Katie Fitzgerald

Book Club Night

    
     Hazel swayed the porch swing with her Keds, watching women emerge from the vehicles lining the opposite side of the street. They carried copies of a chunky book. Hazel could never read the titles at this distance, even with thick glasses, but every month she wondered what they were reading. 
     The snacks looked good: brownies, fancy cheeses and vegetables with dip. Lean Cuisine was sawdust by comparison. How did they choose members, these ladies with their minivans and plastic-wrapped treats? Hazel imagined a bizarre literary ritual involving dust jackets and bookmark tassels. It would be complicated, probably. 
     Hazel assumed everyone was accounted for until a woman in overalls came puffing down the sidewalk. She carried only pretzels, but they were obviously from the expensive grocery store. Were snacks the key? Hazel tried to remember what was in the pantry of her empty nest. An overripe avocado wasn’t impressive. 
     Suddenly, the pretzel bag hit the welcome mat and a black dog charged across the road. Hazel stood instinctively as the black lab barreled toward her, wagging and jumping. “Oh my.” She laughed as the dog’s tongue swiped her wrist. 
     The woman in overalls gaped while the hostess, Joanne, in her neatly tailored dress and sparkly Toms, rushed after her pet. “I’m sorry.” She came onto the porch and looped her fingers through the dog’s collar.  
     Hazel shook her head, dismissing the apology, and scratched the dog’s ears.  “It’s nice to be in on a bit of the action.” 
     “So rowdy, our book club,” quipped Joanne. 
     Hazel laughed, longing to muster a witty reply, but the moment passed. Joanne was already on the lawn again. She was nearly across the street before Hazel finally found her voice. 
     “Hey, what are you reading?”  
     Joanne turned and named a familiar bestselling title. “You’re welcome to join us, if you like.”
     Hazel felt illuminated from the inside. She hadn’t read the book. Her Lean Cuisine only served one. Tonight was not her night, but it was coming. No funny rituals either. Just a simple neighborly invitation.  
     “Next time,” she called. “I’ll bring guacamole.”