The End of Mary Lou Hatton’s Big Beautiful Women Book Club

MARY LOU HATTON

My thick thighs announce themselves as I climb the old stairs. Each step groans under me. A loud pounding echo bounces through the library’s high-ceilinged halls, long before I reach the top stair.

If that weren’t enough, my slip-in gym shoes contributed their own rubbery chorus. Thump. Squeak. Thump. Squeak. Squeak.

At the top, I lean on the wall, out of breath. My glasses slide down my sweaty nose.

I whispered a husky prayer: Please don’t let me need to be resuscitated in front of the book club.

I was gassy; little poots escaped as I entered the room, making club members pinch their noses and gesture dramatically.

I could have taken the shaky elevator like the rest of the ladies in the Big Beautiful Women Cozy Mystery Club, but I didn’t.

My doctor told me to move, move, move, and I was determined to follow her advice, even if it meant struggling up the stairs while the others took the easy route.

Whether it was struggling up the library stairs for the book club or parking far away at the grocery store, I took those opportunities to move.

Anyway, I was sure our BBW book club exceeded the weight the ancient elevator could hold.

Lately, it seemed the ladies and Tall John were turning against me. I pounded my fist against the stone wall as I caught my breath. I’d rescued these women from the monotony of their lives. They were widowed, retired, and plump.

I had a waiting list of women dying to join the BBW Reading Club, and I was selective. I didn’t want the group to get too big. Funny, pun intended. Because then we couldn’t have the juicy discussions that made our lives worthwhile.

I lied. There was no waiting list. But there will be!

Until Tall John, I never allowed men in the club. Being a BBW most of my adult life taught me men had fat girl fetishes and little interest in reading, let alone cozy mysteries.

Tall John was different—a dark-thriller author who hadn't published in a decade. Back when thrillers were my thing, I was a fan. I met him after a library talk and told him about the club I wanted to start. His seven-foot frame looked down on my five-foot-one; his beady eyes, behind tiny glasses, encouraged me to go for it.

To my surprise, he showed up at the very first meeting.

He was nothing like the rest of us.

He wasn’t a woman. He wasn’t plump or round. He was no average Joe.

He’d had not one but two distinguished careers—psychiatrist and author.

He never acted like he was above us, though his height literally put him there.

His thin frame among our fluffy ones was a sight to see.

I saw Tall John and Sally Lou whispering conspiratorially in the Mysteries and Dark Thrillers aisle.

Did they really think they were hiding? He towered above the bookshelf, and two library staff had to move the shelves just so Sally Lou could fit behind them.

I watched them from my car across the street, binoculars pressed to my face. I prided myself on my expert lip-reading.

He told Sally Lou he wanted me out of the group, and she said she did too. John’s reason was that after spending years immersed in the twisted worlds of his own writing, he couldn’t stand the cheerful coziness anymore and needed to move on. As for Sally’s reasoning? Who knows. Who cares?

Today was the day. I was going to play it cool. That night, we would finish the last Cupcake Shop Cozy mystery, right before the big reveal of who did it.

I was going to do it!

John could forget about taking over the group. Forget about dramatically rearranging the wooden chairs.

Forget about him condescendingly picking characters. He rarely picked me, claiming with a sigh that "a less stout character" was easier to believe.

"Less stout!" At five feet, I may have been the shortest, but the stoutest? Not even close.

Here he was, a seven-foot beanpole, and he could play an infant kitten if he wanted, but I never fit any role.

Today, I would give the group an ultimatum: Tall John and Sally Lou had to go, and if anyone didn’t want them to, then they could go too. I knew this was my last chance to protect the club. Then my biggest surprise would come.

I would shoot John in front of the group. Pow pow pow pow pow. With a prop gun, of course, that is a realistic replica.

Just for good measure, I’d also shoot Sally Lou just to let her know to mind her own business.

Surely my little dramatic stunt would be the talk of our small town, and once again, interest would surge in the BBW Book Club.

TALL JOHN

Mary Lou Hatton is, clinically speaking, nuts. I breathe deeply, carefully choosing the words of my thoughts as I always do. After all, I'm a retired psychologist, and she has the classic signs of paranoia.

I also wrote enough characters in my books to know a nutty lady when I see one. I would see Mary Lou at the library often, and once she came to a book talk I gave. Afterward, she told me she wanted to start a book club. I had encouraged her to do so, and when she did, I joined.

My wife was deceased, and I was in a dark space. This thing called cozy mysteries might be worth exploring. Small-town murders, no gore, no crime scene written in explicit detail.

Just big, happy women discussing light books. It was the opposite of the intense literary world I knew, where we discussed award-winning books.

I needed a break from all that.

I was thinking about actually working on my first book in over a decade, which is why I’d been hanging around the library looking for interesting characters, and this book club had given me plenty to work with. Mary Lou Hattenburn is a gem to re-create in a story.

I joined, and at first it was fun. The first cozy we read was Cinderella and the Dead Fella. It told of a family who owned a bed & breakfast and visited another one, bringing shenanigans, mystery, and murder.

I laughed so hard that tears fell. These stories were fun.

I thought this was something I could be a part of for a long time.

Here I was, a retired psychologist, a dark thriller writer, a cyclist, everything that was the opposite of these women, and somehow, with this tiny book club, joy was found.

Until Mary Lou spiraled off the rails, spying and accusing us of plotting. We cared about the group and her. Tonight, we'd give her an ultimatum: get help or go.

We didn’t want to abandon her, but we couldn’t let her issues take over the group.

The library called, frantic: Mary Lou had scribbled bizarre, defamatory comments about me in books throughout the stacks. Lies, all lies. Why would a 300-pound former librarian, a professed book lover, deface them?

They asked me if I wanted to press charges, and I said, "Absolutely! Absolutely not."

I did demand that her library card be permanently revoked and that she be booted from the library. Tonight would be one for the books.

Whether she agreed or not, she was out.

THE MEETING

The meeting began with Mary Lou rattling on about nothing related to our group, using her loneliness to fill time. I sighed, exchanging looks with those who knew the plan.

Tonight, I would pretend to need to leave early.

Our carefully rehearsed intention was to discuss the group and politely ask her to quit.

The women piled in and took their usual seats on the wooden chairs after grabbing coffee and a treat from the table.

When Mary Lou began to speak, I cut her off.

Mary Lou, I said, my voice sharp with impatience. Can we skip the small talk tonight? I have another engagement and need to leave early.

Others followed, lining up their excuses.

She knew the end was coming. She knew the Mary Lou Hatton book club was coming to a dramatic end.

She stood, foaming at the mouth. Before any of us could get out a word, she reached into her floral-patterned, oversized bag and produced what looked like a gun, firing blanks in a dramatic act that sent us ducking for cover, not knowing at first it wasn't real.

Mary Lou was hauled off to the police station, charged with inciting a riot. In the days that followed, a flood of small-town gossip swept in as we quietly buried Gertrude and reflected on how quickly our book club had changed.

A new sign at the library stood out among the old ones: No Book Clubs Allowed.

R.I.P Gertrude