The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires - Grady Hendrix Page 0,3
in banking and Joanie Wieter’s husband did something with the stock market and they might have investments there. “But I know there are many sides to the issue, and I wonder if anyone wanted to present another point of view. In the spirit of Mr. Paton’s book, this should be a conversation, not a speech.”
Everyone was nodding. Her soul settled back into her body. She had done it. She had survived. Marjorie cleared her throat.
“Patricia,” Marjorie asked. “What did you think about what the book had to say about Nelson Mandela?”
“So inspirational,” Patricia said. “He simply towers over everything, even though he’s really just mentioned.”
“I don’t believe he is,” Marjorie said, and Slick Paley stopped nodding. “Where did you see him mentioned? On which page?”
Patricia’s soul began ascending into the light again. Good-bye, it said. Good-bye, Patricia. You’re on your own now…
“His spirit of freedom?” Patricia said. “It pervades every page?”
“When this book was written,” Marjorie said. “Nelson Mandela was still a law student and a minor member of the ANC. I’m not sure how his spirit could be anywhere in this book, let alone pervading every page.”
Marjorie drilled into Patricia’s face with her ice-pick eyes.
“Well,” Patricia croaked, because she was dead now and apparently death felt very, very dry. “What he was going to do. You could feel it building. In here. In this book. That we read.”
“Patricia,” Marjorie said. “You didn’t read the book, did you?”
Time stopped. No one moved. Patricia wanted to lie, but a lifetime of breeding had made her a lady.
“Some of it,” Patricia said.
Marjorie let out a soul-deep sigh that seemed to go on forever.
“Where did you stop?” she asked.
“The first page?” Patricia said, then began to babble. “I’m sorry, I know I’ve let you down, but the babysitter had mono, and Carter’s mother is staying with us, and a snake came out of the commode, and everything’s just been so hard this month. I really don’t know what to say except I’m so, so sorry.”
Black crept in around the edges of her vision. A high-pitched tone shrilled in her right ear.
“Well,” Marjorie said. “You’re the one who’s lost out, by robbing yourself of what is possibly one of the finest works of world literature. And you’ve robbed all of us of your unique point of view. But what’s done is done. Who else would be willing to lead the discussion?”
Sadie Funche retracted into her Laura Ashley dress like a turtle, Nancy Fox started shaking her head before Marjorie even reached the end of her sentence, and Cuffy Williams froze like a prey animal confronted by a predator.
“Did anyone actually read this month’s book?” Marjorie asked.
Silence.
“I cannot believe this,” Marjorie said. “We all agreed, eleven months ago, to read the great books of the Western world and now, less than one year later, we’ve come to this. I am deeply disappointed in all of you. I thought we wanted to better ourselves, expose ourselves to thoughts and ideas from outside Mt. Pleasant. The men all say, ‘It’s not too clever for a girl to be clever,’ and they laugh at us and think we only care about our hair. The only books they give us are cookbooks because in their minds we are silly, lightweight know-nothings. And you’ve just proven them right.”
She stopped to catch her breath. Patricia noticed sweat glistening in her eyebrows. Marjorie continued:
“I strongly suggest y’all go home and think about whether you want to join us next month to read Jude the Obscure and—”
Grace Cavanaugh stood, hitching her purse over one shoulder.
“Grace?” Marjorie asked. “Are you not staying?”
“I just remembered an appointment,” Grace said. “It entirely slipped my mind.”
“Well,” Marjorie said, her momentum undermined. “Don’t let me keep you.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Grace said.
And with that, the tall, elegant, prematurely gray Grace floated out of the room.
Robbed of its velocity, the meeting dissolved. Marjorie retreated to the kitchen, followed by a concerned Sadie Funche. A dispirited clump of women