Chapter 8
The LEGO club was more like the LEGO cult.
When I tell you these children and their families love those toys, I am not lyin’.
Not only did they bring an ungodly amount of LEGO bricks, but they also had clothes and shoes and jewelry encrusted in them.
Elijah must have felt like a loser with the one little section of his backpack full of the hard, foot-maiming toys.
Nonetheless, he had found his people. After meeting the leaders of the group and making sure Elijah felt comfortable, I wandered back to the main part of the library to take a gander at books.
The nostalgic smell of aged paper and ink inside the ancient library brought me a sense of peace.
I was thumbing through a Victoria Christopher Murray book I’d been meaning to read, when Eileen sang out my name.
“Joyce! So good to see you!”
“Yes, hello. I’m here with my grandson. LEGO club.”
“Wonderful.”
It did my heart good to witness the glint in her eye. Always a pleasure to be welcome.
“We’re about to start the group meeting I was telling you about.”
“The desperate group?” I’m still not sure how that slipped out, except to say that it was what I’d named it in my mind.
Eileen poked out her lips. “No… That’s not us. Though I do feel desperate sometimes, with the rise in inflation.”
“Okay,” I agreed emphatically, still in disbelief that I’d said what I thought I was only thinking.
“No, this is the group of women who started out as a Silent Book Club chapter, but we talked too much, so we just decided we’d come and talk about life and maybe recommend books to each other. Off the record, we call ourselves ‘the Chapter Chatters.’”
The name gave me a laugh, and Eileen led me into the group without protest. The meeting room was cozy, with a scattering of chairs arranged in a loose circle.
The walls were lined with bookshelves overflowing with worn paperbacks, their spines faded from years of handling.
A framed print of a field of bluebonnets hung by the window, adding a splash of color to the otherwise beige walls.
For a small Texas town, the group was more racially diverse than I’d expected. Two of the women appeared to be of Latina heritage. There were three White women, including Eileen, and there was one other Black woman besides me. All of us had at least a few gray hairs.
“Everyone, this is Joyce.”
The group said a collective “Hello,” and then, upon Eileen’s direction, each woman introduced herself.
The only one whose name slipped into my long-term memory was Sonia, because that was my best friend’s name back in high school.
This Sonia, however, was White and reminded me of Julia Roberts, with huge, floppy, artsy earrings.
I admire people who wear statement jewelry; they’re braver than the rest of us.
Eileen put me on the spot. “Anything you want to tell us about yourself?”
“Well, ummm…I just moved here. This is my father’s hometown. Recently divorced. I’m here in this meeting because my grandson is here, playing with the LEGO club. And I need an electrician and a handyman because my oven broke.”
I’d sandwiched the d-word because it wasn’t the most important part about me.
And I’d included it because I didn’t want to endure questions about my marital status or my husband—What does he do?
People always want to know what your husband does so they can figure out where you are on the income ladder.
“That was random.” The lady with the ’80s bangs gave a friendly cackle. “But welcome. Half of us here are divorced, so we understand.”
“Twice.”
“I hold the record. Three times,” a brunette—who had overdone it with her lip injections, in my opinion—confessed.
“Oh, and my husband is a handyman,” one of the White women noted. “His name’s Wardell. I’ll give you his number.”
The Latina woman whose bun was held in place by chopsticks squinted at me, a silent warning that needed no explanation.
Eileen cleared her throat. “Maybe later, Christine.”
Everyone except Christine nodded. Somebody said, “Yes. Later.”
Someone else mumbled, “Much later.”
Christine tsked and said, “Wardell is much improved. We’ve been to counseling for four months.”
“He’s still too frisky. He’s gonna need more training before we unleash him on the new girl,” Sonia said.
Christine rolled her eyes. “I hate y’all.”
And then they all laughed, Christine included.
While I’d already reached my drama quota for the day, I appreciated the transparency in the group. Everybody knew there was a problem with Wardell, including his wife, and they were talking through it.
“I met Wardell this morning, already. He did assess the situation and gave a plan of action,” I said, hoping to redeem Christine. Her pitiful expression called to me, and I opened my big mouth.
“But did he flirt with you, Joyce?” Sonia asked.
“Right,” Christine piped up. “I want to know. Did he? And don’t be scared to tell the truth. That’s the one rule of Chapter Chatters: Don’t lie.”
What in the world had I walked into? My lips refused to budge.
“See how long it’s taking her to answer?” The woman in red elbowed Christine next to her.
Eileen intervened. “Joyce, you don’t have to answer.” She turned toward the group again. “Come on, y’all. It’s her first meeting.”
Christine’s eyes pleaded with me, however, for the truth about her husband. Who was I to deny her that information? On the other hand, who was I to break up a marriage? Just because mine had dwindled down to the size of a pea didn’t mean I wanted to shrivel someone else’s hope.
After a few more seconds of hesitation, I replied, “He was…friendly.”
Christine buried her face in her well-manicured hands, and I wished I’d never said anything at all.
The brunette shook her head. “It takes time.”
“How much time does it take for a man to stop cheating on his wife?” Christine asked—more frustrated than sad, it sounded.
“We cannot answer that ageless question,” Eileen stated in the solemn tone of a funeral director.
“Is cheating the reason your marriage ended?”
For some reason, I was happy to answer. “No. We divorced because my husband checked out emotionally a long time ago.”
A collective “Hmph,” arose, with nods of approval.
No one asked if we could have worked it out, if he was otherwise a good man.
No judgment. This was a room full of women who knew that relationships were hard work, and neither me nor Christine should be judged for deciding to stay or leave.
Unlike my daughter, Eric’s family, and even a few of my friends.
“How long were you married?”
Eileen said, “Althea, ladies, we’re not interviewing Joyce for a position.” And yet, Eileen’s slightly parted lips said she, too, wanted an answer.
I made note of the other Black woman’s name. Althea.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I—I think maybe I need to talk about it.” I knew no one in this room.
There was nothing to lose. And a part of me—the part that always tried to make everyone feel better—was happy to get the spotlight off Christine.
“We were married for thirty years. It’s a silver divorce. Two years ago.”
“Oh! So you’re still in your A.M. phase.”
“What’s that, Lupita?”
Lupita—Latina woman with long eyelashes and a chin dimple.
“A.M. means ‘anti-man.’ I’m Valerie—it’s a Valerie-ism. It’s the time right after a divorce when you can’t stand men. Like, you woke up mad at them. A.M. Get it?” She aimed the question at me.
Valerie—huge brown eyes with bushy brows.
“Yes, I do.” And her philosophy made sense. I was mad at men, on the whole, even if I didn’t want to be. “What about P.M.?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve been A.M. for seven years now. And my lady parts are not happy about it.”
The room roared with laughter, and I let myself shift into sister mode. Guard down, giggles ready to spill out at any moment. Finally, a safe space.
Eileen’s neck reddened. “Does anyone have a book to recommend?”
Althea snorted. “Not one that’s better than our discussion.”
It took us a minute to reel in our laughter.
Sonia held up a hand. “Seriously, y’all. I’ve been married since I turned nineteen. I’ve never wanted anyone except my Paul. He’s as good as God made ’em. But there are days when I wonder if we’re gonna make it.”
“Make it to where?” Christine asked. “There is no destination except death. Isn’t that what makes a marriage successful—just staying together until one of us dies? Does it matter if you wanted to kill the other person the whole darn time?”
The one woman whose name I still hadn’t learned shook her head. “You can’t even say a cuss word, can you?”
Christine sat up straighter. “No, I was taught that cussing is unladylike.”
“Well, I don’t trust people who don’t cuss,” Sonia blurted out. “It ain’t normal!”
“Hell no, it ain’t!” Sonia gave Lupita a high five.
“But, real talk, you could probably get away with whooping Wardell a time or two. You’ve got that over-civilization syndrome. I saw it on a Hulu show. True crime.”
“Is that like affluenza?” Lupita asked.
“Kind of. She’d been socialized to be perfect.
Somehow, the wife was found not guilty,” Sonia informed us, though I couldn’t imagine anyone in Texas over the age of forty who hadn’t heard about Candy Montgomery.
Even if they hadn’t heard of her back then, her story was all over the streaming networks.
“We are not planning violent acts as we convene on library property,” Eileen declared, followed by, “But we do have a book about that case on our shelves.”
Sonia pointed. “Give it to Christine.”
Christine playfully slapped her hand away.
“She doesn’t have to kill him,” Lupita pointed out. “She just has to leave him. You know what they say—the minute you leave a man, he suddenly becomes everything you ever wanted him to be.”
That explained Eric making breakfast for Elijah. And Breanne.