Sisters

By Augusta Flanagan

In her varied roles as wife, mother, teacher, leader of a book group, and potential lover, Joyce Lacy is oddly unaware just how complex she really is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524530020

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 by Augusta Flanagan.

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-5245-3003-7

                eBook           978-1-5245-3002-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 08/04/2016

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CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Books cannot always please, however good;

Minds are not ever craving for their food.

George Crabbe

CHARACTERS

THE BOOK GROUP

Joyce Lacy

Irene Frederick

Millie Cardona

Miriam Nadel

Regina Ryan

Ellie Levine

Fran Kramer

Jeanie Sanford

Loren James

Alan and Faith Mills

Eric Williams

JOYCE LACY’S FAMILY

OTHERS

THE BOOKS

The Monster -- Stephen Crane

A Perfect Day for Bananafish -- J. D. Salinger

That Evening Sun Go Down -- William Faulkner

What We Talk About When We Talk About Love -- Raymond Carver

The Interior Castle -- Jean Stafford

THE FIFTH CHILD -- Doris Lessing

THE WELL -- Elizabeth Jolley

A SUMMONS TO MEMPHIS -- Peter Taylor

WINESBURG, OHIO -- Sherwood Anderson

THE WELL OF LONELINESS -- Radclyffe Hall

THE HOURS -- Michael Cunningham

The Book of Revelation -- John of Patmos

At her husband’s death, Joyce Lacy, grieving terribly, had a most unnerving experience. Stella Benteen walked back into her life. The fact that she was now Stella Bowman made no difference. Much of the past is in the present and the change of name and identity does not erase the past. Certainly not in Joyce’s mind.

The last night of the wake for Bob Lacy at Glenway’s Funeral Home was drawing to a relieved close when Stella walked in. None of Joyce’s three children knew Stella, whose acting career had led to small rolls in unrecognized plays and films, so when Gina Lacy suddenly appeared escorting Stella to the couch Joyce sat in, Joyce looked up in complete surprise. She was shaken.

My God! Stella! she cried.

Hello, Joyce, Stella said calmly. I just heard and I had to come. I’m so sorry.

Stella! Joyce repeated, trying to rise from her chair.

Sit, sit, Stella said, seating her elegant self next to Joyce as she took her cool hand.

I hope you don’t mind my coming. This is such a shock.

Of course not, Joyce said, which wasn’t true. Let me introduce you to my family. Gina, Ron, Sally, I want you to meet an old… ...the pause was infinitesimal and only Joyce and Stella could have caught it or made anything out of it…friend.

A long-forgotten friend; a well-forgotten friend. The vagaries of youth, the mistakes, misjudgments, the flaws…Could you count them all?

I didn’t know you had three children, Stella said. How wonderful, how satisfying. I’m sure you and Bob enjoyed them. They look wonderful, I can see you and Bob in each of them…

And you, Stella? How did things go with you?

I gave it all to my career, Stella said. No husband, no children, but I’ve been working. Nothing like what I hoped for but…I’m working. Small parts, commercials, some theater…

That’s wonderful, Joyce said.

Far from wonderful, but I’m working. Stella encircled Joyce’s other hand with her free one. Bob, she said with a distinct sadness, did he suffer much?

No, not much, Joyce said. It was pretty quick.

That’s a blessing, Stella said.

What more was there to say to this long-forgotten friend? Why did Stella Bowman bother to appear? Why did she need a revival at this time? Or any time? Go away, Stella, and quickly.

I’m in New York for a small part in a horrible movie, Stella said, and I was visiting my sister. She told me about Bob. I was shocked. I had to come.

It wasn’t necessary, Stella, Joyce thought. Not at all necessary.

And now the imp of bad memories came alive. He had been asleep for decades, dead asleep, profoundly asleep, and now he was suddenly alert in raving fullness.

When was the last time we saw each other? Stella asked. College, wasn’t it? Commencement. You had just met Bob. What a surprise that was. For me, anyway.

Relief, Stella, relief. And I wish you would go away now. I really do. I pray that you do.

Are you in New York for long? Joyce asked.

No, Stella said, just for the part. I live in LA, but I travel a bit, which I don’t mind. You stayed put in New York, I guess.

Yes. I taught at the college.

Ah, you taught, Stella said as if she had heard something exotic.

I got my Ph.D. in English and taught…

Ph.D.? I’ve got to hand it to you, Stella said, but you were always a bookworm. I couldn’t hit the books the way you could; I was too restless.

Where do we go from here? Joyce thought. She needed a strategy but nothing came to her. She had no energy for strategies. All that she knew and felt in her blanketed mind was that she hoped never to see or hear from Stella Benten again. Ever again.

I know this isn’t the time to ask, Stella said in an even more subdued voice than a wake called for, but what time is? Are you satisfied with the way things turned out?

Joyce felt invaded. How dare Stella try to bridge all the years. She turned from Stella and looked at her husband.

I think you’d better go, Stella, she said.

Why? Stella said. Tell me why, Joyce.

Because I don’t want to insult you. I’m having a tough enough time.

Stella took her hands away.

You never could deal with real feelings, could you?

I have nothing to say, Joyce said, except to say you’re being pretty outrageous.

My old self, I guess, Stella said.

And I didn’t like it then.

You should have been a lot clearer about it.

I think you should go, Stella, Joyce said with as much firmness as she could muster, I really do.

I will, Stella said, after I pay my respects to Bob.

You needn’t.

Oh, but I must.

She got up, walked to the casket. Head bent, she stared at Bob. She didn’t kneel, she didn’t make the sign of the cross, which Joyce took to mean there was much more than the expression grief, sorrow, and distress to her visit with Bob Lacy. Or much less.

The beautiful Stella Benteen, Joyce was thinking. She knew what she had and that’s what she used. I dare not ask her if she’s satisfied with the way things turned out, because I know.

Stella turned and came toward Joyce. There were no tears, her face was hard. She bent to kiss Joyce but, instead, whispered, Fight on, my lovely deny-er.

And as suddenly as she had arrived, she left.

Chapter One

Joyce Lacy was shopping in Wild By Nature when she ran into Fran Kramer at the organic vegetables section. She didn’t actually cringe but, for a moment, she halted her cart in mid-motion. Joyce was not one for confrontations, however slight, and she knew one was coming. The book club -- The Belmont Library Book Club to give it its official name -- was only five meetings old but she already was aware that the members of the BLBC were quite a different group from her somewhat passive college students. She hadn’t given it a second thought when Joan Wood had asked her to moderate an adult book club.

Why, yes, Joyce had said spontaneously, that sounds fine.

I knew you’d say that, Joan said, and you’re the first one I asked. Now that you’re retired, the public library can put you to work.

Joan was the head of Adult Services and even offered Joyce a stipend. Joyce was about to turn it down and work for nothing when she thought about the preparation she required of herself for each college class she taught. No, I’ll take it, whatever it is, she said to herself. Her academic experiences had atleast taught her not to turn any money down even though she did her work gladly and with little thought of remuneration. The younger, more demanding members of her college department thought differently and she had learned from them. To them, confrontation came easily and it was a mark of big changes in academic circles. Joyce kept her head down but her ears were perked up. She was a good listener and a sharp reader.

Joyce, I almost went right by you, Fran said, pushing her cart alongside Joyce’s. I didn’t know you shopped here. The greens they have here are wonderful. Listen, that book you made us read…

Oh, oh, Joyce thought. Made us read ...Not a good sign, and not accurate, either. The policy of the BLBC was clearly democratic. Joyce proposed a list of books and the group chose the ones that appealed to them after she provided a brief synopsis of each.

…I can’t even remember the name, Fran said. She was clearly unhappy. It was terrible. I already forgot what it was all about. Who cares what’s going on in somebody’s head? There was no story. Who picked that book, anyway?

The whole group did, Fran, Joyce reminded her. Don’t you remember?

Remember? I can’t remember my name. I don’t know how you can keep all those books in mind. I barely remember what day it is. I almost forgot Jerry’s doctor’s appointment this morning…and he can’t miss those.

How is Jerry?

Oh, so-so. But he’ll outlive me, I know that.

Why don’t you bring along some suggestions to the next meeting? Joyce said. It’s better if more than one person comes up with titles.

You’re the professor, Fran said. You know…

I don’t know, Joyce said. I really don’t.

Oh, come on, now, don’t be so modest. We know about you. We want something more than what’s on the best seller list.

Well, I try, Joyce said, but it’s better if the book ideas come from the group.

Fran caught Joyce’s eyes in a stare.

I certainly wouldn’t have picked the one we’re reading. And what kind of a name is Pansy for a character? What was that story all about anyway?

Why don’t we wait til the group meets to answer that? Joyce suggested. If we’re going to get off the best seller list, then we’re going to have to meet up with some problematic characters.

But not boring ones, Fran said. Who needs boring?

Won’t it be interesting to see what the other people think? Joyce said patiently.

She knew about patience. It was the key to good teaching. Patience and listening; listening to what people really mean; the subtext of the discussion; or of the argument.

Joyce couldn’t help it; she was upset by Fran’s assault. She knew in her heart that confrontations were not the best way of ironing out disagreements. Throughout her career she had tried to replace them with reasoning and democratic interchange.

When she got home to her silent condo, she decided to read the story again but was interrupted by a phone call. It was her daughter, the confronter.

How are you, Mom? How’re things going?

All right, Gina.

"Mom, it’s always ‘all right’. It can’t be always all right. How are things, Mom?"

Really, Gina, I’ve got nothing to complain about.

Are you thinking about Daddy?

Of course I’m thinking about Daddy. I always think about him.

Well, then, how can things be all right?

Because, Gina, they are. I wouldn’t fool you.

Oh, yes, you would.

My Gina, Joyce thought. My lovely, pouting, confrontational Gina. What can I do to calm her down? She calls expecting me to fall apart. I did my falling apart; she knows that very well, so let us go on from there. Where, I’m not sure.

I’m so pissed off, Gina said.

About what? Joyce said, as if she didn’t know.

Guess. It’s Steven, of course.

What now?

Nothing. The same old thing. He won’t leave me alone. I told him right to his face -— a thousand times -- I want nothing to do with him except when it comes to Tommy. So that’s where he gets me. I’m so sick of it. I’m sick of him and he doesn’t get it.

Gina, my darling daughter, Joyce thought, how can I help you? What can I say?

He refuses me the money, then he comes around to argue about it. And THEN, he has the gall to ask me out to dinner; he pleads with me to go to some stupid restaurant which turns out to be a bar so I can watch him drink. He just doesn’t give up. He wants to know where I’m getting the money to fix the house. I don’t want to tell him. I don’t want to tell him anything and I don’t want him to know anything.

Doesn’t he have to…

Oh, he finally comes across, after driving me crazy. I tell him, ‘Steven, I don’t love you anymore; we’re through.’ He just can’t take a defeat, Mr. Big Bucks.

Does Tommy hear any of this?

Of course, he does. ‘Why are you and Daddy fighting? Why isn’t Daddy staying with us?’ He knows all the answers but every time Steven comes around or phones -- which is incessantly -— and gets me going…

How much do you need?

Nothing from you, Mom. It’s what he owes me, and he knows he owes me. He just wants to…

If your father were here…

No, it’s got nothing to do with you and Daddy. I’m sorry for bringing it up…

Joyce heard her daughter crying and it wrenched her as it had done so many times before. She fought with herself to say something, anything to relieve her but she seemed to be out of words. She, Joyce Lacy, who lived by them.

How is Tommy, my little darling?

Gina began to calm down. Explosive Gina. There was a girl who wore her heart on her sleeve. Where did her instant, fluid emotions come from? Not from Bob and me, Joyce thought.

Oh, he’s all right, Gina said. He wants to see you. I just thank God for Ron. He’s a father to Tommy.

Joyce made arrangements for a visit and they talked about preparations for dinner.

I’m available except for Thursday night. I’ve got a book club meeting. Just check with Ron and…

You were going to say Sally.

Yes, I was.

Forget about it. How’s that book club group coming, anyway?

Well, Joyce said, collecting her thoughts, it’s pretty interesting.

What’s that mean? Gina asked.

They’re a more challenging group than I expected. They’re not college kids, you know.

How old are they?

My age and beyond. Some way beyond. But they’re very alert. One thing, though, they’re all women.

No men?

Not a one.

How come?

"I don’t know.

That’s strange.

I’ll have to inquire about that, Joyce said.

So what have you got, a bunch of old bags talking about books?

I wouldn’t put it that way, Joyce said. They’re very alert.

What are you reading?

Well, that’s maybe a bit of a problem. You know, the pop culture versus the literary canon. But we’re adjusting to one another.

Why are you bothering, Mom? You’ve done your teaching. You’ve put your time in. Why don’t you travel or do something different?

I’d like to, Joyce said, but not on my own. I’m not that adventurous.

Well, get a friend and go.

That’s easier said than done.

Look at me giving advice, Gina said self-mockingly. I’ve been nowhere.

That will change.

Don’t hold your breath.

But Joyce did hold her breath in a sense. Her children had given her reasons to breathe deeply and confoundedly over the years and, more than that, to gasp at the ordeals they got themselves into. How much easier and more tranquil life had been with Bob. Sturm und drang was not for them but it took its toll on her children. Why was that? She had read many opinions explaining why this dramatic change in the young had come about…But, then again, her college students were so passive…That didn’t fit. Once out of the uproarious sixties and seventies, a flatness set in…She really had a limited view as a teacher…All she knew was she had three demanding children…No…that was not the right word. Independent children…yes, far more independent that she had ever been. Far more assertive. Did that assertiveness bring them more happiness, more fulfillment? Sally, the world traveler, now caught up in a strange marriage…Ron the activist with a string of girlfriends and no real job…She loved them but they gave her and Bob many a jolt. And now that Bob was gone, the jolts drove deeper and stung more sharply.

After she had had a bite to eat with a glass of white wine, she settled down to re-read the story that was agitating Fran Kramer. Was it too much for the group? She had only Fran’s word for that.

Joyce had thought to begin the group’s meetings -— the first four or five -— with short stories. The members had no suggestions of their own and didn’t know how Joyce was going to structure the club. Short stories seemed to be a good way to begin. The first was That Evening Sun Go Down by William Faulkner and the second was J.D. Salinger’s A Perfect Day for Bananafish. The third was the Raymond carver story, What We Talk About When We Talk About Love which most of the group really hated. The Faulkner went down well -— everyone being impressed by Faulkner’s style and characters -- but The Monster, the fourth selection, was controversial. Joyce liked that but she noted that it was controversial in a negative way. That is, the group didn’t seem to know how to deal with ambiguity so Fran and Miriam Nadel got excited and started to judge the story before they had even discussed it and that led to accusations instead of analysis. Nevertheless, the first two meetings gave Joyce a chance to get to know the group and observe them in action. It was the first time she had met any of these women:

Irene Frederick was a breast cancer patient who had to leave the second meeting early because she wasn’t feeling well. She was a small, compact, round-bellied woman who wore drab clothes: tans and browns and blacks. Her hair was full and dark and seemed to be a wig. Since Joyce was very careful about her own appearance and even more rigorous about keeping her slim figure, she couldn’t help comparing herself to other women. But, being a sensitive person, she tried to ignore her judgments, or at least she made a successful attempt to keep them to herself.

Irene was quiet and seemed to want to hear everybody out before she ventured an opinion. When she did speak up, her comments were measured, unhurried, somewhat diffuse. Joyce got the first impression that Irene’s words were over her head. She didn’t quite know how to bring her thoughts and her words into a precise and effective relationship. But she was trying and seemed to have a serious cast of mind.

Jeanie Sanford was a big bright woman, a substantial presence and a widow with southern origins who recalled her years with her second husband with great satisfaction and no regrets. Her attitude, her command of herself greatly interested Joyce. Since Bob’s death a year ago, she seldom felt in command of herself but then a sly voice circulated around her consciousness asking her if she ever felt in command of herself.

Jeanie seemed to personalize what she read and to find parallels between her life and the life of the characters she was reading about. The Faulkner story particularly pleased her, and she certified with a wide smile that his view of the south coincided with hers.

People say that Faulkner gave the south a bad rap but I can tell you from personal experience that he’s right on the money. Nodding her gray head, she added, There are a lot of secrets down there in those small towns, let me tell you."

Miriam Nadel had the bluest eyes and a hard-rock figure with not an ounce of unnecessary fat on it. She seemed corseted but she wasn’t. That suggestion came from her posture and her way of sitting that was upright and unrelaxed. Her eyes, wide and wet, seemed on the verge of tears. And the tears came in the second meeting when talk of men interrupted the discussion. Jeanie wanted to know why there were no men in the book club.

Is this going to be a girls’ club? she asked.

I have the same question, Joyce said. There must be men readers who’d like to join us.

Oh, I can tell you, Miriam said. I’ve been in other book clubs and, except for my husband, there weren’t any men. There never are. And I can tell you why: they’re all dead.

And then she burst into tears,