The Book Club Chronicles: Part Seven: Twelfth Night

By Joan H. Parks

The ladies keep trying to find as easier Shakespeare play to study and decided upon Twelfth Night, another late play. As they start reading it, they discover that it is complicated. They find the Rylance version on a DVD and entranced use it and the text to study it. They reflect upon how Viola and Olivia respond to grief, their reading deepens as they witness their own responses to grief, Annie, Henry, Katherine, and Franny have buried well loved spouses. All wrestle with their physical aging and the threat and advantages of retirement. They reflect on the many love stories in Twelfth Night as they wrestle with their own love stories, late life marriages, and the how they have brought their pasts into the present. They struggle to make sense of this simple on the surface but very complicated theatrical play. Most of all, once again they, as a group, revel in the beautiful language of Shakespeare that pierces their hearts and at the same time uplifts them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532089763

Joan H. Parks

Joan H Parks lives in Chicago, IL, and after a career in clinical research refreshed her life by becoming a fiction writer. Her undergraduate degree was from the University of Rochester in Non-Western Civilizations, her MBA from the University of Chicago. She studies poetry, including Yeats and the Canterbury Tales (in Middle English); has an interest in the ancient world which she has gratified by studying at the Oriental Institute of The University of Chicago; is an aficionado of The Tales of Genji, which she rereads every year or so. Her family regards these activities with amusement, for she also listens to Willie Nelson and Dierks Bentley. She can be contacted at joanhparks.com

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Copyright © 2020 Joan H. Parks.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Direct quotes from Twelfth Night are from the Folger Library paperback edition. Simon and Schuster Paperback, 2005

The DVD’s are available for anyone who has an internet connection.

Twelfth Night: A User’s Guide, Michael Pennington, First Limelight Edition, 2000

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-8975-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-8976-3 (e)

iUniverse rev. date:  12/11/2019

CONTENTS

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Chapter 1     Claire Surprised

Chapter 2     Hope Consults Henry

Chapter 3     Lunch at Piccolo Mondo

Chapter 4     Annie Contemplates

Chapter 5     Katherine Reposes

Chapter 6     Clarissa Challenged

Chapter 7     The Book Club Begins

Chapter 8     Sally, Dubious

Chapter 9     Claire Acclaimed

Chapter 10   The Book Club Meets

Chapter 11   Franny Further Unravels

Chapter 12   The Book Club Struggles

Chapter 13   Claire Confused

Chapter 14   The Book Club Baffled

Chapter 15   Katherine Questions

Chapter 16   The Book Club Triumphant

Chapter 17   Katherine Weeps

Chapter 18   Annie Uncertain

Chapter 19   Claire and Annie Walk

Chapter 20   The Party

Chapter 21   Clarissa Ponders

Chapter 22   Franny to the Rescue

Chapter 23   Ripples

Chapter 24   The Book Club Finishes

Chapter 25   Claire Comprehends

Chapter 26   Lunch at Piccolo Mondo

CHAPTER 1

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CLAIRE SURPRISED

What is love? ‘Tis not hereafter. (Twelfth Night, 2,3,48)

T he meatloaf! I yelped.

No time! declared my lord and master as he hauled me by the wrist down the short corridor to our bedroom. I had several fleeting thoughts, but they quickly dissipated at the sight of the bed, the sun dappling the fluffed duvet, the colorful pillows neatly arranged, our books in orderly stacks on the end tables.

Before this precipitous trip to the bedroom, I had been laying out the knife, fork, and spoon beside our dinner plates. Cloth napkins? No, just the usual. When the front door opened, I was calmly folding the paper napkins to put under the forks.

Henry swept in, put down his leather briefcase, flung his pin-striped jacket over a chair, and before I could do more than gape held me tight against his body, nuzzling my neck, his hands as busy as John Donne’s: let them go before, behind, between, above, below. I gasped, first in surprise and then in echoing passion.

Out of those clothes! he commanded when we reached the bed. Obeying, I wriggled out of my skinny jeans as he flung his tie towards a chair and hooked his thumbs under his red suspenders to slide them off his shoulders. Clothes scattered helter skelter, we knew not where.

On the bed, woman! Spread ’em! He pounced, his full weight on me, his lips hard against mine, the air whooshing out of me like a deflating balloon.

Having trouble breathing? he asked, his blue eyes sparkling hopefully.

I laughed with what breath I had, and then all I could do was to hold on tight as he did the deed.

When his breathing returned to normal, he heaved like a breaching whale, rolled over, and off. I stretched out my legs and wondered what on earth had gotten into my spouse—not that I was complaining—for I certainly wasn’t. My thoughts whirled chaotically as I tingled in contented delight.

Henry wrapped himself snugly around me and softly spoke. I saw Sam on the street today.

His tear splashed on my cheek. He didn’t know me. I had to introduce myself to him. Oh, Claire! We met in kindergarten. He clutched me even tighter. He looked at me, trying to remember who I was and faking it that he did. All those years and memories gone, erased.

I held Henry, patting him. Oh God, I thought, tears coming to my own eyes. Another friend gone. Someday it will happen to us. Maybe not today, but one day. I still want life, and connection, and love. All those years I struggled with work and being a single mom, a quarter of a century of hoping that the current swain was the one and finding out that he wasn’t, all those decades of knowing I had made yet one more mistake; and then, Henry appeared in my life and the sweet times began. Perhaps I couldn’t have appreciated him before…perhaps… All the thoughts dissolved as I tended to my late-in-life love: Henry needed me.

I moved my hand down his familiar body, bent on encouraging any returning signs of life.

One for the road? I asked, or rather demanded.

Woman, you will be the death of me.

One for the road it was, our tears mingling with the laughter, glad to be alive, glad we had each other, yet sorrowing for our friend now lost to us.

Curled up against a dozing Henry, I gradually returned to planet earth.

I sniffed, leaped up, grabbed a shirt, and scurried to the hot oven to rescue the abandoned meatloaf before it burst into flames. Henry leisurely wandered out in my wake and perched his bristly chin on my shoulder while resting his hands on my hips. We stared at the shrunken, pathetic meat loaf—hard as a rock, unfit for human consumption.

It can’t be rescued, I said, mourning the meatloaf sandwiches on rye bread with lettuce and ketchup, which were not to be. Not even a good wine will resuscitate this. Piccolo Mondo?

Let’s go, Henry said. I’m ravenous.

Perhaps we should resume our clothes? I asked primly.

Wise ass. He swatted my bottom, consoled by my sass.

We returned to the bedroom that Henry and I, being tidy souls, customarily kept orderly. I slipped out of Henry’s white shirt and threw it in the hamper. Henry’s boxer shorts were crumpled on top of his usually neatly hung pants. He threw them in the hamper, picked up his trousers, shook them out, and hung them neatly in the closet. His red-and-blue striped tie, looking jaunty on the lampshade, was restored to its proper slot on his tie rack. I rescued my underwear from under the bed, snagged the one sock that peeped out of a shoe, found the other one and put them in the hamper. Order was restored.

Miraculously, our cavorting had not disturbed our books which still sat on our matching nightstands. On Henry’s, three different translations of the Odyssey—Robert Fagles (Henry’s favorite), T.E. Lawrence (interesting choice) and Barry Powell (my favorite). On my side, The Tales of Genji, translated by Edward Seidensticker, the familiar translation I’d read and reread for pleasure. The thought crossed my mind, or what was left of it, that a successful marriage meant books and bed, or was it bed and books? Could I even imagine sleeping with someone whose idea of a book was a James Patterson novel? No way.

We worked harmoniously, I on one side of the bed and he on the other, shaking the duvet and letting it gracefully subside to its accustomed place. We plucked the pillows from the floor, fluffed them, and restored them to our now pristine bed.

Get a move on, Claire, I’m hungry. My esteemed spouse was not yet grumpy from lack of food, but I had better get a move on. I took one last satisfied look at our bed and patted it fondly on my way to the shower.

Order restored, freshly washed, and decorously clad, we walked hand in hand down the street to Piccolo Mondo and the welcome smells of Italian food and the passing array of people—from North Siders who, passports in hand, were having an early dinner before going to a concert or to Court Theater, to the scruffier-looking academics always looking in need of a haircut, to the resolutely middle class black residents of the neighborhood, their pride manifesting itself in perfect attire.

Henry opened the door for me for, meticulous in performing the respectful courtesies he grew up with. I thrilled to them—a sign that I, too, was from another era.

Annie and Bill waved for us to join them. Henry whispered, Mum about Sam. I nodded as we made our way to their table.

I burned the meat loaf, I said.

I got home late. Annie made her excuse and both of us were embarrassed at our lack of domestic foresight.

Long marriages having trained Henry and Bill about women; they made no comments and kept on their game faces.

Annie narrowed her eyes. Meat loaf is hard to ruin.

The blood rose to my cheeks. Yes, but I managed.

Mercifully, Annie said nothing as her mouth curved in an amused smile. Bill picked up the conversational baton. What are your book club ladies going to study next?

I noticed that even Bill, spiffy surgeon that he was, was following the men’s fashion of no necktie, an open-throated shirt under a tweedy sports coat. It looked good on him, as did the same dapper look on my lawyer husband. Henry looked good in anything. To me, anything on Henry looked good, although the family jewels did better with some protection in the kitchen. What was it with men, I fleetingly wondered, that they liked to parade around naked? Something about removing their armor after a hard day’s work? I didn’t think that most women wanted to lounge around without clothes. I forced myself to concentrate on the conversation—all that exercise before supper must have addled my wits.

"We were thinking of Winter’s Tale or Twelfth Night," I replied.

"Winter’s Tale after reading The Tempest? Bill looked impressed. That would certainly be challenging."

"I saw Twelfth Night in London many years ago, Henry commented as he scanned the menu with a look of optimism, hoping that something new had been added. All male cast—it was fabulous, funny. He paused. I think I’ll have the linguini with clams. Anyone want to share the bruschetta?"

Bill nodded to Henry. "Twelfth Night has gorgeous poetry, he said, and it’s about the revels at the end of the Christmas season: the lord of misrule when the social classes are topsy-turvy."

Right, Henry replied. Lost heirs, separated twins, two women mourning dead brothers, a girl masquerading as a boy, falling in love at first sight, revels, and Feste the fool. And another fool exploited by a villain. The production I saw later went to Broadway. I would have loved to have seen how it had changed in the years between, but I couldn’t leave town just then.

I looked attentively at Henry. That must have been the time when his first wife was dying. She had so much of Henry that I will never have, and any of her irritating quirks have been forgotten while mine are still very much in evidence. I hate to see Henry’s pain when he remembers those sad days, so I am very careful about what I say, both to him and to his children. I keep secret from him my unworthy feelings about his first wife, especially when he and his children get to talking about her. I divorced my first husband a quarter of a century ago, so he has no need to be jealous. Does he? The memories of how careful he is about the prior men in my life pushed their unwelcome way to the surface. Perhaps it is not so different.

Bill looked at me sharply and I realized I had missed the next bit of conversation.

Annie brought me up to speed. Claire and I are meeting Katherine tomorrow for lunch. We’ll make the decision then about which play to study. Will it be a problem for you, Claire? Henry quizzed me.

No. Either play will be fine with me.

I had debated between the lasagna or the whitefish, both wonderful. When plates were delivered, I saw that I had decided on the lasagna. Henry leaned his shoulder against mine and I forgot to be embarrassed at not remembering what I had ordered.

Is it now public that Katherine and Mark are living together? Bill asked as he picked up knife and fork. Can I stop pretending that I don’t know?

Yes, you can stop pretending. We all can. I laughed. Bill, Katherine was so surprised that we weren’t surprised. You would have enjoyed the look on her face. It was priceless.

Annie joined me with her own laughter, clutching her maroon napkin to her mouth, her knuckles white.

Bill rolled his eyes in amusement. One shouldn’t laugh, should one?

No, Henry replied, chuckling at last. One shouldn’t. Then, my darling Henry, almost restored to an even keel, said, One shouldn’t. Yet, one does.

We had our usual comfortable time with Annie and Bill. As we all walked back to the building, I admired the moon shining down on us, the light pollution from Chicago being no match for its glowing brightness. I hated to go in. I had a sudden impulse to walk over to the lake and listen to the waves lapping at the concrete slabs that make up Promontory Point. I wanted to watch as the moon silvered them, making them into magic, and to smell the fresh lake breeze that mingled with the earth, exhaling before it settled down to winter’s little death. Perhaps I wanted to run away from the grief that inhabited our home, the grief and terror. Perhaps I want to be free as I was when I had nothing but time ahead of me, nothing but energy to expend wantonly in living, to be as free as I was when I was young.

Henry’s hand on my elbow recalled me to the present. I cannot be young and stupid again, I reminded myself. Much, much better to be with Henry and face what must be faced. Together.

CHAPTER 2

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HOPE CONSULTS HENRY

What’s to come is still unsure. (Twelfth Night, 2,3 50)

T hanks for fitting me in, Henry.

The opening rituals attended to, Hope took a deep breath and said to her dad’s old friend: You know what this is about?