Read Online Shirley by Susan Scarf Merrell - Free Book Online
Authors: Susan Scarf Merrell
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doorway: âWhy?â
She: âBecause thatâs the way Shakespeare wrote him.
So will I turn her virtue into pitch.
â
It seemed Shirley and Stanley had every line of every work of literature locked accurately in memory. Usually both of them recalled identically, but when there was disagreement, Stanley turned out to be the one with the more precise recollection. He was also, and this is not meant as a criticism of Fred, the one most inventive with the question of how to dissect text. Iago, in Stanleyâs view, could be understood only if one used a plurality of critical techniques. Fred soaked in Stanleyâs words, nodding over and over as Iagoâs motivation was re-dissected through the psychoanalytic view, through symbolism and theology, and through the history of the play itself and of the folklore roots of the fundamental story. Fred, who was already growing a scrubby beard just like Stanleyâs, would sit at the table, scribbling down sentences as fast as Stanley spewed them. They drank copious amounts of Scotch, and occasionallyâwithout warningâbegan to spout dirty limericks until they laughed so hard that Stanley started pounding the table.
Shirley always liked those moments the most. She would put her Agatha Christie or P. D. James down on the chair arm and head back into the dining room, pouring herself another Scotch as if the glass with the melted cubes sheâd left in the living room werenât hers. She was happiest, I thought, when she could let words patter down around her, landing and glancing off her upturned face. If he could make her laugh, keep her entertained, Stanley would push himself to greater effort, saliva glistening on his tongue and lips, red-faced. And when the guffaws died, he was always theone to give that last wistful chuckle, as if he already missed how happy heâd been. âScotch, Shirley!
It wad frae mony a blunder free us,
Shoil, if only we had more of it!â And he would pour into whichever glass he could reach, liquor splashing on the tablecloth. And then heâd sigh, longing for more afterglow before raising the refilled glass to his lips.
Both the Hymans could drink a hell of a lot more than anyone else I knew. She popped pills, too, Dexies to wake up and something else to fall asleep, and there were candy dishes with pills in them in the kitchen and by her bedside. Once or twice, Iâd heard her offer a Dexedrine to one of the girls, to help with focus when studying for a test.
But she never, ever seemed out of it. Never drunk, never high. He ranged across so many enthused states of an evening that it was dizzying, but not her. Once in a great while, she got angry and left the room, but she did it quietly, in a kind of grand, noble gesture. For a big and untidy woman, she could be most regal.
This brings us to an evening in mid-October. It had to be a weeknight, because Jannie was on campus and Sally back at her boarding school in Boston. Twelve-year-old Barry was upstairs, supposedly doing homework, but I could hear the vibrato of guitar strings as I walked past his room on my way back downstairs after using the bathroom.
The phone had rung several times during dinner, as often happened. No one answered it. This was also a normal occurrence. But tonight, perhaps because it was chilly and the wind was high, there had seemed to be a greater level of tension about this than usual.
As I held the banister in my right hand, heading down thestairs, I heard the ringing start again. Shirley was already in the parlor, the men were still at the table, still arguing the logic without end of their eternal debate. The phone rang and rang, perhaps ten rings, and then stopped. In a moment, it started again.
Stanley and Fred continued talking, raising their voices above the ringing phone without paying the slightest attention. I walked past the open door and into the parlor, where Shirley sat stiffly in her chair, head cocked to the
She: âBecause thatâs the way Shakespeare wrote him.
So will I turn her virtue into pitch.
â
It seemed Shirley and Stanley had every line of every work of literature locked accurately in memory. Usually both of them recalled identically, but when there was disagreement, Stanley turned out to be the one with the more precise recollection. He was also, and this is not meant as a criticism of Fred, the one most inventive with the question of how to dissect text. Iago, in Stanleyâs view, could be understood only if one used a plurality of critical techniques. Fred soaked in Stanleyâs words, nodding over and over as Iagoâs motivation was re-dissected through the psychoanalytic view, through symbolism and theology, and through the history of the play itself and of the folklore roots of the fundamental story. Fred, who was already growing a scrubby beard just like Stanleyâs, would sit at the table, scribbling down sentences as fast as Stanley spewed them. They drank copious amounts of Scotch, and occasionallyâwithout warningâbegan to spout dirty limericks until they laughed so hard that Stanley started pounding the table.
Shirley always liked those moments the most. She would put her Agatha Christie or P. D. James down on the chair arm and head back into the dining room, pouring herself another Scotch as if the glass with the melted cubes sheâd left in the living room werenât hers. She was happiest, I thought, when she could let words patter down around her, landing and glancing off her upturned face. If he could make her laugh, keep her entertained, Stanley would push himself to greater effort, saliva glistening on his tongue and lips, red-faced. And when the guffaws died, he was always theone to give that last wistful chuckle, as if he already missed how happy heâd been. âScotch, Shirley!
It wad frae mony a blunder free us,
Shoil, if only we had more of it!â And he would pour into whichever glass he could reach, liquor splashing on the tablecloth. And then heâd sigh, longing for more afterglow before raising the refilled glass to his lips.
Both the Hymans could drink a hell of a lot more than anyone else I knew. She popped pills, too, Dexies to wake up and something else to fall asleep, and there were candy dishes with pills in them in the kitchen and by her bedside. Once or twice, Iâd heard her offer a Dexedrine to one of the girls, to help with focus when studying for a test.
But she never, ever seemed out of it. Never drunk, never high. He ranged across so many enthused states of an evening that it was dizzying, but not her. Once in a great while, she got angry and left the room, but she did it quietly, in a kind of grand, noble gesture. For a big and untidy woman, she could be most regal.
This brings us to an evening in mid-October. It had to be a weeknight, because Jannie was on campus and Sally back at her boarding school in Boston. Twelve-year-old Barry was upstairs, supposedly doing homework, but I could hear the vibrato of guitar strings as I walked past his room on my way back downstairs after using the bathroom.
The phone had rung several times during dinner, as often happened. No one answered it. This was also a normal occurrence. But tonight, perhaps because it was chilly and the wind was high, there had seemed to be a greater level of tension about this than usual.
As I held the banister in my right hand, heading down thestairs, I heard the ringing start again. Shirley was already in the parlor, the men were still at the table, still arguing the logic without end of their eternal debate. The phone rang and rang, perhaps ten rings, and then stopped. In a moment, it started again.
Stanley and Fred continued talking, raising their voices above the ringing phone without paying the slightest attention. I walked past the open door and into the parlor, where Shirley sat stiffly in her chair, head cocked to the
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