The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires - Grady Hendrix Page 0,128

just lay there, smiling slightly. The light outside got dimmer and the light inside got stronger, and Patricia kept reading, speaking louder to compensate for her paper mask.

“Am I too late?” Maryellen said, and Patricia looked up to see her pushing open the door.

“Is she awake?” Maryellen whispered from behind her paper mask.

“Thank you for coming,” Slick said without opening her eyes.

“Everyone wants to know how you’re feeling,” Maryellen said. “I know Kitty wanted to come.”

“Are you reading this month’s book?” Slick asked.

Maryellen pulled a heavy brown armchair to the foot of the bed.

“I can’t even open it,” she said. “Men Are from Mars? That’s giving them too much credit.”

Slick started coughing, and it took Patricia a moment to realize she was laughing.

“I made…,” Slick whispered, and Patricia and Maryellen strained to hear her. “I made Patricia stop reading it.”

“I miss the books we used to read where at least there was a murder,” Maryellen said. “The problem with book club these days is too many men. They don’t know how to pick a book to save their lives and they love to listen to themselves talk. It’s nothing but opinions, all day long.”

“You sound…sexist,” Slick whispered.

She was the only one not in a mask, so even though her voice was weakest, it sounded loudest.

“I wouldn’t mind listening if any of them had an opinion worth a damn,” Maryellen said.

With three of them in Slick’s little hospital room, Patricia felt the absence of the other two more acutely. They felt like some kind of survivors’ club—the last three standing.

“Are you going to Kitty’s oyster roast on Saturday?” she asked Maryellen.

“If she has one,” Maryellen said. “The way she’s acting they might call it off.”

“I haven’t spoken to her since before Halloween,” Patricia said.

“Give her a call when you have a chance,” Maryellen said. “Something’s wrong. Horse says she hasn’t left the house all week and yesterday she barely left her room. He’s worried.”

“What does he say is wrong?” Patricia asked.

“He says it’s nightmares,” Maryellen said. “She’s drinking, a lot. She wants to know where the children are every second of the day. She’s scared something might happen to them.”

Patricia decided it was time more people knew.

“Do you want to talk to Maryellen about anything?” she asked Slick. “Do you have something you need to tell her?”

Slick shook her head deliberately.

“No,” she croaked. “The doctors don’t know anything yet.”

Patricia leaned down.

“He can’t hurt you here,” she said, quietly. “You can tell her.”

“How is she?” a gentle, caring male voice said from the door.

Patricia hunched as if she’d been stabbed between the shoulder blades. Slick’s eyes widened. Patricia turned, and there was no mistaking the eyes above the mask or the shape beneath the paper gown.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier,” James Harris said through his mask, moving across the room. “Poor Slick. What’s happened to you?”

Patricia stood and put herself between James Harris and Slick’s bed. He stopped in front of her and placed one large hand on her shoulder. It took everything she had not to flinch.

“You’re so good to be here,” he said, and then gently brushed her aside and loomed over Slick, one hand resting on her bed rail. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

What he was doing was obscene. Patricia wanted to scream for help, she wanted the police, she wanted him arrested, but she knew no one would help them. Then she realized Maryellen and Slick weren’t saying anything, either.

“Do you not feel up to talking?” James Harris asked Slick.

Patricia wondered who would break first, which one of them would cave in to niceties and make conversation, but they all stood firm, and looked at their hands, at their feet, out the window, and none of them said a word.

“I feel like I’m interrupting,” James Harris said.

The silence continued and Patricia felt something bigger than her fear: solidarity.