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But she hung up, trusting Avis to pass on the information to her husband. She slammed the door of the phone booth, her worn shoes slapping the uneven sidewalk back to the factory,creating a rhythm for the comforting strains of her mother’s song.
“Oppressed by love, by pleasure, the whole world is fast asleep.”
At least no one walked by on the sidewalk this late. Everyone was inside working, or at home with blackout curtains drawn. She reached the cold steel of the door handle and pulled.
“O waning crescent, what harvest of dreams...”
It had been ten minutes, maybe more. Surely it would be all right. Surely...
But when Martina slipped into the core room, it seemed like every worker’s eyes lifted from their monotonous work to stare at her, and it soon became clear why.
Mr. Devons was standing at her station next to a worried-looking Ginny, his expression cold.
Notes from the Blackout Book Club—September 5, 1942
Taken by Avis Montgomery, Head Librarian and Book Club Secretary
Members in attendance: Russell, plus nearly everyone who has ever attended a book club, except Louise Cavendish.
Story under discussion: “The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe
When I asked Delphie where Louise was, all I got was a cryptic “Some people just don’t like to face things.” Russell muttered that she was probably afraid to show her face since we all knew she planned to shut the place down. He shouldn’t have said it, but I appreciated the support.
Even Ginny was back. We all agreed discussion was much livelier with her around, and I could tell she was pleased to be missed. (Also, she ate seven raspberry jam cookies. Seven!)
Maybe because Louise wasn’t there, bedlam ensued about five minutes earlier than normal. That is to say, immediately.
The book discussion was soon replaced with a trial of Delphie. Accusation: What made you choose this terrible story? Prosecution: myself, Martina, most of the other women present. Defense: Ginny, Mr. Maloney, Freddy, and Mrs. Whitson, of all people. Neutral: Gio and Rosa because they weren’t allowed to read it.
Martina stopped as soon as she realized the point of the story and hid it from Gio. I made sure to note the nightmares I’d had two nights in a row after finishing, and how I’d had to move the clock to the closet to keep from hearing the ticking. Mrs. Follett felt that the whole thing was wholly inappropriate. (“There’s a difference between Gothic and the macabre.”)
At this point, Delphie said something odd about how “we could all learn something about the cost of secrets,” then clammed up. Mrs. Whitson tried to argue that there was spiritual value to a horrific depiction of guilt, and Freddy said there was a rhythm to the lines of the story, like poetry. But that couldn’t outweigh the thought of a body cut up and stuffed under the floorboards. (Gio listened particularly well when we got to that part. Ginny was perhapstoodetailed in her description.)
The others attempted to carry on a coherent discussion of unreliable narrators. We came around to the fact that most of the group does not properly appreciate horror. Russell just sat back and watched the whole thing. (“Better than a radio drama,” he said.)
Delphie was unrepentant. Ginny has checked outSelected Works of EdgarAllan Poe. Freddy thought we’d loveDracula. The motion was not seconded and died in committee.
Instead, we settled on a new title,The Robeby LloydC. Douglas. From what I understand, it’s an account of a Roman centurion investigating the death of Jesus Christ. That ought to exorcise the madman-murderer streak from our club.
I felt I had to mention that the next Saturday might be our last book club at the library, as renovations are set to begin shortly afterward. This dampened spirits somewhat, including my own. I’ve been to Windward Hall only once, for a Red Cross event, but it reminds me of a badly decorated English country home, straight out of a Wodehouse novel.
I have to believe Anthony that it’s not my fault. But still, looking out at all those grim faces, seeing the crates of books to be donated filling up one by one, more and more shelves stripped bare, I can’t help feeling like a failure.
P.S. Afterward, Martina asked about the tip-off she’d given me and was disappointed to find I’d heard no news either.The coast guard tends to keep things like that hush-hush. They’d probably deny that U-boats existed if people couldn’t see the tanker fires from the beaches.
Then she admitted she’d lost her job over her report. Can you imagine? I was so upset that I offered for her and the children to live with me while she looks for a new position. Russell is leaving in only a few days—we’ve agreed that he’ll renew his term for three months, and we’ll reevaluate at Christmas—so we have room. It will be nice not to be living alone, even if it’s only temporary.
thirty-four
LOUISE
SEPTEMBER 7
By the time Freddy and Hamish set down the twelfth box of books, Louise began to suspect it had been a mistake to tear down so many of her father’s shelves to make more room for her painting supplies, all those years ago. Well, she’d fill what space she had, then deal with the rest later.
“Where’s this one going?” Hamish asked, and she indicated a scrap of unoccupied real estate by the rug. Atlases, from the looks of the label, though it was barely legible. Not Avis’s neat handwriting, unless it had gone downhill sharply from the last Louise had seen of it.I wonder if she’s gotten some lackey to do her work for her?
Well, there was no harm in that. Louise hadn’t specified how the work should get done, just that it must.
