along the top of the wainscoting. Several boxes were piled in one corner, and a series of pegs held jackets and scarves, boots and shoes scattered on the floor below them. Unlocking his door he ushered her into the living room, switching on the lights as they entered.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s beautiful,\u201d she said with surprise, looking at the paintings on the walls, the thick oriental rugs on the floor. Through a wide arch she could see into a study; soft lights shined on a wall of bookcases. \u201cYou\u2019d never know it was purple and pink on the outside.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCome see the kitchen.\u201d He led her through the study. Three of the walls were covered with crammed bookcases, some with books stacked on top of those that were upright. A light maple desk took up the entire width of the fourth wall. Covered with neat stacks of paper and half a dozen pens carefully lined up, the desk held a computer, its screensaver displaying a changing array of photographs: Tuscan hillside towns, English countryside villages, a series of cathedrals and churches. To the left of the computer was a framed picture of a young man in a graduation robe. Underneath the desk were five unopened cardboard cartons.<\/p>\n Mary Jane pointed to the picture. \u201cThat you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMy son.\u201d He picked the picture up, running a finger over its surface. \u201cHe\u2019s with the Special Forces in Afghanistan. I told him that war was just another president\u2019s folly, but he said he had to go.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI suppose to prove something to me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat does his mother think?\u201d<\/p>\n He shrugged and shook his head. \u201cWe haven\u2019t spoken in twenty years.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBad divorce?\u201d<\/p>\n He returned the picture to the desk. \u201cShe was a nun. I met her when I was teaching in California,\u201d he sighed. \u201cWe fell in love. She left the convent, and we spent a year in Paris, another in a Rada, a small town in Tuscany. We came back to the States, and I took a job teaching at a church-related college in upstate New York, figuring it would be an environment in tune with her religious sensibilities. We were happy enough, until she got pregnant. The thought of a baby freaked her out. I mean a total, absolute, mind-boggling freak out. She knelt by the couch in the living room and prayed day and night, wouldn\u2019t eat anything, and drank one glass of water a day. After five days of that, she passed out. When I picked her up to take her to a hospital, her knees were bloody from scraping against the rug. They released her from the hospital, and she disappeared. Seven months later, she showed up at my house with the baby. \u2018Take him,\u2019 she said. I never heard from her again.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou don\u2019t have any idea what happened to her?\u201d<\/p>\n He shook his head. \u201cFor all I know she could be in a convent, be a crack-whore in Salt Lake City, or a literary agent in New York. Let\u2019s look at the kitchen.\u201d<\/p>\n She stepped into the kitchen, exhaling in surprise. \u201cThis is beautiful. Even with that god-awful purple paint job, I could sell this house in no time.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s my sanctum,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201cI see why.\u201d<\/p>\n The floor was made of wide pine boards with a matte polyurethane finish. A large porcelain sink sat beneath a picture window, a stainless steel refrigerator on one side of it, a ten burner commercial cooking range on the other. The tops of the center island and counters were gray polished slate. Above white wainscoting, the walls were painted dusky red, the paintings on them lit by fixtures recessed in the ceiling. A table and chairs sat by a bank of casement windows. An arm chair in one corner faced a flat screen television mounted on the opposite wall. In another corner, a small monkey chattered and jumped around in a cage hanging from a hook in the ceiling, its eyes fixed on Sawey the moment he and Mary Jane entered the room.<\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s beautiful,\u201d she said, walking toward the monkey.<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t put your fingers near the cage. He bites. He\u2019s quite a nasty little fellow. When I let him out, which I do only when I\u2019m alone and at my most masochistic, he\u2019ll shit wherever he might be when the need comes on. He tears up books and newspapers, pees on my bed, and generally makes a mess of the whole place. If I\u2019m not careful, the little bastard will leap onto my back and hold on to my flesh until it bleeds. I can\u2019t shake him loose until he\u2019s ready to get off. I can jump up and down like a monkey myself, bang up against the wall, and the damned beast will hang on as though there\u2019s a purpose to what he\u2019s doing.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy keep him?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNobody wants him. I can\u2019t sell him or give him away. God knows I\u2019ve tried.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHow long have you had him?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSeven years. He\u2019s my personal plague.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy did you buy him?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI didn\u2019t. My mentor in the doctoral program at Drew University willed him to me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy keep him?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cTo remind me of what we came from.\u201d He pointed at the cage. The monkey turned around and stuck its ass as far out of the bars as it could. \u201cWe evolved from common ancestors, from things a lot like what he still is.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDoes he have a name?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cJesus H. Darwin.\u201d<\/p>\n She laughed. \u201cHe really is beautiful.\u201d<\/p>\n \u2018I hate him.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe reminds me of what we came from and what we\u2019ll return to when we devolve. I have fantasies of cutting him up and stuffing him down the garbage disposal.\u201d<\/p>\n Mary Jane gasped. \u2018You wouldn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI could. I really hate him.\u201d<\/p>\n Jesus chattered and jumped around the cage.<\/p>\n \u201cSomeday I\u2019ll shoot him, put my .22 pistol between his eyes, and be done with him.\u201d<\/p>\n Wrapping his fingers around the bars, Jesus shook with a fierceness that made the cage jump and rattle on its chain.<\/p>\n \u201cHe heard you,\u201d Mary Jane said with an uncomfortable laugh.<\/p>\n \u201cSometimes I wake up at those terrible hours of the night and think I hear him out here talking in tongues. I want him gone, dead. I put myself back to sleep imagining that I\u2019m strangling him. If he was gone, perhaps I could forget him, forget what he represents.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019d never forgive yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cForgiveness is overrated.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t agree.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s not worth arguing over. Would you like a cup of tea?\u201d<\/p>\n She shook her head. \u201cI\u2019ve got an early morning appointment to show a house. If I don\u2019t get to bed soon, I won\u2019t be at my real estate selling best tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll get the books.\u201d<\/p>\n She followed him into the study. He pulled a carton from under the desk and ripped it open with a box cutter.<\/p>\n \u201cHow many? I\u2019ve got more than I\u2019ll ever be able to get rid of.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWould fifteen be all right?\u201d<\/p>\n He took fifteen paperback books from the carton and stacked them in a brown grocery bag. \u201cIt\u2019s not a bad book.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMaybe the club members who actually read the books we discuss will think it\u2019s a good book,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n \u201cThere\u2019s no telling what makes a good book.\u201d He smiled. \u201cYou should reconstitute your club so that it doesn\u2019t have a president.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWe might do that.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPresidents come with baggage.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cEverything comes with baggage.\u201d<\/p>\n He pulled up his trouser leg and rested the heel of his prosthesis on the seat of the desk chair. \u201cShow me your leg again.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t you think this is a little odd?\u201d She pulled up her slacks and put her prosthesis next to his.<\/p>\n \u201cOf course. So what?\u201d<\/p>\n She laughed. \u201cWhen my mother asks me why I don\u2019t date, I tell her that at my age there are more single men than single women. The odds are good but the goods are odd. You\u2019re pretty odd.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWe haven\u2019t dated yet.\u201d<\/p>\n She picked the box cutter up from the desk, tapped her prosthesis and then tapped his. \u201cWe may be pathetic creatures, but we can do pretty neat things. There\u2019s not a monkey in the world that could make a fake leg to stand on.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThere\u2019s not.\u201d His voice was flat.<\/p>\n She picked up the bag. \u201cI have to go. Is your phone listed?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt is.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll call you with the date, time, and place of our next book club meeting.\u201d<\/p>\n He opened the doors for her and stood on the porch as she left. Starting down the sidewalk, she turned. \u201cThanks for the books.\u201d<\/p>\n He waved. \u201cSure.\u201d<\/p>\n She walked on, and he called to her. \u201cPerhaps I\u2019ll kill little Jesus tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n She turned again, their eyes locking. \u201cHow many times have you said that?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cEvery night but one for seven years. The first night I thought having his company was a blessing. The next day he was shredding the flesh on my back.\u201d \u00a0His face turned solemn. \u201cBut I need to get him off my back forever. Tonight will be my last night with little Jesus.\u201d<\/p>\n She thought his face was drawn and sad like that of a man in mourning. Waving one last time, she walked along the sidewalk. A cold wind blew against her face. The sky was dark, clouds covered the stars and the waning quarter moon. Halfway down the block, she heard a soft popping sound, like a single firecracker going off. She shivered once, wiped her eyes, and squaring her shoulders limped home carrying the bag, heavy with books.<\/p>\n No cars passed, and not another person walked along the pavement. Stopping on the sidewalk outside her house, she looked at the darkened windows but saw only the reflection of the street lamp on their blank surfaces. For the briefest moment she thought she heard a long soft moan, but quickly decided it was only the wind rushing through the bare limbs of the surrounding trees.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" \u201cI need a good book.\u201d Mary Jane Russell stared at the graying part\u00a0at the top of\u00a0her mother\u2019s head, a dull line between the tightly permed blonde curls on the rest of her head. They were in Betty Russell\u2019s dining room having their Friday night tuna, egg noodles, and cheese casserole. Betty used her fork to … Continue reading Saturday Night Book Club<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3604,"featured_media":955,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":"","_links_to":"","_links_to_target":""},"categories":[6854],"tags":[],"issue":[6874],"class_list":["post-898","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","issue-6874"],"publishpress_future_action":{"enabled":false,"date":"2026-07-09 19:27:22","action":"change-status","newStatus":"draft","terms":[],"taxonomy":"category","extraData":[]},"publishpress_future_workflow_manual_trigger":{"enabledWorkflows":[]},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/898","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3604"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=898"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/898\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/955"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=898"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=898"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=898"},{"taxonomy":"issue","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/issue?post=898"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}