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Taken by Ginny Atkins, Temporary Book Club Secretary (will work on a grander title—apparently Her Majesty is too much)
Members in attendance: Ginny (me!), Louise, Martina, Avis, Delphie, and Freddy
Book under discussion:Hamletby Shakespeare (Does he have a first name? Or was it just plain Shakespeare? Like how Moses or Cleopatra only have one name?)
Not sure what all to write here, only that Avis said she was tired of never getting to talk because she was writing the whole time. I was the only one who volunteered, or I don’t think she’d have given me the job. But I’ll show her. These will be the best notes she’s ever seen.
Started with a vote on whether Hamlet was crazy from the start, went crazy during the play, or was only pretending to be crazy. Most everyone said talking to a skull was a pretty good sign of madness to them.
Avis used that voice she does when she’s trying to sound smart and talked about Important Themes, especially the danger of revenge. That set Louise off on a speech about leaving vengeance to the Almighty. At which point, I asked, “What if the Almighty is too busy, and you have to handle things yourself?” She then switched to a speech on Not Being Irreverent, whatever that means.
Delphie wanted to know what we thought of Ophelia dying, whether it was an accident or suicide. (Sounds like the play got more interesting as it went. Bodies stacked up, anyway.) Forgot I was supposed to keep writing and got up to get more cake during this part—not sure what all was said.
Afterward, Freddy told everyone else his thoughts on Why Shakespeare Ought to be Performed and Not Read. Then he opened to Act III, Scene IV, and took on Hamlet’s role, just to prove his point. And you’ll never guess who volunteered to read Gertrude: Louise!
They went back and forth for pages. Freddy was better than Louise, but really, I haven’t ever heard so much emotion from that crusty old spinster before. Best of all, I got a bit part as Polonius at the end. Mostly I just had to eavesdrop and then get stabbed, but boy, I milked that death scene for all it was worth. Hollywood can come calling any day.
Much applause from the others. We all bowed. Gio even put down his boxing magazine to come over and watch, and we were all convinced of Freddy’s point. He was very smug. I told him not to get a big head about it.
Afterward, Avis suggested our next book, something calledHow to Read a Book. Yes, really. I pointed out that it looked like we’d all pretty well mastered that skill, but everyone else said it was a grand idea. Honestly, who thinks of these things, much less throws money at them?
thirteen
GINNY
MAY 29
The man hanging around the corner of Bristol-Banks looked straight out of a gritty detective flick from late-night double features. Ginny had noticed him while heading to the parking lot to pick up her old beater.
He smoked a cigarette like the other men clustered nearer to the foundry door but didn’t move to join them. Wore a nice dun-colored coat and a homburg ... and stared out from under the brim at Martina, waiting on the sidewalk. His smile wasn’t sinister so much as the kind a fellow makes after a mean joke.
Golly, did everyone in this town hate Italians? If you really wanted to stick to that line, you’d end up glowering at a third of Americans based on where they came from, not just the few who, like Martina, still looked and sounded too much like their homeland.
Wasn’t fair, and Ginny almost marched over to that bigot and said so.
But whenever someone made an off-color joke or muttered a slur, Martina told her to let things be. She was probably right. Ginny’s instinct to pick a fight came from having too many brothers.
Still, by the time she pulled the car up, she was glad to see the homburg man was gone.
Martina closed her eyes almost as soon as she collapsed in the passenger seat, making the dark circles above her cheekbones stand out even more.
“Say, did you see—” Ginny shut her mouth. What was she doing? Didn’t Martina have enough to worry about?
Martina’s eyes flew open. “What?”
“That they’re having another drive next week,” she finished, trying to sell it with her tone. “Always pushing us to set aside more of our paycheck for war bonds. As if we earn enough for that.”
Actually, Ginny had never had more money to her name than she did after three months at the foundry. Before this, her work on the lobster boat had funneled right back into the family’s bills. Now she could save it all up—one of the reasons she’d looked for a job a few hours from home, where Ma couldn’t demand any of her paycheck.
Still, not a red cent was going toward checking boxes of theBond Goal Sheetprinted in the back of her employee handbook. The government had taken her island, and that was enough.
Behind her, instead of the usual empty streets with dimmed streetlights, another pair of headlights dogged her through town, attached to a dark coupe. Like Ginny, whoever it was hadn’t bothered with the government-regulated flaps on his lights, and the sudden brightness made her squint.He’d better turn off soon.
But he didn’t. Once, at the stoplight on Mayfair Street, Ginny glanced back. There wasn’t enough light to be sure, but the driver looked to be the right size for the homburg man she’d seen outside the factory. When she started up again, the coupe didn’t turn aside, not even when they left Bristol for the rutted poor-excuse-for-a-road that trailed off to Derby.
Calm down. Might be a local.Ginny had never seen him, though, and she mixed often enough at community events for the free food that she’d shaken hands with half the small town.
Could be everything was on the level. But the way he’d smiled...
