Free The Jane Austen Book Club by Karen Joy Fowler Page A

asked to intercede. That would be too much. But she knew how Daniel loved Allegra; she couldn’t help feeling sorry for him, order herself as she would to stop. The refrigerator gave one of its funny rattles; the familiarity, the hominess of the sound nearly undid her. She pressed her glass against her face. A moment passed before she could trust herself to speak. “Give her time.”
    â€œI have someone coming on Saturday to look at the upstairs shower. You needn’t be there, I’ll come and deal with it. I’m just giving you fair warning. You and Allegra. In case you don’t want to see me.”
    â€œIt’s not your house anymore.”
    â€œYes, it is. I’m leaving the marriage, I’m not leaving you. As long as you’re in the house, I’ll take care of the house.”
    â€œFuck off,” said Sylvia.
    There was a burst of laughter from the living room. “I’ll let you get back to your guests,” Daniel said. “I’ll be there between ten and twelve Saturday. Go to the farmer’s market, buy those pistachios you like so much. You won’t even know I’ve been by, except that the shower will be fixed.”
    C orinne joined a writing group that met once a week. She hoped it would function as a kind of deadline, forcing her to work. She did seem to be spending more time at the computer, and occasionally, Allegra heard the keys. Corinne’s mood had improved, and she talked a lot at dinner now about point of view and pacing and deep structure. All very abstract.
    The writing group met at a Quaker meeting hall, and initially there’d been some question, the Quakers being so kind as to allow the use of their space without remuneration, whether the group shouldn’t honor Quaker principles in the work they brought there. Was it right to accept this gift and then share work with violent or unwholesome themes? The group decided, after much discussion, that a work might need to be violent in order to espouse nonviolence effectively. They were writers. They, of all people, must resist censorship in whatever guise. The Quakers would expect no less of them.
    The other writers in the group became important to Corinne, so much so that Allegra minded that she was evidently never to meet them. She heard about them, but only in abridged versions. The critique circle was built on trust; there was an expectation of confidentiality, Corinne said.
    Corinne was not good at keeping secrets. Allegra heard that one woman had brought in a poem on abortion, written in red ink to represent blood. One man was doing a sort of French bedroom farce, only without any actual humor to it, and the textmessily annotated with arrows and cross-outs, so it was no pleasure to read; yet week after week he reliably turned in another plodding chapter of cocks and cuckoldings. Another woman was writing a fantasy novel, and it had a good plot, ticked right along, except everyone in it had amber eyes, or emerald or amethyst or sapphire. Nothing the other members said could persuade her to substitute brown or blue or not mention the goddamn eyes at all.
    One evening Corinne said casually over dinner that she was going out that night to a poetry reading. Lynne, from her writing group, was reading an erotic set at Good Vibrations, the sex-toy store. “I’ll go with you,” Allegra said. Surely Corinne didn’t expect her to stay home while racy poetry was being read aloud in a landscape of whips and dildos.
    â€œI don’t want you making fun of anyone.” Corinne was obviously very uncomfortable. “You can really be severe when you think someone has no taste. We’re all just novices in the group. If I hear you make fun of Lynne, I’ll know that I’m probably ridiculous, too. I can’t write if I think I’m being ridiculous.”
    â€œI would never think you’re ridiculous,” Allegra protested. “I couldn’t. And I love