The chapter dives into the roots of upbringing in the South, emphasizing traditional values of respect and silence towards parents, a stark contrast to the narrator’s personal experience of expression through singing. Born in McComb, Mississippi, and raised in Kentwood, Louisiana, the narrator paints a vivid picture of a tight-knit community where life revolves around church gatherings, familial outings, and Civil War reenactments. Singing emerges as a spiritual quarantine, providing solace and an escape from mundane worries.

The narrator’s childhood was swathed in the simplicity of small-town life – from attending Christian schools to sharing in communal celebrations – yet it was deeply enriched by music. An encounter with a housekeeper’s gospel singing sparks a profound passion in the narrator, transforming singing into an essential mode of self-expression and connection with something greater than oneself.

The backdrop of familial history introduces a duality of tragedy and aspiration. The narrator shares the distressing story of their grandmother, Jean, who faced immense grief and ultimately took her own life, casting a shadow of sorrow and complexity over the family’s legacy. This history contrasts sharply with the narrator’s mother’s lineage, which carries hints of elegance and sophistication from London, underscoring a conflict between the worlds of aspiration and the harsh realities of rural American life.

Early on, the narrator develops a strong sense of identity and ambition, fueled by a desire to transcend the confines of their surroundings through art and imagination. The act of singing becomes not just a way to bridge the gap between reality and fantasy but also a means to cope with the burdens of familial history and personal dreams.

The chapter weaves together themes of cultural heritage, personal tragedy, and the transformative power of music, illustrating how one’s origins and family legacies can deeply influence one’s journey towards self-expression and fulfillment. The narrator’s journey is marked by a longing to escape into a world of dreams, underscored by a commitment to pursue singing as a pathway to freedom and discovery.

You are being provided with a book chapter by chapter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chapter. After reading the chapter, 1. shorten the chapter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any important nouns in the chapter. 3. Do not translate the original language. 4. Keep the same style as the original chapter, keep it consistent throughout the chapter. Your reply must comply with all four requirements, or it’s invalid.
I will provide the chapter now.

CHAPTER 1
In 1988, George H. W. Bush had just won the presidential election by
inviting everyone to read his lips while Michael Dukakis lost it by
riding in a tank. Dr. Huxtable was America’s dad, Kate & Allie were
America’s moms, The Golden Girls were America’s grandmoms,
McDonald’s announced it was opening its first restaurant in the
Soviet Union, everyone bought Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of
Time and didn’t read it, Phantom of the Opera opened on Broadway,
and Patricia Campbell got ready to die.
She sprayed her hair, put on her earrings, and blotted her lipstick,
but when she looked at herself in the mirror she didn’t see a
housewife of thirty-nine with two children and a bright future, she
saw a dead person. Unless war broke out, the oceans rose, or the
earth fell into the sun, tonight was the monthly meeting of the
Literary Guild of Mt. Pleasant, and she hadn’t read this month’s
book. And she was the discussant. Which meant that in less than
ninety minutes she would stand up in front of a room full of women
and lead them in a conversation about a book she hadn’t read.
She had meant to read Cry, the Beloved Country—honestly—but
every time she picked up her copy and read There is a lovely road
that runs from Ixopo into the hills, Korey rode her bike off the end of
the dock because she thought that if she pedaled fast enough she
could skim across the water, or she set her brother’s hair on fire
trying to see how close she could get a match before it caught, or she
spent an entire weekend telling everyone who called that her mother
couldn’t come to the phone because she was dead, which Patricia
only learned about when people started showing up at the front door
with condolence casseroles.
Before Patricia could discover why the road that runs from Ixopo
was so lovely, she’d see Blue run past the sun porch windows buck
naked, or she’d realize the house was so quiet because she’d left him
at the downtown library and had to jump in the Volvo and fly back
over the bridge, praying that he hadn’t been kidnapped by Moonies,
or because he’d decided to see how many raisins he could fit up his
nose (twenty-four). She never even learned where Ixopo was exactly
because her mother-in-law, Miss Mary, moved in with them for a six-
week visit and the garage room had to have clean towels, and the
sheets on the guest bed had to be changed every day, and Miss Mary
had trouble getting out of the tub so they had one of those bars
installed and she had to find somebody to do that, and the children
had laundry that needed to be done, and Carter had to have his shirts
ironed, and Korey wanted new soccer cleats because everyone else
had them but they really couldn’t afford them right now, and Blue
was only eating white food so she had to make rice every night for
supper, and the road to Ixopo ran on to the hills without her.
Joining the Literary Guild of Mt. Pleasant had seemed like a good
idea at the time. Patricia realized she needed to get out of the house
and meet new people the moment she leaned over at supper with
Carter’s boss and tried to cut up his steak for him. A book club made
sense because she liked reading, especially mysteries. Carter had
suggested it was because she went through life as if the entire world
were a mystery to her, and she didn’t disagree: Patricia Campbell
and the Secret of Cooking Three Meals a Day, Seven Days a Week,
without Losing Your Mind. Patricia Campbell and the Case of the
Five-Year-Old Child Who Keeps Biting Other People. Patricia
Campbell and the Mystery of Finding Enough Time to Read the
Newspaper When You Have Two Children and a Mother-in-Law
Living with You and Everyone Needs Their Clothes Washed, and to
Be Fed, and the House Needs to Be Cleaned and Someone Has to
Give the Dog His Heartworm Pills and You Should Probably Wash
Your Own Hair Every Few Days or Your Daughter Is Going to Ask
Why You Look Like a Street Person. A few discreet inquiries, and
she’d been invited to the inaugural meeting of the Literary Guild of
Mt. Pleasant at Marjorie Fretwell’s house.
The Literary Guild of Mt. Pleasant picked their books for that year
in a very democratic process: Marjorie Fretwell invited them to select
eleven books from a list of thirteen she found appropriate. She asked
if there were other books anyone wanted to recommend, but
everyone understood that wasn’t a real question, except for Slick
Paley, who seemed chronically unable to read social cues.
“I’d like to nominate Like Lambs to the Slaughter: Your Child and
the Occult,” Slick said. “With that crystal store on Coleman
Boulevard and Shirley MacLaine on the cover of Time magazine
talking about her past lives, we need a wake-up call.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” Marjorie Fretwell said. “So I imagine it
falls outside our mandate of reading the great books of the Western
world. Anyone else?”
“But—” Slick protested.
“Anyone else?” Marjorie repeated.
They selected the books Marjorie wrote down for them, assigned
each book to the month Marjorie thought best, and picked the
discussants Marjorie thought were most appropriate. The discussant
would open the meeting by delivering a twenty-minute presentation
on the book, its background, and the life of its author, then lead the
group discussion. A discussant could not cancel or trade books with
anyone else without paying a stiff fine because the Literary Guild of
Mt. Pleasant was not fooling around.
When it became clear she wasn’t going to be able to finish Cry, the
Beloved Country, Patricia called Marjorie.
“Marjorie,” she said over the phone while putting a lid on the rice
and turning it down from a boil. “It’s Patricia Campbell. I need to
talk to you about Cry, the Beloved Country.”
“Such a powerful work,” Marjorie said.
“Of course,” Patricia said.
“I know you’ll do it justice,” Marjorie said.
“I’ll do my best,” Patricia said, realizing that this was the exact
opposite of what she needed to say.
“And it’s so timely with the situation in South Africa right now,”
Marjorie said.
A cold bolt of fear shot through Patricia: what was the situation in
South Africa right now?
After she hung up, Patricia cursed herself for being a coward and a
fool, and vowed to go to the library and look up Cry, the Beloved
Country in the Directory of World Literature, but she had to do
snacks for Korey’s soccer team, and the babysitter had mono, and
Carter had a sudden trip to Columbia and she had to help him pack,
and then a snake came out of the toilet in the garage room and she
had to beat it to death with a rake, and Blue drank a bottle of Wite-
Out and she had to take him to the doctor to see if he would die (he
wouldn’t). She tried to look up Alan Paton, the author, in their World
Book Encyclopedia but they were missing the P volume. She made a
mental note that they needed new encyclopedias.
The doorbell rang.
“Mooooom,” Korey called from the downstairs hall. “Pizza’s here!”
She couldn’t put it off any longer. It was time to face Marjorie.
—
Marjorie had handouts.
“These are just a few articles about current events in South Africa,
including the recent unpleasantness in Vanderbijlpark,” she said.
“But I think Patricia will sum things up nicely for us in her discussion
of Mr. Alan Paton’s Cry, the Beloved Country.”
Everyone turned to stare at Patricia sitting on Marjorie’s enormous
pink-and-white sofa. Not being familiar with the design of Marjorie’s
home, she had put on a floral dress and felt like all anyone saw were
her head and hands floating in midair. She wished she could pull
them into her dress and disappear completely. She felt her soul exit
her body and hover up by the ceiling.
“But before she begins,” Marjorie said, and every head turned back
her way, “let’s have a moment of silence for Mr. Alan Paton. His
passing earlier this year has shaken the literary world as much as it’s
shaken me.”
Patricia’s brain chased itself in circles: the author was dead?
Recently? She hadn’t seen anything in the paper. What could she
say? How had he died? Was he murdered? Torn apart by wild dogs?
Heart attack?
“Amen,” Marjorie said. “Patricia?”
Patricia’s soul decided that it was no fool and ascended into the
afterlife, leaving her at the mercy of the women surrounding her.
There was Grace Cavanaugh, who lived two doors down from Patricia
but whom she’d only met once when Grace rang her doorbell and
said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but you’ve lived here for six months
and I need to know: is this the way you intend for your yard to look?”
Slick Paley blinked rapidly, her sharp foxy face and tiny eyes glued
to Patricia, her pen poised above her notebook. Louise Gibbes
cleared her throat. Cuffy Williams blew her nose slowly into a
Kleenex. Sadie Funche leaned forward, nibbling on a cheese straw,
eyes boring into Patricia. The only person not looking at Patricia was
Kitty Scruggs, who eyed the bottle of wine in the center of the coffee
table that no one had dared open.
“Well…,” Patricia began. “Didn’t we all love Cry, the Beloved
Country?”
Sadie, Slick, and Cuffy nodded. Patricia glanced at her watch and
saw that seven seconds had passed. She could run out the clock. She
let the silence linger hoping someone would jump in and say
something, but the long pause only prompted Marjorie to say,
“Patricia?”
“It’s so sad that Alan Paton was cut down in the prime of his life
before writing more novels like Cry, the Beloved Country,” Patricia
said, feeling her way forward, word by word, guided by the nods of
the other women. “Because this book has so many timely and
relevant things to say to us now, especially after the terrible events in
Vander…Vanderbill…South Africa.”
The nodding got stronger. Patricia felt her soul descending back
into her body. She forged ahead.
“I wanted to tell you all about Alan Paton’s life,” she said. “And
why he wrote this book, but all those facts don’t express how
powerful this story is, how much it moved me, the great cry of
outrage I felt when I read it. This is a book you read with your heart,
not with your mind. Did anyone else feel that way?”
The nods were general, all over the living room.
“Exactly.” Slick Paley nodded. “Yes.”
“I feel so strongly about South Africa,” Patricia said, and then
remembered that Mary Brasington’s husband was in banking and
Joanie Wieter’s husband did something with the stock market and
they might have investments there. “But I know there are many sides
to the issue, and I wonder if anyone wanted to present another point
of view. In the spirit of Mr. Paton’s book, this should be a
conversation, not a speech.”
Everyone was nodding. Her soul settled back into her body. She
had done it. She had survived. Marjorie cleared her throat.
“Patricia,” Marjorie asked. “What did you think about what the
book had to say about Nelson Mandela?”
“So inspirational,” Patricia said. “He simply towers over
everything, even though he’s really just mentioned.”
“I don’t believe he is,” Marjorie said, and Slick Paley stopped
nodding. “Where did you see him mentioned? On which page?”
Patricia’s soul began ascending into the light again. Good-bye, it
said. Good-bye, Patricia. You’re on your own now…
“His spirit of freedom?” Patricia said. “It pervades every page?”
“When this book was written,” Marjorie said. “Nelson Mandela
was still a law student and a minor member of the ANC. I’m not sure
how his spirit could be anywhere in this book, let alone pervading
every page.”
Marjorie drilled into Patricia’s face with her ice-pick eyes.
“Well,” Patricia croaked, because she was dead now and
apparently death felt very, very dry. “What he was going to do. You
could feel it building. In here. In this book. That we read.”
“Patricia,” Marjorie said. “You didn’t read the book, did you?”
Time stopped. No one moved. Patricia wanted to lie, but a lifetime
of breeding had made her a lady.
“Some of it,” Patricia said.
Marjorie let out a soul-deep sigh that seemed to go on forever.
“Where did you stop?” she asked.
“The first page?” Patricia said, then began to babble. “I’m sorry, I
know I’ve let you down, but the babysitter had mono, and Carter’s
mother is staying with us, and a snake came out of the commode,
and everything’s just been so hard this month. I really don’t know
what to say except I’m so, so sorry.”
Black crept in around the edges of her vision. A high-pitched tone
shrilled in her right ear.
“Well,” Marjorie said. “You’re the one who’s lost out, by robbing
yourself of what is possibly one of the finest works of world
literature. And you’ve robbed all of us of your unique point of view.
But what’s done is done. Who else would be willing to lead the
discussion?”
Sadie Funche retracted into her Laura Ashley dress like a turtle,
Nancy Fox started shaking her head before Marjorie even reached
the end of her sentence, and Cuffy Williams froze like a prey animal
confronted by a predator.
“Did anyone actually read this month’s book?” Marjorie asked.
Silence.
“I cannot believe this,” Marjorie said. “We all agreed, eleven
months ago, to read the great books of the Western world and now,
less than one year later, we’ve come to this. I am deeply disappointed
in all of you. I thought we wanted to better ourselves, expose
ourselves to thoughts and ideas from outside Mt. Pleasant. The men
all say, ‘It’s not too clever for a girl to be clever,’ and they laugh at us
and think we only care about our hair. The only books they give us
are cookbooks because in their minds we are silly, lightweight know-
nothings. And you’ve just proven them right.”
She stopped to catch her breath. Patricia noticed sweat glistening
in her eyebrows. Marjorie continued:
“I strongly suggest y’all go home and think about whether you
want to join us next month to read Jude the Obscure and—”
Grace Cavanaugh stood, hitching her purse over one shoulder.
“Grace?” Marjorie asked. “Are you not staying?”
“I just remembered an appointment,” Grace said. “It entirely
slipped my mind.”
“Well,” Marjorie said, her momentum undermined. “Don’t let me
keep you.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Grace said.
And with that, the tall, elegant, prematurely gray Grace floated out
of the room.
Robbed of its velocity, the meeting dissolved. Marjorie retreated to
the kitchen, followed by a concerned Sadie Funche. A dispirited
clump of women lingered around the dessert table making chitchat.
Patricia lurked in her chair until no one seemed to be watching, then
darted out of the house.
As she cut across Marjorie’s front yard, she heard a noise that
sounded like Hey. She stopped and looked for the source.
“Hey,” Kitty Scruggs repeated.
Kitty lurked behind the line of parked cars in Marjorie’s driveway,
a cloud of blue smoke hovering over her head, a long thin cigarette
between her fingers. Next to her stood Maryellen something-or-
other, also smoking. Kitty waved Patricia over with one hand.
Patricia knew that Maryellen was a Yankee from Massachusetts
who told everyone that she was a feminist. And Kitty was one of
those big women who wore the kind of clothes people charitably
referred to as “fun”—baggy sweaters with multicolored handprints
on them, chunky plastic jewelry. Patricia suspected that getting
entangled with women like this was the first step on a slippery slope
that ended with her wearing felt reindeer antlers at Christmas, or
standing outside Citadel Mall asking people to sign a petition, so she
approached them with caution.
“I liked what you did in there,” Kitty said.
“I should have found time to read the book,” Patricia told her.
“Why?” Kitty asked. “It was boring. I couldn’t make it past the first
chapter.”
“I need to write Marjorie a note,” Patricia said. “To apologize.”
Maryellen squinted against the smoke and sucked on her cigarette.
“Marjorie got what she deserved,” she said, exhaling.
“Listen.” Kitty placed her body between the two of them and
Marjorie’s front door, just in case Marjorie was watching and could
read lips. “I’m having some people read a book and come over to my
house next month to talk about it. Maryellen’ll be there.”
“I couldn’t possibly find the time to belong to two book clubs,”
Patricia said.
“Trust me,” Kitty said. “After today, Marjorie’s book club is done.”
“What book are you reading?” Patricia asked, groping for reasons
to say no.
Kitty reached into her denim shoulder bag and pulled out the kind
of cheap paperback they sold at the drugstore.
“Evidence of Love: A True Story of Passion and Death in the
Suburbs,” she said.
It took Patricia aback. This was one of those trashy true crime
books. But clearly Kitty was reading it and you couldn’t call someone
else’s taste in books trashy, even if it was.
“I’m not sure that’s my kind of book,” Patricia said.
“These two women were best friends and they chopped each other
up with axes,” Kitty said. “Don’t pretend you don’t want to know
what happened.”
“Jude is obscure for a reason,” Maryellen growled.

On a dreary February day, amidst relentless rain, the protagonist drives from Center Point to Mountain Brook to fulfill her duty as a dog walker in the affluent Thornfield Estates. The journey begins at the Reeds’ household, where Mrs. Reed expresses a performative sympathy for the protagonist having to walk her collie, Bear, in such unpleasant weather. This act underscores the primary concern in Thornfield Estates: appearances.

Mrs. Reed’s disingenuous empathy contrasts sharply with the protagonist’s indifference towards her and the superficiality of the residents’ charitable endeavors, which seem more about social status than genuine philanthropy. The protagonist, equipped with a pragmatic army-green raincoat against the rain, sets out with Bear, pondering on the luxurious yet hollow lifestyle of her employers versus her own modest living conditions.

Her observations reveal a stark disparity; while every McMansion boasts lush backyards rendering dog walkers technically unnecessary, the demand for such services is driven by desire rather than need, highlighting the extravagance that defines the community. Not only does Mrs. Reed live in a lavish home far too large for mere inhabitants, but this opulence is mirrored throughout the estate. The protagonist reflects on her employment with various families within the neighborhood, such as the McLarens, the Clarks, and Tripp Ingraham, noting the token gestures of respect afforded to her as the help — a shallow attempt by the wealthy to assuage their guilt.

As she navigates the neighborhood, the contrast between the manicured perfection of Thornfield Estates and the drab reality of her apartment becomes evident. Despite her attempts to beautify her small, leaky apartment, it cannot compare to the vibrant, meticulously maintained homes she services. The neighborhood, alive with the buzz of maintenance crews, stands in stark opposition to her own simple existence. Even as she muses on the luxury of a Burberry jacket she saw at Mrs. Clark’s, the protagonist is sharply aware of the chasm between her world and that of her employers — a chasm underscored by her rain-soaked, pragmatic attire and a yearning for something better amidst the affluence that surrounds her.

In the opening chapter of “The Beasts of Tarzan”, the narrative thrusts John Clayton, Lord Greystoke—formerly Tarzan of the Apes—into a sinister plot brewed by his old nemesis, Nikolas Rokoff. The story unfolds in Lieutenant Paul D’Arnot’s Paris apartment, where Tarzan and D’Arnot learn of Rokoff’s escape from prison. Subsequently, Tarzan, who had brought his family to London to escape the rainy season in Uziri, decides to return to them, fearing Rokoff might harm his wife, Jane, or their son, Jack, to enact revenge.

Simultaneously, in a secluded cottage on the outskirts of London, Rokoff and his associate Alexis plot to kidnap Tarzan’s family as part of a deeper scheme for revenge and profit. A message soon disrupts the tranquility of Tarzan’s London home, informing him that Jack has been kidnapped, prompting a frantic return to rescue his child. Jane recounts the episode of Jack’s kidnapping—how a new houseman, Carl, tricked the nanny, leading to the baby’s abduction via a taxicab orchestrated by Rokoff and his associates.

Tarzan receives a mysterious call offering information on his son’s whereabouts in exchange for immunity from prosecution. Fearing a trap but desperate to find his son, Tarzan heads to Dover to meet the informant, secretly followed by Jane, who decides to act despite the potential danger. Once in Dover, Tarzan is led to believe Jack is aboard a steamer, but as he follows the informant’s instructions, he realizes too late that he has walked into a trap, becoming a prisoner aboard the ship himself.

This chapter is a tense setup for the ensuing adventure, illustrating Tarzan’s unwavering resolve amidst betrayal and his innate connection to his jungle-honed instincts. It adeptly positions family loyalty against a backdrop of sinister machinations, setting the stage for a gripping narrative of survival and vengeance.