Chapter 51 Cass

CHAPTER 51 CASS

2011

Charleston

The day I finished copyedits for the last book of The Very Last trilogy, I joined a book club for young moms. No, I was not a mom, nor did I consider myself young anymore, I though age is a peculiar dysmorphia afflicting all.

The story of how I joined this book club involved an interaction during which I behaved so out of character that I remember wondering if the two women involved could sense that I was stretching myself and took pity on me. I was wandering Charleston’s old streets—a favorite activity of mine. I would sometimes try to find the house that Ryan rented for the first movie shoot, years before. There’d been a paparazzi item showing the corner of a salmon-colored building; I would walk around and imagine her here or there or there, mentally build out scenes of those long-ago months. It made me briefly feel closer to her. Then I remembered that I was a cliché: pining after a movie star who clearly didn’t want me.

On this particular afternoon, I settled with a book on a park bench. A few minutes later two women with strollers approached. I was purposefully sitting in the middle to deter exactly this moment but could sense that one of the women really needed to sit. I moved over and she looked at me gratefully, tucked herself onto the edge with a relieved sigh, and lowered her shirt to begin breastfeeding. Her friend nodded at me, smiled.

I looked down at my open book but focused on their conversation. At some point I worried they would notice I hadn’t turned the page, so I turned one. Then another. Listening to people’s conversations both tempered my loneliness and informed my writing. I think the dialogue in the last installment of The Very Last was sharper, the beneficiary of this voyeurism.

My ears perked when they started talking about their book club, which was meeting that night. I don’t remember what that month’s pick had been, but it was one I had liked. The image of them in some warm living room eating freshly baked cookies, drinking wine, chatting about books felt so domestic and comforting that I contorted my body to face them and awkwardly asked, “Do you take new members for your book club?”

They looked taken aback. Not only had I been eavesdropping, but now I was inviting myself inside their homes? But they were good Southern women and quickly fixed their faces. The one standing was softly rocking her stroller and she said, as if this would gently disqualify me, “It’s actually for new moms.”

Me asking to join a club of moms! What was this world? I pictured Amanda staring at me, mouth agape. The two of us had always scoffed at anything even remotely domestic. Once, the mother of one of our theater camp castmates had baked chocolate chip cookies for everyone, and Amanda and I glanced at each other from across the folding table backstage and rolled our eyes. We never acknowledged the deep-seated truth underlying these moments, which was that we wholeheartedly, so much so that it would make us want to cry, wanted moms to bake us cookies. But also, I know we would have soon faced the truth of that, together.

I wished, as I did a dozen times a day, that I could talk to her.

Thankfully, the women didn’t bring their children to book club meetings, so I wasn’t forced to rent a baby. I did feel bad about lying that I had a kid. Sincerely, it wasn’t one of my finest moments. But I was desperately in need of some stress-free companionship, and what better place to hide than in a group of moms? I fielded a personal question here and there, but mostly I deflected, then easily turned the spotlight back onto the new organic baby toothpaste or other trendy products. (I did research.) Worked like a charm.

I really liked it. I liked what they had to say about the books we read. They often noticed things I hadn’t and articulated these observations with warmth and intelligence.

Which is why I was terrified when they chose my first book. One of them tossed it out at the end of that month’s meeting— hey, you know what would be fun? —and they all loved the idea. My take was that they thought of themselves as more literary—like National Book Award stuff—and The Very Last was a marshmallow. That didn’t offend me; it just made me worry they were going to take their sharp literary teeth and tear into my soft underbelly.

When the day came, I wasn’t planning to go. Why do that to myself? But that evening, I was too curious to stay away. I’d never had an opportunity like this, to hear readers talking about my books in a personal, intimate setting. The thought of it was intoxicating.

I went.

To my significant relief the conversation was going well. My book was holding its own in their eyes, which was satisfying to hear. Then when we seemed to be wrapping up, one of the women jumped in, said, “But one thing I can’t get over is how Samantha just walks away from Jeremiah? Just leaves him—her best friend? I just couldn’t understand, and I don’t know why the world still celebrates her afterward. It’s always bothered me. And nobody even mentions it.”

Everyone turned their heads and considered this. Then another woman asked, “Do you not like that in the world of the book nobody criticizes her, or that in this world—like here in our book club—nobody criticizes the characters who make up the world inside the book?” She mimicked her head exploding, then took a dainty bite of cookie. We all had whiplash yet leaned in to hear the answer.

The woman who made the first observation took a beat then said, “Both.”

I was sitting on the couch and leaned back, recrossed my legs. My foot was bouncing at the end of my leg, and I couldn’t make it stop. I looked around at the group and allowed myself a moment of awe amid the bubbling panic: Nobody gets to hear people’s honest appraisal of their work. These next few minutes would either be a gift or a descent into the depths of hell—it was hard to tell.

“I get that,” said another. “But it couldn’t be about their one single relationship in that moment. The world needed her to make the choice she did. For the greater good.”

Another woman pounced, like she’d been thinking about this topic all her life: “But isn’t it possible the author is trying to show us the most extreme example of the false binary the world presents us—that it’s either ambition or relationships?”

Let’s unpack that one, folks.

“Huh,” responded the woman, her head tilting dramatically, like she was looking at life from a new angle. “That’s really interesting.”

“I just think,” continued the woman who had pounced, “that the world—and maybe more accurately, society—is always trying to convince us that work will make us happy, that our ambition is healthy, pursuing it satisfying. That’s the great capitalist brainwashing, isn’t it?”

“Okay, that’s partially true, yes,” said the woman who had started this tangent. “Our society, in particular, seems to want us to believe that work will be a direct path to happiness, but we can’t pretend that work doesn’t matter. And also, Samantha leaves Jeremiah because she needs to help everyone in New York, to get them information—she saved thousands of lives. Whether her ambition drove that decision more than altruism, does it really matter?”

Now they were giving me far too much credit. I’d just wanted to soothe myself, while also winning the world’s praise and adulation… although, possibly, I’d just described every writer’s motivation since the beginning of time.

“But let’s get back to the key question,” said the woman in whose living room we sat. “Who thinks Samantha is a see-you-next-Tuesday for leaving Jeremiah to die? Let’s get an actual show of hands.”

Oh, goodness—a vote? I wanted to lean forward but stopped myself. Nine women present, including me. They laughed, a few of them awkwardly. The word cunt , even in euphemistic form, was a little subversive for these proper Southern ladies who drove golf carts to the dog park.

“Actual show of hands,” our host prompted again. “Who thinks Samantha is the worst—put ’em up.”

Four women raised their hands.

“And who thinks Samantha’s choice was… heroic?”

Four different hands.

I was aware that I needed to vote, but I couldn’t distill the question to its essence—at least, not fast enough to meet this deadline. Was I voting on Samantha being a terrible person, or me? Finally, I leaned forward and clasped my hands together, started rocking back and forth.

“We’ve got a lone holdout,” said our host, enjoying her time as emcee. “Cass, what say you? The deciding vote!”

The good news was that the other women thought my obvious discomfort was a performance.

“Yes, take your time,” one of them joked. “Choose wisely.”

I lifted my eyes, “Can I vote for… neither?”

A round of boos went up from a few of the women; it was quickly quieted by the others. The whole thing would have been fascinating if I’d been an impartial observer.

“I just can’t make a decision about her based on this one action—we’re all so much more, and less, than our best, or worst, moment,” I said. It sounded like a ridiculous cliché, but diving any deeper was out of the question. I’m not sure I would have resurfaced.

“She’s neither,” I added. “Final answer.”

“Ah, nuanced,” said our host, whose role had shifted suddenly to peacemaker. I flung myself back against the couch, feigned exhaustion.

Everyone laughed and then abruptly, book club was over.

I . Note from Cate: I remember when Amanda and I were seniors, a former student came to rehearsals, and when we were talking with her afterward, she mentioned that she’d just turned thirty. Amanda and I nearly fell over. We grabbed at each other to stay upright. Partly we were doing a bit, partly her age was inconceivable to us. Now I was that age; I was thirty years old.