Shirley by Susan Scarf Merrell Page A

friend. Everyone knows about it, everyone. Scared her half out of her wits, the things she said, her witch’s threats. Told her to get outof town. That’s what I heard. Everyone knows it. Everyone in town. Mrs. Hyman left a mark on her arm like Satan had burned her to the flesh!” Mrs. Morse’s rheumy eyes were open so wide her crow’s-feet had stretched flat. “And now, I think she’s gone! Run away! I haven’t seen her since before the weekend, when she came in to drop off her books.” A sob of excitement. “She took out
Herzog
.”
    â€œIt’s a big book,” I said mildly.
    When Mrs. Morse shook her head, her tightly set bob barely shifted. It was only Tuesday, after all; by Friday, her gray hair would droop loosely in a multiplicity of directions and she’d have her fingers in it whenever she remembered, trying to twist the curl back to its original enthusiasm. “She’s always here on Mondays, to read the Sunday
New York Times
. Like clockwork, every week. Something’s wrong.”
    â€œI’m sure it’s not.” I tried to hand over my books, but Mrs. Morse was too excited to see the proffered stack.
    â€œI tell you, that Shirley Jackson, she did something. She’s not right, I tell you. Her and her witching ways. If that lovely woman, if something has happened to her, it’s your lady did it. I promise you that.”
    I didn’t know what to say, and so I repeated myself, said firmly that I was sure the woman would turn up. I wanted to say Shirley never went anywhere without me, I almost said it, but it wasn’t true. Had she left the house once that week, or was it twice? When were the dreams true? Never? Ever? I had no idea.
    â€œDo you remember a woman named Paula Welden?” I asked impulsively. “A student years ago? Who disappeared?”
    Mrs. Morse’s rheumy eyes went wide. “She did that, too, did she? Another friend of Professor Hyman’s, I suppose. Well, I must say—”
    â€œThat’s not what I meant,” I said. “What do you remember about her—that’s what I wanted to know.”
    Mrs. Morse leaned closer, with a fierce twist of the lips. “No smoke without fire, isn’t that what they say?”
    â€œNo, that’s not what I meant!” But it was as if I’d plugged some eccentric machine into a wall socket; she was off to her desk, gathering up her ring of keys to go to the file room where old newspapers were stored. Aghast, I left my books on the returns desk and slipped out the door.
    Later, as I unpacked the groceries from Powers Market, as I placed the potatoes in the bin and the leg of lamb in the refrigerator, I did not recount the day’s gossip but pretended I’d not been in the mood to collect any stories—such vagaries a pregnant lady is allowed. I did not want Shirley to know what others were saying or, worse, what I myself had done. Or perhaps it was that I did not want to see her face as I exposed her. I did not want to know the truth.

Ten
    B UT LATE IN THE EVENING , long after the dishes were done and perhaps because she looked so relaxed in her armchair, one leg tucked underneath her skirt, ice cubes melting in a glass of white wine as she turned the pages of yet another Agatha Christie, I had to ask.
    â€œIf you
did
do something, something practical, to make things different—”
    â€œTo assert my claim?” Eyebrows raised along with the glass; was she amused or merely pretending to be?
    I folded my own legs beneath me, took the crocheted blanket off the back of the leather couch. The men’s voices from the dining room a waterfall of tenor and bass, and from outside, the chill stroking of the February gusts against the windowpanes. On the one hand, I was hoping for a story, a fire-in-the-fireplace, brandy-in-the-glass kind of tale. On the other, I wondered if she would confide in me. If there was actually