The Society of Shame - Hardcover

Roper, Jane

 
9780593468760: The Society of Shame
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 0593468767 ISBN 13: 9780593468760
Verlag: Anchor, 2023

Inhaltsangabe

“If you liked Lessons in Chemistry by Bonnie Garmus, read The Society of Shame by Jane Roper.” —The Washington Post

In this timely and witty combination of So You've Been Publicly Shamed and Where'd You Go, Bernadette? a viral photo of a politician's wife's “feminine hygiene malfunction” catapults her to unwanted fame in a story that's both a satire of social media stardom and internet activism, and a tender mother-daughter tale.

Kathleen Held’s life is turned upside down when she arrives home to find her house on fire and her husband on the front lawn in his underwear. But the scandal that emerges is not that Bill, who's running for Senate, is having a painfully cliched affair with one of his young staffers: it's that the eyewitness photographing the scene accidentally captures a period stain on the back of Kathleen’s pants.

Overnight, Kathleen finds herself the unwitting figurehead for a social media-centered women’s right movement, #YesWeBleed. Humiliated, Kathleen desperately seeks a way to hide from the spotlight. But when she stumbles upon the Society of Shame—led by the infamous author Danica Bellevue—Kathleen finds herself part of a group who are all working to change their lives after their own scandals. Using the teachings of the society, Kathleen channels her newfound fame as a means to reap the benefits of her humiliation and reclaim herself. But as she ascends to celebrity status, Kathleen's growing obsession with maintaining her popularity online threatens her most important relationship IRL: that with her budding activist daughter, Aggie.

Hilarious and heartfelt, The Society of Shame is a pitch-perfect romp through politics and the perils of being "extremely online"—without losing your sanity or your true self.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

JANE ROPER is the author of two previous books: a memoir, Double Time, and a novel, Eden Lake. Her short fiction, essays, and humor have appeared in publications including McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, The Millions, The Rumpus, Salon, and Poets & Writers and on NPR. Jane is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and lives in the Boston area with her husband and two children.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Day One

At seven p.m., Kathleen Held was in a taxi heading home from JFK to Greenchester, a full three hours earlier than originally scheduled.

It had worked out so perfectly, she felt almost giddy. She’d been able to switch to a nonstop flight from LA, which meant: (A) not having to change planes in Chicago—so, a 50 percent lower chance of dying in a fiery crash, or so she reasoned; and (B) that she’d get to enjoy a whole quiet evening at home, alone. After five days with her sister’s family, listening to Margo drone on about the value of alternate nostril breathing and being forced by Nick to sniff and describe the various strains of genetically engineered cannabis his company grew (Pot! They all smelled like pot!), she was starving for solitude.

Her daughter, Aggie, was staying in LA for a few more days before school started—yet another forced attempt at cousin-to-cousin bonding. Margo’s kids might as well have been a different species from Aggie, all long limbed, sun bronzed, and aggressively outdoorsy. But Aggie, sweet soul that she was, always went gamely along with whatever vigorous outings were planned.

Bill, meanwhile, would have just left for the large and extremely important campaign fundraiser he was attending that night at a country club in Scarsdale. Had Kathleen switched to an even earlier flight—which, in fact, she could have—he would have tried to convince her to go to said extremely important fundraiser with him. And it would inevitably have led to another one of the silent, simmering nonarguments they’d had so many of since he’d begun his US Senate campaign eight months before.

Tonight, thank god, there would be none of that. No simmering, no guilt. No having to stuff her soft middle-aged midsection into shapewear and make small talk with smug limousine liberals. Instead, just an easy, sleepy reunion when Bill came home—the kind where the light would be off and she might even be asleep but would wake up at the sound of the bedroom door opening. She wouldn’t mind. She liked listening in the dark as he undressed: the clink of belt buckle, the whoosh of cloth, a muttered curse if he stubbed his toe. When he crawled into bed, she would whisper a “Hi,” and he would whisper a “Hi” back. Then he would roll toward her, kiss her cheek, and slide his arm over her belly, where it would stay all night, heavy and warm and familiar.

She just wished their bedtime reunions weren’t the only times things felt right between them anymore—when she didn’t feel like she was being squashed into a corner by Bill’s glorious career.

Maybe, she told herself, as she watched streetlights whip past along the Van Wyck Expressway, she needed to make sure that Bill knew, even if the rest of the world didn’t, that she was more than just a supporting character in his story. She would start as soon as he got home tonight. Maybe she’d even wait up for him. Yes, she would. With that small gesture of engagement, she could begin the work of nudging the balance between them back into a better, healthier place.

In the meantime, though, the evening was hers.

By the time the taxi turned onto her street, she had started picturing where she’d be in a matter of minutes: sitting on the three-season porch in a fresh change of clothes (she imagined some loose, breezy linen ensemble that she didn’t actually own), having a glass of white wine, catching up on her New Yorkers, ignoring the dog.

Instead, she came home to smoke billowing out of the garage.

“That doesn’t look so good,” the taxi driver said.

Kathleen bolted out of the car. The driver was close behind her.

“Is anybody in the house?” he asked.

“No—I mean yes! Nugget. Shit.”

“Nugget shit?”

“Nugget, our dog,” said Kathleen. “He’s in there.”

She started toward the house, but the driver flung his arm in front of her chest. “Don’t you go in there, ma’am. You call 911. I’ll go get your dog. My twin brother’s a firefighter.”

“What’s that got to do with—”

“You want your dog to die of smoke inhalation? What does he look like?”

“He looks like a dog,” said Kathleen. “He’s the only one in there. But the house doesn’t look like it’s on fire. I can really just—”

“Big dog? Small dog?”

“A Yorkshire terrier. Small. With a missing eye. But—”

“Small one-eyed dog. Got it. Give me your keys.”

She handed him the keys, just to get rid of him, and called 911. When she got off the phone with the dispatcher, she moved a few paces over the lawn toward the garage. The smoke was thicker than it had been seconds before, and there were now tendrils of flame creeping out from under the roof. The left-hand garage door was open, and Kathleen saw that the source of the blaze was Bill’s 1969 Dodge Charger, which he’d bought on a whim the year before. It was completely engulfed in flames. In spite of herself, Kathleen felt a flare of triumph. She’d told him repeatedly it was a deathtrap. She’d been referring to its lack of three-point seat belts and airbags, but the fact that it was now on fire was not altogether surprising to her.

Still, poor Bill was going to be heartbroken. She dialed his number and was waiting for him to pick up when suddenly there he was, emerging from the garage, stumbling and coughing, a spent fire extinguisher in his hands, wearing nothing but a half-unbuttoned white dress shirt and boxer shorts.

“Bill, Jesus!” She ran toward him. “What’s happening? Are you okay?”

He staggered forward a few more steps, then tossed the fire extinguisher aside, fell to his hands and knees, hacking and coughing, and vomited onto the grass. Kathleen knelt beside him and rubbed his back. After a few final mucus-drenched coughs, he looked at her. “I’m sorry, Kath,” he croaked.

“Sorry for what? What happened?”

In the distance, there was the wail of sirens.

“Shit,” Bill said, and commenced coughing again.

“I got him! All good!” The taxi driver was coming down the front walk, Nugget a small hairy lump in his arms. “Hey!” He pointed to Bill. “You’re that guy running for president. I saw you on the news.”

“Senate,” Bill managed to gasp.

The driver grinned. “Sure, that’s where it starts.” He handed Nugget to Kathleen, nearly knocking her to the ground, then pulled his phone out of his pocket and crouched next to Bill to snap a selfie.

“Delete that!” Bill yelled, his voice suddenly strong and clear.

“Don’t worry,” said the driver, standing back up. “I won’t show it to anyone. Just my wife.”

“Please, delete,” Bill said before he was wracked by another coughing fit.

An ambulance and a fire engine were pulling into the driveway now.

“All right, all right.” The driver tapped at his phone in a not entirely convincing way. “I guess you being in your underwear and everything.”

For the first time, it occurred to Kathleen to wonder: Why was Bill in his underwear? The Nantucket Reds, she saw now—an inside joke going back to when they were first dating and had gone to Nantucket for his sister’s wedding, at his parents’ enormous summer home. The day before the wedding, they’d gone into a shop that was entirely devoted to clothing in that...

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Verlag
Anchor
Erscheinungsdatum
2023
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0593468767
ISBN 13 
9780593468760
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten
368
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
Nicht verfügbar

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