Shirley (13 page)

I nursed the baby while he put his books and papers on the desk. I changed Natalie's diaper. He told me about the inspired discussion his class had had about the Book of Genesis and harvest rituals. Confidence made him even handsomer, and I clung to him as we made our way down the stairs as the first dinner guests arrived. I was so proud to be his wife. How could anybody be dissatisfied to have what I had?

I
T
WAS
PART
OF
THE
PECULIARITY
of Shirley and Stanley that the visit from Fred's parents was not a disaster. You would think that a couple that had entertained Dylan Thomas—held a raucous party in his honor that spilled out into the snowy yard and permanently offended the neighbors—would have little interest in an elderly candy store owner and his delicately tyrannical wife. But the Hymans behaved so graciously with Selma and Marvin Nemser that I believe when they climbed back up the steps of the train that Sunday morning in March, both Fred's parents were congratulating themselves on their son's good fortune. Mrs. Nemser even patted my cheeks after she leaned over to give her new granddaughter one last kiss.

“I got my figure back quickly, just like you,” she said. “Twins, and I was back in my own clothes before the month was out.” We were related by blood now. She was trying to like me, to make the best of things.

So cold it was, that day and every other until the very end of the month. It made us plan all outings as if we were off to climb Everest. Mrs. Nemser had borrowed gloves from Shirley, and I hoped no
one would have to remind her to give them back. It would have been easy to assume the Hymans were rich, to think the gloves wouldn't matter. I hated to think I might have to say something. I remember the puff of fog that wafted from Fred's mother's mouth, the way her teeth gleamed slightly yellow behind it. She had outlined her lips with red lipstick, the way she did for only the most elegant occasions, and in the harsh March light the flat paint drew attention to the gray hairs that sprouted along her upper lip. I would never let myself go to seed that way, I thought. I had created life and I was no longer afraid of Selma.

“Have you seen my mother?” I asked, stepping closer in the hope that Selma would answer in a whisper.

“No. She hasn't come around.” She was stripping Shirley's soft leather gloves down her fingers, regret at imminent loss already apparent, her face concentrated in longing.

“I wrote to her. About the baby. But the letter came back, and I'm worried. I phoned Mrs. Cartwright in Wayne, the lady my sister Helen keeps house for. She said Helen left. Where could they have gone?”

Shirley, chuckling at something Fred or Marvin had said, paid no attention to Selma's proffering of the gloves. Instead, I ended up holding them, clutched under Natalie. “I wouldn't know about your mother. I'm sorry, Rose.”

“If you hear anything, you'll tell me, won't you?”

Selma Nemser leaned down again, kissed Natalie's hatted head. “Of course, dear. But sometimes—” She stopped. I know she meant to say that some relatives were a blessing to lose. I could not agree. I don't think anyone who has ever loved someone like my mother
would. Because while we pretend we have choice about who we love, it isn't actually true.

•   •   •

I
EXPECTED
THAT
after the Nemsers left we would laugh about them, just a little. Chuckle at the undue respect they showed the gold-rimmed china, despite its chipped edges and scratched paint. Marvel at the way Mr. Nemser cleared his throat, pushed his glasses up on his nose, and fiddled with the top button on his shirt whenever he began to speak about Fred's twin brother, Lou. As if acknowledging that Fred's being doubled somewhere, out in the world, was an uncomfortable fact, vividly tied to a sense of guilt.

At dinner, over Shirley's chicken with artichoke hearts—one of her fallback entertaining dishes—Marvin had told us about Lou's recent promotion at the
Examiner
. “Weekends to begin, but Lou says after six months if he don't start splitting with the other two news editors straight down the biscuit they'll be some surprise in store.”

“He'd leave?” Fred asked.

“Never.” Selma's certainty would have ended all discussion under normal circumstances, but Shirley put her fork down and took a sip of wine.

“Why not?” she asked. “Move for the opportunity? Try another city? He's a boy who likes to stay close to home?”

Selma nodded proudly.

“Does he look like our Fred?”

“Identical,” their mother said.

“No,” I said.

At either end of the table, Stanley and Shirley raised their wineglasses in unison, drank deeply, and picked up their forks. Jannie, the elder daughter, the only one of the kids home that evening, studied us with a grave consideration that bordered on sympathy. She was the one at school at Bennington. I never could decide if she, with her placid authority, was the bigger threat to my relationship with Shirley or if Sally—bracingly intelligent and wickedly fun—was Shirley's favorite. Barry was a most adorable pet but far too young to be real competition: it was the girls who most concerned me, although I never let them see it. Even now, as Jannie watched me, I let my eyes brush over her as if she weren't present.

“Which is it?” Stanley asked, calmly. Fred's loafer touched my calf, ever so lightly, and I could not tell whether it was reproach or encouragement. I focused on the pale, lemony swirls of chicken broth that coated my plate, even after I had reduced the breast and vegetables to a pile of frail bones.

Every so often, a swish of cold air drifted over my legs and feet, as if the ghosts of cats long dead sought table scraps. I shivered, my thoughts on Natalie, who was soundly asleep upstairs under a heap of blankets.

“They're identical,” said Marvin, and Selma nodded.

“We were,” Fred said. “As kids, nobody could tell us apart, but now it's easier.”

“Not with that beard of yours, just the way your brother wears his. Such handsome faces you both have, I don't understand why you want to cover them up.”

“Fred's taller,” I said.

“Less than an inch.” Selma shrugged dismissively.

Shirley dotted her lips with one of the napkins I'd ironed, offered to pass the chicken again, then signaled to Jannie that it was time to clear. When I stood, Shirley told me to stay where I was. I sat. I would have liked Fred's mother to know I pulled my weight in the household, that I was no freeloader. But I sat all the same.

“Is he married?” Shirley asked. “Does he have a girl?”

Selma sat up taller. “He's young yet. There's no hurry. Not everyone's in such a rush.”

Shirley's glance was delighted. Sympathetic, amused, delighted.

“Help me in the kitchen,” she said, and I pushed back my chair willingly. It turned out what she wanted was just that, kitchen help, and she set me to whisking cream for the pie while she pulled down dessert plates and glasses for port. She hummed cheerfully, keeping time to the Glenn Miller record Stanley had put on. I whipped and whipped, until my right arm grew sore. The cold of the bowl cut through the wool of my sweater. At the same time, I felt warm, a trickle of sweat chilling the skin at my neck.

Down the hall, Selma began to giggle, the sound strangled, high and overripe, pleasure on the edge. I heard something knock into a wall, Stanley's laugh, an alarmed, amused warning from Fred. They were dancing.

“Shirl! Come quick! Let Freddy give you a turn!”

Stanley was most definitely drunk.

“Someone's at the door,” I said. I felt the pounding move the floor and walls, rather than heard it, the music was so loud. At first I'd thought it was the reverberation of drums and cymbals on Stanley's record.

Shirley put down the pie knife. “Stan! Someone! Get the door!”

“I have arrived, in all my glory!” It was Kenneth Burke, Stanley's mentor, a much older visiting professor in the English department. With him came a blast of freezing air, the stamping of frozen feet, and a call for Scotch. Shirley drew down a stack of glasses, turned to me with sparkling eyes.

“Let's see how Burke does with Selma,” she whispered.

“I'll finish in here.”

She was already gone, eager to see what chemical reaction this combination might create. I finished whipping the cream, put the bowl and plates on a tray, and took a deep breath, wishing I could stay in the kitchen by myself all night. If Natalie woke, reprieve would come; I let my mind drift up the stairs, willing her to do so, but as usual, she did what she wanted. In this case, it was to sleep through it all.

Burke and Selma were dancing. I could see a certain beauty in her. I had never seen her happier, her marcelled gray bob tilted so that the ends brushed against the pale blue of her new sweater. Her mouth was wide, her chest high, her matronly belly pulled in and shoulders back. Despite her sensible shoes, she moved like a lithe, much younger woman. Normally, she watched with such stern judgmental coldness that the prettiness of her bones was virtually invisible. Burke seemed to like her.

Marvin and Stanley leaned against the bookcases, gazing at the dancers like doting parents, watching how Burke dipped her just a little too far. He was shorter than she, and Selma was not a tall woman—no more than five feet, four inches, either of them. Compact and vibrant, Burke radiated openness. Where Stanley charmed by looking closely at you, so that you felt seen, kind Burke took in
the entire universe at a glance. I have never known a man more appreciative, more understanding, more certain of the goodness of others. And yet his wit was astounding. Selma's color was high. “Oh my! Oh my!” she said as I entered the room. “Time for a younger woman to dance!”

“No,” Shirley said blithely. She and Fred, drinks in hand, had taken up observational positions on the couch. “Look at you, Selma! You're grooving!”

“Dance with me,” Marvin asked her.

Shirley joined him with alacrity. Neither Marvin nor Shirley moved with the grace of Selma and Burke, but they stepped and dipped and turned. I offered Stanley a Scotch. He took it. As he sipped, he called across the room to Fred, loudly. “You know what I think? You know what I think? I think Salinger's a phony and a fake.”

Burke twirled Selma. The edge of the rug had lifted slightly. I wanted to warn him to watch where he stepped. Shirley and Marvin landed by the liquor cart and poured themselves fresh drinks.

“Why'd you bring up Salinger?” I asked.

Shirley said, “Burke's a better dancer.”

Stanley ignored both of us.

“Salinger's a fake,” Stanley said again, even louder this time.

Burke winked at me.

“He's a phony, Burke, for all he says he hates phonies, that's what he is. Shallow. Wouldn't know the Tao from a towel rack, if he walked right past both of them.”

Shirley hoisted her glass of port, entering the fray. “Stan's right,”
she proclaimed. “Hiding up there in New Hampshire as if he needs solitude. He's afraid of being seen. He's afraid, that's all.”

Burke led Selma easily, without watching her movements. He was a dapper man, even when drunk. Never a hair out of place or his shirt collar imperfectly pressed. He always looked as if he were amused, and tonight was no exception. He held on to Selma's hand and waist though he'd stopped dancing. “Salinger's hardly a fearful man, Stan, simply a private one.”

“He's a know-nothing, Kenneth, it's undeniable. Yes, he's the fashion, the spurious fashion. Salinger's Big Religious Package, that's what I call it. A jumble of religions.”

“That's right,” Shirley said, emphatically. “The Upanishads, the Sutras, Meister Eckhart—”

Stanley took over. “Buddhism, Jesus, the Old Testament, Lao Tse, Sri Ramakrishna, Chuang-Tzu, Suzuki, Epictetus. I could go on for ten minutes, listing all the goulash he's put together. It makes no sense, not for Zooey, not for anyone. A lot of mumbo jumbo, and it's supposed to add up to what?”

“I like Salinger,” Fred said quietly.

“Shhh,” Selma said. Marvin was plopped in Stanley's armchair, thumbing through one of Shirley's mystery stories, drink in hand. Strands of his comb-over had flipped backward, a slick gray waterfall.

Burke dropped Selma's hands, walked over to the tray, and poured himself a Scotch.

“They're all sacred symbols. Related by intent.”

Stanley's face had grown very red; he was angrier than made
sense. “Decorative symbols. Related by their inorganic connection to the story.”

“What story are we talking about?” Selma asked, from the abandoned dance floor. Posture erect, one foot pointed and chest lifted, her breathing still slightly labored. Her right hand curved, waiting for another palm to meet it. Marvin turned a page, ran his fingers through his hair, inadvertently rectifying the comb-over situation.

“A story called ‘Zooey,' Momma. By a man named Salinger.”

Burke said, “I detect a certain measured whistling in the dark, Stan. Salinger has his strengths.”

“You defend him because you like him.”

“He has considerable talent.”

“He won't last,” Stanley said. “Flannery will. Baldwin will. Faulkner. Nabokov, yes. Not Bellow. And most definitively not Salinger.”

“On what basis do you speculate?”

“I've told you. He's a fake, Burke. That's all he is.”

“Ah Stanley, thou shalt not presume to know what history has not yet determined. Only time can tell,” Burke said evenly.

Stanley swept an arm across his waist and bowed. “I'm not you, Burke, I admit it. Merely a lowly courtier.”

“Don't try so hard, Stan,” Burke said. Genial but cutting.

“A novel should require knowledge, should challenge the reader.”

“Why?”

“Because otherwise it's cheap and tawdry, a dumbed-down
affair. Do I display my member to an idiot? Then why the product of my brain, the most precious essence I produce?”

“For pleasure,” I wished to say. He would have been amused, I suppose.

Shirley offered Burke a piece of the apple pie. He took it.

Stanley changed the record, put on Benny Goodman, then seized Selma Nemser with his pudgy hands. “Dance with me,” he said, pulling her in just a little too close. Selma's smile tightened, but she acceded politely, her plump jaw resting uncomfortably just below Stan's collarbone.