Potluck

Rose rushed home from work and threw together a casserole. She stood in her stocking feet and stirred the white sauce and drained the macaroni, wishing she didn’t feel so exhausted. The potluck was a book group tradition. Most of the other women would bring salads, chips, or something from a supermarket deli. But it was a chilly evening and Rose craved hot food.

While the macaroni baked she watched a tape of Martha Stewart and a chef preparing a macaroni and squash dish. The topping was bread crumbs and macaroons. Good God, macaroons. Maybe in some alternate universe...

Ben came home. Are we alone tonight? No Courtney and Jason?

I'm going out tonight. I have my book group, she said.

Bring home the leftovers. You know they don’t eat.

She laughed. You’d be surprised.

Rose walked up the sidewalk to Jennifer’s house carrying a casserole. Jennifer was sort of a friend, sort of an enemy. Both women loved to read. But Jennifer put everything down. There came a point in every book where Jennifer said, I don’t buy that ... She didn’t buy Jane Eyre, Catherine Linton, Emma Woodhouse, or Anna Karenina. A no-nonsense businesswoman, Jennifer had trouble living in her imagination. She understood buying and selling.

Jennifer opened the door and took the casserole. Mm, this looks fabulous. I don’t eat carbs myself, of course.

Jennifer was thin as a coat hanger.

Oh, make an exception, Rose said.

If I look at it, I’ll gain five pounds, said Jennifer. But I’m really glad you came. I need to talk to you about something later.

Seven women sat in the living room. They had been meeting monthly for years. Philippa, a hairdresser who enjoyed classics and “unusual” books, had organized the group from customers at the salon. Philippa cut Jennifer’s hair. Jennifer had met Rose at a church bake sale, where they discussed the secret of walnut cake and a book that was then a best-seller. Jennifer invited Rose to join the book group. Most of the time Rose enjoyed it.

Tonight was Wilkie Collins night. After they had heaped their plates with food and begun eating, Rose was supposed to read an informal paper on Wilkie Collins and the novel of sensation. It was very informal, hardly more than notes.

Then they had a spirited discussion. Three loved THE WOMAN IN WHITE, four hated it.

Jennifer was one of the defenders. I needed an escape. It was just what I needed. She looked meaningfully at Rose.

After the other women left Jennifer gripped Rose’s arm.

Help, she said.

What is it?

I have cancer. The clinic is such a sad place, really terrible. All these miserable people. Writing about their private feelings in notebooks left on a table for everybody to read.

I’m so sorry. Would you like me to go with you some time? I know it’s hell. I can sit iwith you.

I had to tell someone. You have to be tough in my line of work. You can’t confide.

Confidence is a thing of the past, said Rose. Try not to worry. It will be all right.

Rose went home, not sure that everything would be all right. What had possessed her to say that? But she could accompany Jennifer to the clinic, keep an eye on her. Anyone in the book group would do the same.