Today, December 14, is Shirley Jackson's birthday, and ever since Shirley came into my life this year and KNOCKED ME OUT with her fiction, I have invented a little fantasy about what her average morning might have looked like, when she was alive. It's a complete fiction, of course, but it always manages to cheer me up, every time I think of it (or find myself disliking men, overly much):
So, it goes. . .
It's morning at the Jackson/Hyman household, circa 195-, and Shirley Jackson's standing in her kitchen, tossing a dirty skillet into the sink with one hand, pulling up the back of her waistband with the other. It's autumn and she has an old pink robe pulled loosely over her pajamas and a ratty pair of slippers on her feet. A mess of curlers and bobby pins stick out like a bird's nest at the top of her head.
Shirley burps a little, gives her belly a scratch, then leans against the counter as she lights a cigarette, watching her four kids in the kitchen nook make a mess of their abandoned scrambled eggs. “Get on then, will ya?” she says firmly to her kids, causing a ruckus of pushed back chairs and dishes tossed into the sink and loud footfalls on the stairs. She makes a satisfied grunt then hacks up a mess of her own and spits it loudly into the sink.
She turns to the four peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that are awaiting her approval on the counter and squints through the smoke to inspect her handiwork. She continues to pull on her cigarette, held by her right hand, while she does a clumsy job of enclosing each sandwich with wax paper with her left. Some ash falls down onto one final slice of the bread, and Shirley leans over and blows it away before forming the last sloppy package.
The kids run down the stairs now with a great commotion and fill the kitchen with chaos, grabbing their bagged lunches, stopping to receive a kiss on their heads from their mother, then making more noise by the front door as they cover their bodies with jackets and boots. Shirley shouts her goodbyes and they echo hers as they loudly push out the door, into the morning air.
Silence follows the slammed door and only then does husband Stanley emerge from his bedroom, freshly shaven and dressed in a suit, ready to start his day. He walks down the stairs, humming, and sails up to the disheveled Shirley, who has lit a new cigarette with the old one and is now staring out the window above the sink. He walks up behind her, greeting her by placing one hand on her hip and reaching his other hand, playfully, up under her shirt, to paw at one of her breasts.
He acts the vampire, taking small bites at his wife's neck, then puts his mouth to her ear to sing, “Who's gonna make us all richer today, eh, Shirley? Who's my golden girl?” He pinches her right nipple for effect and his wife, still staring out the window, rolls her eyes.
In a voice almost as deep as a man's, Shirley growls, “Aw, for fuck's sake, Stan. Settle down.”
Stan laughs loudly and gives a hard slap to Shirley's generous bottom as he shouts, “Back to work, golden girl!” then grabs his briefcase and makes his own departure, humming as he walks out the door.
Shirley, grunting, crushes her cigarette out in the sink, then shuffles slowly in her slippers to the front door. She puts pressure on the stubborn door with one large hip then dramatically turns the lock. . . and shuffles away.
When she gets to the base of the stairs, she takes off one slipper, slowly, leaning on the wall as she lifts her leg to remove it. She focuses on the door, then chucks the slipper, hard, at just the right spot. She takes off the other slipper and does it again.
Shirley climbs the steps, barefooted, up to her writing desk.
She's smiling.
Stacking the dishes in the kitchen, she thought, Maybe he means it, maybe he could kill himself first, maybe he really wasn't curious and even if he were he'd drive himself into a hysterical state trying to read through the envelope, locked in the bathroom. Or maybe he just got it and said, Oh, from Jimmy, and threw it in his brief case and forgot it. I'll murder him if he did, she thought. I'll bury him in the cellar. (from “Got a Letter from Jimmy”)