“Delilah’s been a busy girl,” I said. I fed in the unexpurgated disk and the excise and reformat programs. “I don’t remember there being any witchcraft in Richard III.”
She sneezed and grabbed for another Kleenex. “There’s not. That was a slander suit. Filed by his great-great-grand-something. He claims there’s no conclusive proof that Richard III killed the little princes. It doesn’t matter anyway. The Royal Society for the Restoration of Divine Right of Kings has an injunction against all the history plays. What’s the weather supposed to be like?”
“Terrible,” I said. “Warm and sunny.” I called up the catalog and deleted Henry IV, Parts I and II, and the rest of her list. “The Taming of the Shrew?”
“Angry Women’s Alliance. Also Merry Wives of Windsor, Romeo and Juliet, and Love’s Labour’s Lost.”
“Othello? Never mind. I know that one. The Merchant of Venice? The Anti-Defamation League?”
“No. American Bar Association. And Morticians International. They object to the use of the word ‘casket’ in Act III.” She blew her nose.
It took us first and second period to deal with the plays and most of the third to finish the sonnets. “I’ve got a class fourth period and then lunch duty,” I said. “We’ll have to finish up the rest of them this afternoon.”
“Is there anything left for this afternoon?” Ms. Harrows asked.
“As You Like It and Hamlet,” I said. “Good heavens, how did they miss Hamlet?”
“Are you sure about As You Like It?” Ms. Harrows said, leafing through her stack. “I thought somebody’d filed a restraining order against it.”
“Probably the Mothers Against Transvestites,” I said. “Rosalind dresses up like a man in Act II.”
“No, here it is. The Sierra Club. ‘Destructive attitudes toward the environment.’” She looked up. “What destructive attitudes?”
“Orlando carves Rosalind’s name on a tree.” I leaned back in my chair so I could see out the window. The sun was still shining maliciously down. “I guess we go with Hamlet. This should make Edwin and his mother happy.”
“We’ve still got the line-by-lines to go,” Ms. Harrows said. “I think my throat is getting sore.”
I got Karen to take my afternoon classes. It was sophomore lit and we’d been doing Beatrix Potter—all she had to do was pass out a worksheet on Squirrel Nutkin. I had outside lunch duty. It was so hot I had to take my jacket off. The College Students for Christ were marching around the school carrying picket signs that said, “Shakespeare was a Secular Humanist.”
Delilah was lying on the front steps, reeking of suntan oil. She waved her “Shakespeare is Satan’s Spokesman” sign languidly at me. “‘Ye have sinned a great sin,’” she quoted. “‘Blot me, I pray thee, out of thy book which thou has written.’ Exodus Chapter 32, Verse 30.”
“First Corinthians 13:3,” I said. “‘Though I give my body to be burned and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.’”
“I called the doctor,” Ms, Harrows said. She was standing by the window looking out at the blazing sun. “He thinks I might have pneumonia.”
I sat down at the computer and fed in Hamlet. “Look on the bright side. At least we’ve got the E and R programs. We don’t have to do it by hand the way we used to.”
She sat down behind the stack. “How shall we do this? By group or by line?”
“We might as well take it from the top.”
“Line one. ‘Who’s there?’ The National Coalition Against Contractions.” “Let’s do it by group,” I said.
“All right. We’ll get the big ones out of the way first. The Commission on Poison Prevention feels the ‘graphic depiction of poisoning in the murder of Hamlet’s father may lead to copycat crimes.’ They cite a case in New Jersey where a sixteen-year-old poured Drano in his father’s ear after reading the play. Just a minute. Let me get a Kleenex. The Literature Liberation Front objects to the phrases, ‘Frailty, thy name is woman,’ and ‘O, most pernicious woman,’ the ‘What a piece of work is man’ speech, and the queen.”
“The whole queen?”
She checked her notes. “Yes. All lines, references, and allusions.” She felt under her jaw, first one side, then the other. “I think my glands are swollen. Would that go along with pneumonia?”
Greg Jefferson came in, carrying a grocery sack. “I thought you could use some combat rations. How’s it going?”
“We lost the queen,” I said. “Next?”
“The National Cutlery Council objects to the depiction of swords as deadly weapons. ‘Swords don’t kill people. People kill people.’ The Copenhagen Chamber of Commerce objects to the line, ‘Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.’ Students Against Suicide, the International Federation of Florists, and the Red Cross object to Ophelia’s drowning.”
Greg was setting out the bottles of cough syrup and cold tablets on the desk. He handed me a bottle of Valium. “The International Federation of Florists?” he said.
“She fell in picking flowers,” I said. “What was the weather like out there?”
“Just like summer,” he said. “Delilah’s using an aluminum sun reflector.”
“Ass,” Ms. Harrows said.
“Beg pardon?” Greg said.
“ASS, the Association of Summer Sunbathers, objects to the line, ‘I am too much I’ the sun,’” Ms. Harrows said, and took a swig from the bottle of cough syrup.
We were only half-finished by the time school let out. The Nuns’ Network objected to the line “Get thee to a nunnery,” Fat and Proud of It wanted the passage beginning “Oh, that this too too solid flesh should melt” removed, and we didn’t even get to Delilah’s list, which was eight pages long.
“What play are we going to do?” Wendy asked me on my way out.
“Hamlet,” I said.
“Hamlet?” she said. “Is that the one about the guy whose uncle murders the king and then the queen marries the uncle?”
“Not anymore,” I said.
Delilah was waiting for me outside. “‘Many of them brought their books together and burned them,’” she quoted. “Acts 19:19.”
“‘Look not upon me, because I am black, because the sun hath looked upon me,’” I said.
It was overcast Wednesday but still warm. The Veterans for a Clean America and the Subliminal Seduction Sentinels were picnicking on the lawn. Delilah had on a halter top. “That thing you said yesterday about the sun turning people black, what was that from?”
“The Bible,” I said. “Song of Solomon. Chapter 1, Verse 6.”
“Oh,” she said, relieved. “That’s not in the Bible anymore. We threw it out.”
Ms. Harrows had left a note for me. She was at the doctor’s. I was supposed to meet with her third period.
“Do we get to start today?” Wendy asked.
“If everybody remembered to bring in their slips. I’m going to lecture on Shakespeare’s life,” I said. “You don’t know what the forecast for today is, do you?”
“Yeah, it’s supposed to be great.”
I had her collect the refusal slips while I went over my notes. Last year Delilah’s sister Jezebel had filed a grievance halfway through the lecture for “trying to preach promiscuity, birth control, and abortion by saying Anne Hathaway got pregnant before she got married.” “Promiscuity,” “abortion,” “pregnant,” and “before” had all been misspelled.
Everybody had remembered their slips. I sent the refusals to the library and started to lecture.
“Shakespeare—” I said. Paula’s corder clicked on. “William Shakespeare was born on April twenty-third, 1564, in Stratford-on-Avon.”
Rick, who hadn’t raised his hand all year or even given an indication that he was sentient, raised his hand. “Do you intend to give equal time to the Baconian theory?” he said. “Bacon was not born on April twenty-third, 1564. He was born on January twenty-second, 1561.”
Ms. Harrows wasn’t back from the doctor’s by third period, so I s
tarted on Delilah’s list. She objected to forty-three references to spirits, ghosts, and related matters, twenty-one obscene words, (“obscene” misspelled), and seventy-eight others that she thought might be obscene, such as pajock and cockles.
Ms. Harrows came in as I was finishing the list and threw her briefcase down. “Stress induced!” she said. “I have pneumonia, and he says my symptoms are stress induced!”
“Is it still cloudy out?”
“It is seventy-two degrees out. Where are we?”
“Morticians International,” I said. “Again. ‘Death presented as universal and inevitable.’” I peered at the paper. “That doesn’t sound right.”
Ms. Harrows took the paper away from me. “That’s their ‘Thanatopsis’ protest. They had their national convention last week. They filed a whole set at once, and I haven’t had a chance to sort through them.” She rummaged around in her stack. “Here’s the one on Hamlet. ‘Negative portrayal of interment-preparation personnel—’”
“The gravedigger.”
“‘—And inaccurate representation of burial regulations. Neither a hermetically sealed coffin nor a vault appear in the scene.’”
We worked until five o’clock. The Society for the Advancement of Philosophy considered the line “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy” a slur on their profession. The Actors’ Guild challenged Hamlet’s hiring of nonunion employees, and the Drapery Defense League objected to Polonius being stabbed while hiding behind a curtain. “The clear implication of the scene is that the arras is dangerous,” they had written in their brief. “Draperies don’t kill people. People kill people.”
Ms. Harrows put the paper down on top of the stack and took a swig of cough syrup. “And that’s it. Anything left?”
“I think so,” I said, punching reformat and scanning the screen. “Yes, a couple of things. How about, ‘There is a willow grows aslant a brook / That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream.’”
“You’ll never get away with ‘hoar,’” Ms. Harrows said.
Thursday I got to school at seven-thirty to print out thirty copies of Hamlet for my class. It had turned colder and even cloudier in the night. Delilah was wearing a parka and mittens. Her face was a deep scarlet, and her nose had begun to peel.
“‘Hath the Lord as great delight in burnt offerings as in obeying the voice of the Lord?’” I asked. “First Samuel 15:22.” I patted her on the shoulder.
“Yeow,” she said.
I passed out Hamlet and assigned Wendy and Rick to read the parts of Hamlet and Horatio.
“‘The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold,’” Wendy read.
“Where are we?” Rick said. I pointed out the place to him. “Oh. ‘It is a nipping and an eager air.’”
“‘What hour now?’” Wendy read.
“‘I think it lacks of twelve.’”
Wendy turned her paper over and looked at the back. “That’s it?” she said. “That’s all there is to Hamlet? I thought his uncle killed his father and then the ghost told him his mother was in on it and he said ‘To be or not to be’ and Ophelia killed herself and stuff.” She turned the paper back over. “This can’t be the whole play.”
“It better not be the whole play,” Delilah said. She came in, carrying her picket sign. “There’d better not be any ghosts in it. Or cockles.”
“Did you need some Solarcaine, Delilah?” I asked her.
“I need a Magic Marker,” she said with dignity.
I got her one out of the desk. She left, walking a little stiffly, as if it hurt to move.
“You can’t just take parts of the play out because somebody doesn’t like them,” Wendy said. “If you do, the play doesn’t make any sense. I bet if Shakespeare were here, he wouldn’t let you just take things out—”
“Assuming Shakespeare wrote it,” Rick said. “If you take every other letter in line two except the first three and the last six, they spell ‘pig,’ which is obviously a code word for Bacon.”
“Snow day!” Ms. Harrow said over the intercom. Everybody raced to the windows. “We will have early dismissal today at nine-thirty.”
I looked at the clock. It was 9:28.
“The Overprotective Parents Organization has filed the following protest: ‘It is now snowing, and as the forecast predicts more snow, and as snow can result in slippery streets, poor visibility, bus accidents, frostbite, and avalanches, we demand that school be closed today and tomorrow so as not to endanger our children.’ Buses will leave at nine thirty-five. Have a nice spring break!”
“The snow isn’t even sticking on the ground,” Wendy said. “Now we’ll never get to do Shakespeare.”
Delilah was out in the hall, on her knees next to her picket sign, crossing out the word “man” in “Spokesman.”
“The Feminists for a Fair Language are here,” she said disgustedly. “They’ve got a court order,” She wrote “person” above the crossed-out “man.” “A court order! Can you believe that? I mean, what’s happening to our right to freedom of speech?”
“You misspelled ‘person,’” I said.
All My Darling Daughters
BARRETT: I’ll have her dog…Octavius.
OCTAVIUS: Sir?
BARRETT: Her dog must be destroyed. At once.
OCTAVIUS: I really d-don’t see what the p-poor little beast has d-done to…
—The Barretts of Wimpole Street
The first thing my new roommate did was tell me her life story. Then she tossed up all over my bunk. Welcome to Hell. I know, I know. It was my own fucked fault that I was stuck with the stupid little scut in the first place. Daddy’s darling had let her grades slip till she was back in the freshman dorm and she would stay there until the admin reported she was being a good little girl again. But he didn’t have to put me in the charity ward, with all the little scholarship freshmen from the front colonies—frightened virgies one and all. The richies had usually had their share of jig-jig in boarding school, even if they were mostly edge. And they were willing to learn.
Not this one. She wouldn’t know a bone from a vaj, and wouldn’t know what went into which either. Ugly, too. Her hair was chopped off in an old-fashioned bob I thought nobody, not even front kids, wore anymore. Her name was Zibet and she was from some godspit colony called Marylebone Weep and her mother was dead and she had three sisters and her father hadn’t wanted her to come. She told me all this in a rush of what she probably thought was friendliness before she tossed her supper all over me and my nice new slickspin sheets.
The sheets were the sum total of good things about the vacation Daddy Dear had sent me on over summer break. Being stranded in a forest of slimy slicksa trees and noble natives was supposed to build my character and teach me the hazards of bad grades. But the noble natives were good at more than weaving their precious product with its near frictionless surface. Jig-jig on slickspin is something entirely different, and I was close to being an expert on the subject. I’d bet even Brown didn’t know about this one. I’d be more than glad to teach him.
“I’m so sorry,” she kept saying in a kind of hiccup while her face turned red and then white and then red again like a fucked alert bell, and big tears seeped down her face and dripped on the mess. “I guess I got a little sick on the shuttle.”
“I guess. Don’t bawl, for jig’s sake, it’s no big deal. Don’t they have laundries in Mary Boning It?”
“Marylebone Weep. It’s a natural spring.”
“So are you, kid. So are you.” I scooped up the wad, with the muck inside. “No big deal. The dorm mother will take care of it.”
She was in no shape to take the sheets down herself, and I figured Mumsy would take one look at those big fat tears and assign me a new roommate. This one was not exactly perfect. I could see right now I couldn’t expect her to do her homework and not bawl giant tears while Brown and I jig-jigged on the new sheets. But she didn’t have leprosy, she didn’t weigh eight hu
ndred pounds, and she hadn’t gone for my vaj when I bent over to pick up the sheets. I could do a lot worse.
I could also be doing some better. Seeing Mumsy on my first day back was not my idea of a good start. But I trotted downstairs with the scutty wad and knocked on the dorm mother’s door.
She is no dumb lady. You have to stand in a little box of an entryway waiting for her to answer your knock. The box works on the same principle as a rat cage, except that she’s added her own little touch. Three big mirrors that probably cost her a year’s salary to cart up from earth. Never mind—as a weapon, they were a real bargain. Because, Jesus Jiggin’ Mary, you stand there and sweat and the mirrors tell you your skirt isn’t straight and your hair looks scutty and that bead of sweat on your upper lip is going to give it away immediately that you are scared scutless. By the time she answers the door—five minutes if she’s feeling kindly—you’re either edge or you’re not there. No dumb lady.
I was not on the defensive, and my skirts are never straight, so the mirrors didn’t have any effect on me, but the five minutes took their toll. That box didn’t have any ventilation and I was way too close to those sheets. But I had my speech all ready. No need to remind her who I was. The admin had probably filled her in but good. And I’d get nowhere telling her they were my sheets. Let her think they were the virgie’s.
When she opened the door I gave her a brilliant smile and said, “My roommate’s had a little problem. She’s a new freshman, and I think she got a little excited coming up on the shuttle and—”
I expected her to launch into the “supplies are precious, everything must be recycled, cleanliness is next to godliness” speech you get for everything you do on this godspit campus. Instead she said, “What did you do to her?”
“What did I—look, she’s the one who tossed up. What do you think I did, stuck my fingers down her throat?”
“Did you give her something? Samurai? Float? Alcohol?”
“Jiggin’ Jesus, she just got here. She walked in, she said she was from Mary’s Prick or something, she tossed up.”
The Winds of Marble Arch and Other Stories Page 34
