4
Out of the Mouths of Babes
It was nearly ten after seven on the evening of July 17, but the organizational meeting of The Cherico Page Turners had not yet begun. Maura Beth had decided to disdain the meeting room because of the claustrophobia it never failed to produce. Instead, she was standing behind a podium she had placed in front of the circulation desk in the main lobby, gazing out at the half-circle of folding chairs arranged before her. Connie McShay, Miss Voncille, along with her guest, Locke Linwood, and Councilman Sparks had arrived early and were talking among themselves in their seats. But Mrs. Justin Brachle (aka Becca Broccoli) had not yet made an appearance, and Maura Beth was beginning to worry. Their numbers were paltry enough as it was.
“If Mrs. Brachle doesn’t show up within the next five minutes, we’ll begin without her,” Maura Beth announced.
But no sooner had those words escaped her than the celebrated Becca Broccoli breezed through the front door wearing a summery yellow frock and apologizing profusely as she approached the group. “I know I’ve kept everyone waiting,” she began, “but I had to feed my Stout Fella. That’s my husband, Justin, you know. He was trying to wind up one of his real-estate deals over the phone, and he just wouldn’t come to the table—” She broke off and flashed a smile. “I guess none of you are really interested in all this. Except, I owe you an introduction, at the very least. I generally go by the name of Becca Broccoli these days, and, again, I’m so sorry I’m late.” Finally, she sat down in the open chair next to Connie, who offered her a gracious nod.
Maura Beth couldn’t have been more surprised. Not at the tardiness, nor the rambling, breathless monologue, but at Becca’s actual appearance. This petite, perfectly accessorized, very attractive blonde did not match the voice on the radio that Maura Beth had taken the time to tune in to the day after Periwinkle had informed her of the sign-up. That next morning, she had envisioned the woman loudly enumerating the ingredients for spicy beef stew as matronly, perhaps even as tall and ungainly as Julia Child had been. Instead, Becca was more like a bouncier, much younger version of Miss Voncille.
“Don’t worry,” Maura Beth replied, briefly waving her off. “You haven’t missed a thing. We’ve all just been getting better acquainted. So, shall we begin?”
But before she had a chance to mention the first item on her scripted agenda, Councilman Sparks stood up and stole the floor from her. “We’re a pretty sparse crowd, aren’t we? Is this going to be enough to have a viable book club? I’m just a kibitzer, you know, so don’t mind me.”
It was Connie, however, who answered his question, turning toward him with a deferential smile. “We started out with seven people for The Music City Page Turners in Nashville, Councilman. It only takes a few dedicated readers to make a book club work.”
“Yes, we’ll worry about numbers later,” Maura Beth added, eager to take back control. “And there’s no need for anyone to stand while speaking. We’re going to be very casual in our approach.”
Councilman Sparks resumed his seat with what amounted to a mock salute. “As you wish.”
Maura Beth offered a perfunctory but still civil, “Thank you!” and then moved on immediately. There were a few parliamentary issues to resolve first—such as confirming the head of the club and the necessity of a treasurer. It was decided that Maura Beth would continue to lead and see to it that there were multiple library copies of the books they would reviewing, while Connie would handle the bookkeeping, since she had performed that function so admirably for The Music City Page Turners.
Next came the matter of coordinating the menus for each meeting—something that perhaps only Maura Beth had considered. “After all,” she continued, “I think we’d prefer an appetizer, entrée, and dessert for our get-togethers. Someone needs to make sure we have a balance of dishes with a few timely phone calls to the others. Volunteers?”
Becca glanced first one way and then the other, checking for competition. As no one else budged, she said, “I’ll be happy to do that since I’m planning menus all the time for my shows.”
It was exactly what Maura Beth had hoped to hear. She had even thought about phoning Becca the day before to ask if she would willing to assume the food planning duties. Since the two women had never met, however, she had concluded that it might be too forward and chose to wait until the meeting got under way when they were face-to-face.
“I, for one, would be delighted to have you do that for us,” Maura Beth replied, “and I assume that the rest of you feel the same way? Show of hands?”
Councilman Sparks rightfully abstained from voting, but everyone else was on board.
“I’m honored, ladies and gentlemen,” Becca stated, while scanning the group with a smile. “But I did have one question. Will we be reviewing cookbooks from time to time? I feel I have special insight into their effectiveness.”
Maura Beth was trying her best to conceal her surprise. The flyer had made it quite clear that Southern literature would be the focus of the club. “To be honest with you, I thought we would sample each other’s dishes and exchange recipes as we saw fit,” Maura Beth explained. “But our discussions would be strictly literary.”
“Didn’t you know that I’m publishing a cookbook next year? I’m calling it The Best of Becca Broccoli, and I’ll be transcribing some of my most popular radio shows. Of course, I was hoping it would be the subject of one of our future meetings.”
Maura Beth felt her body tensing up at the wrench that had just been thrown into the works. It was imperative that she think on her feet and strike the right note. “I see no reason why we can’t consider that down the line. You say your cookbook is forthcoming anyway,” she pointed out, proceeding carefully. “For now, though, I believe we need to concentrate on our famous Southern female writers and get firmly established. We can make the rest up as we go along.”
Becca settled back in her chair, offering up a pleasant little nod. “I’ll just keep everyone posted on the progress of my cookbook, then. And I’ll be more than happy to autograph copies when it comes out.”
“Very good. We’ll look forward to that,” Maura Beth continued, returning to her notes with a decided sense of relief. “Now, the next item I have down here is our club name. Are we all in agreement on The Cherico Page Turners? May I have a show of hands?”
Everyone except Councilman Sparks raised their hand briefly, but Connie continued to wave in the studied manner of Queen Elizabeth on the balcony at Buckingham Palace or a newly crowned Miss America walking the runway.
“Yes, Connie? Do you have something to add?”
“Well, I was just thinking, Maura Beth . . . maybe we should consider going with something original instead of copying somebody else.”
“But you were the one that told me all about The Music City Page Turners.”
“Yes, I know. But if you’ll bear with me. Something happened recently that I just have to share with y’all.” She took a moment to gather her thoughts, obviously amused by what she was about to reveal.
“Our daughter, Lindy, has been visiting us from Memphis with our little granddaughter, Melissa. We told Lindy we weren’t quite ready for visitors yet, but she wanted to come anyway. She said, ‘Melissa misses her Gigi and Paw.’ That’s what the little angel calls my husband, Douglas, and me. Anyway, she’s just eight, and she still has trouble with certain words—like Cherico, for instance. So after a few days, she said, ‘Gigi and Paw, I just love visitin’ with y’all here in Cherry Cola, Mis-’sippi! ’ We just thought it was the cutest thing ever. So I was wondering if we might consider calling ourselves The Cherry Cola Book Club instead of The Cherico Page Turners? What do you think?”
Subdued oohing, ahhing, and nodding rippled through the half-circle, and it was Miss Voncille who spoke up first. “I like it. It gets my vote. Locke, you’ll go along with it, won’t you?”
“Whatever you ladies prefer is fine with me,” he said, patting her hand. “I’m only here because of Sadie Hawkins sitting next to me.”
“But you didn’t say no to me, Locke Linwood!” Miss Voncille exclaimed, looking smug.
Becca then offered her approval, and finally Maura Beth chimed in. “It’s highly original, if nothing else. And since I haven’t had any logos printed up yet, I don’t see why we can’t change our minds. Ladies’ prerogative, as they say.”
All the women were chuckling or rolling their eyes, but it was Maura Beth who truly offered up the exclamation point. “As they also say—out of the mouths of babes. So, many thanks to your precious granddaughter, Connie. Looks like we’re now officially The Cherry Cola Book Club. Maybe the name alone will intrigue people enough to join.”
“And we could add the cherry cola part to the menus,” Becca suggested. “I mean, nothing spruces up a soft drink like dropping a few ice cubes and cherries into a tumbler and then giving it a shake or a stir with a swizzle stick. Add a twist of lime, and you’ve got a cola to remember—especially in the summer heat.”
Connie gave Becca a gentle nudge and chuckled softly. “That sounds marvelously refreshing, of course, but did anyone ever tell you that you talk like a recipe?”
“I’d be in trouble if I didn’t, considering the thousands of shows I’ve produced!” Becca exclaimed. “Oh, yes, my Stout Fella says all the time that I’m very fluent in listing ingredients!”
“What I want to know is how you keep that cute little figure of yours while hanging around the kitchen so much?” Connie continued. “Mine blew up on me years ago. My figure, not my kitchen, of course.”
Everyone present enjoyed a good laugh, and Becca said, “No big secret. I do all the cooking, but Stout Fella does all the eating around our house. He’s gained about forty-five pounds since we got married ten years ago. I really should put him on a diet for his own good. Last time he went to the doctor, his cholesterol was up in the stratosphere. If I could just stop him from ‘islanding’ his ice cream, for starters.”
Connie’s brow furrowed dramatically. “Islanding? You mean scooping?”
“No, I only wish he would scoop. It’s when Stout Fella hovers over a half gallon of ice cream with his big spoon. He starts digging around the edges where it’s softer, and then he keeps going around and around and deeper and deeper until he’s eaten enough to make an island out of the middle.”
“What does he do with the middle?” Connie continued, still looking puzzled.
“Oh, he eventually gets around to that, too. Another time, he chips away from the edges until the island has completely disappeared. The point is, he consumes thousands of extra calories at one standing. I’ve informed him of the existence of bowls, but he won’t use them because he knows they would make him commit to a finite amount.”
Sensing that she was losing control of the meeting again, Maura Beth stepped in and abruptly switched subjects. “Ladies, this is all very fascinating, but I wanted to get your opinions on when to schedule the next meeting. We need to decide how long it will take us to read our first selection.”
“Exactly what is our first selection, by the way?” Miss Voncille wanted to know.
“I planned to go into that, too,” Maura Beth explained. “I had one particular classic in mind but thought we’d discuss it first. We might as well do that right now and then worry about the scheduling later. So, to cut to the chase, what does everybody think about getting our feet wet with the very dependable Gone with the Wind?”
“I’ve waded in that pool before with The Music City Page Turners,” Connie explained. “It’s been a few years, though.”
“So you’re less than enthusiastic?” Maura Beth said, sounding slightly disappointed.
Connie shrugged while patting her hair. “I’ll go along with the majority, of course, but it’s just such familiar territory to me.”
“We’ll branch out, I assure you,” Maura Beth explained. “Harper Lee, Eudora Welty, Ellen Douglas, and Ellen Gilchrist won’t be far behind.”
“Getting back to Gone with the Wind, though,” Miss Voncille began. “I’d like to know what could possibly be said about Margaret Mitchell’s only contribution to literature after all these decades? Hasn’t it been done to death and then some? Because the truth is, I don’t know if I can get through all those dialects again. I read the book way back in high school and never deciphered a word Mammy said. Did slaves really talk like that? Lord knows, I don’t want to get into that can of worms called political correctness, but I am a student of history, and it seemed so exaggerated.”
Instead of being discouraged by the negative comments, however, Maura Beth was actually pleased. “But that’s exactly the sort of observation I’d like for us to be discussing in the club. We don’t have to stick to the same tired angles, as if all criticism has been chiseled in stone. We can explore new and original concepts.”
Miss Voncille looked pensive but sounded placated. “We can bring up anything we want? No matter how outside the box?”
“Absolutely. You can be as revisionist as you like. All writers should be open to interpretation forever, even if we tend to bronze and retire them.”
“On the other hand, you can always rehash the movie,” Councilman Sparks quipped unexpectedly. He was sitting back in his chair with his arms folded and a supreme smirk on his face. “Which would seem to lead to the obvious next question: Will your members fall back on watching Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh instead of taking the time to actually read the book? And how can you prove they didn’t take that DVD shortcut?”
Maura Beth quickly realized that her fears about Councilman Sparks attending the meeting were not groundless. Clearly, he was there to make trouble with his subtle digs, but she was not going to give him the satisfaction of showing her irritation. “If members would like to view the film in addition to reading the book, I would certainly have no objections. That would make an excellent point of comparison for our discussions.”
“Clever girl. You should run for office with that answer,” Councilman Sparks added. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”
“So, if there’s no further input, shall we vote on my suggestion?” Maura Beth continued, ignoring his comment.
After a few more stray remarks that produced no fireworks, the vote was unanimous in favor of Gone with the Wind, even though Becca reminded everyone not to forget about her forthcoming cookbook as an aside. Then it was decided that the group would take a month to read the novel and reconvene on August 17 to discuss it—a straightforward enough proposition.
Councilman Sparks, however, continued to play devil’s advocate. “What if someone else enrolls in a few weeks and doesn’t have enough time to read the book? Will you allow use of CliffsNotes?”
Maura Beth waited for the awkward titters to subside before answering. “This isn’t a course, and we’re not here to be graded, Councilman. We’re here to think, have a good time, and enjoy some good food.” Then she decided it would be best to pull the plug. “So, if there are no other questions . . . I think this organizational meeting will come to an end.”
“And don’t forget, I’ll be giving y’all a call to work out who’s going to bring what to eat,” Becca put in at the last second. “We’ll try to make sure everyone whips up one of their best dishes.”
Maura Beth did not much care for Councilman Sparks lingering behind after everyone else had left. She did not want to hear what he had to say, knowing quite well that it could not possibly be of a constructive nature. Nevertheless, she resumed her position behind the podium, subconsciously viewing it as a means of protection as much as anything else. Then she plastered a grin on her face and looked directly into his eyes as he spoke.
“I admire your organizational skills, Miz Mayhew,” he began. “You run a tight ship just the way I do. But perhaps it’s time you faced up to the possibility that your tight ship is also sinking fast. I’m just wondering if all this furious activity of yours isn’t much ado about nothing. I hope you realize that a handful of people picnicking in the library is not going to alter the equation here. It may end up amusing a few intellectual types in the community, but I can’t see it becoming popular with the masses. I just don’t think that dog will hunt in Cherico.”
Maura Beth frowned. “We’re just getting off the ground. Don’t you think you should cut us a little slack?”
“I know you’re intelligent enough to understand that even if you doubled the number of people you had in here tonight, it wouldn’t be enough to keep the library open when we bear down on the budget,” he said, arching his eyebrows.
But she matched his glibness with sturdy body language of her own, leaning toward him with her chin up. “You’ve made that quite clear. Maybe I have more faith in the public than you do. But never mind that. I still think it’s odd that you just don’t close me down right now, particularly if you’re so sure that nobody will care.”
“Are you daring me to do that, Miz Mayhew?”
She cleared her throat and swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“Impressive,” he answered, turning off his dazzling smile in an instant. “You called my bluff. Chunky and Gopher Joe are way too intimidated to even try something like that. The truth is, if I don’t know anything else, I know my politics. And if by some miracle, you should pack every resident of Cherico into your little library five and a half months from now, I don’t want to be on the outside looking in. I’ll pretend that I knew you’d succeed all the time, and no one will be the wiser. I’ll have my attendance at every one of your meetings as my proof, too. So, thank you very much for the invitation to shutter you sooner rather than later, but I think I’ll keep all my options open. For the time being, that will be my official position.”
Maura Beth took a deep breath, having weathered the latest go-round. “So you’ll be dropping in on our review of Gone with the Wind next month, I take it?”
“I wouldn’t miss it. I’ve always wanted to observe a literary hen fest.”
“We’ll do our best to amuse you,” Maura Beth replied, matching his sarcastic smile. “And maybe Becca Broccoli can even get someone to cook up an omelet just for you. Perhaps a little cheese added to make you feel right at home.”
He leaned over the podium and winked. “Yum, yum!”
As she watched him walk away from her after their perfunctory farewells, Maura Beth steadied herself by grabbing the podium and whispering the phrase she had used earlier in the evening when they’d changed the name of the club. Over and over it came out of her like a soothing mantra: “Out of the mouths of babes . . . out of the mouths of babes . . . out of the mouths of babes . . .”
But when Councilman Sparks reached the front door, turned, and gave her a neat little bow, she couldn’t help herself, knowing full well he couldn’t hear her at that great distance: “. . . as well as charming rascals up to God-knows-what.”