The Bird’s Nest by Shirley Jackson Page A

R.” to calling her Elizabeth; I suppose that she was too accustomed to constant authority in the shape of her aunt to remark being addressed as a child. Betsy, of course, was Betsy and nothing else, although she sometimes amused herself by giving herself grandiose titles or surnames, and I had no difficulty, subsequently, in identifying a note signed Elizabeth Rex as of Betsy’s doing.
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    My immediate attempt must be, I thought, to discover the point at which the unfortunate Miss R. had subdivided, as it were, and permitted a creature like Betsy to assume a separate identity; it was my old teasing analogy of the sewer, but complicated in that I was now searching for a branch line! (I do most heartily wish that I had chosen some comparison nearer the stars; a flourishing oak tree, perhaps, but I confess that I misguidedly chose that which seemed most vivid to me, and most indicative, although ignoble, of the circumstances; I am ashamed to think that without going through and correcting all of my manuscript, and my notes, too—for this comparison found a place even there—I must abide by it.) It seemed to me that only a very severe emotional shock could have forced Miss R. to slough off the greater part of herself into subordinate personalities (until I had, with a magic touch, called them into active life) and I was fairly certain that their separate existence—although Betsy claimed a life of her own, in thoughts at any rate, ever since Miss R. had been born—must date from the most patent emotional shock in Miss R.’s life, the death of her mother. To show what kind of a problem I was manipulating, let me from my notes present the reader with the varying descriptions of this event which I received, first from R 1 , or Elizabeth, then from R 2 , the cooperative and lovely Beth, and then, lastly, from our villain Betsy.
    (On May 12 , to Elizabeth, in office consultation): Wright: Do you think you can tell me anything about your mother, my dear?
    Elizabeth: I guess so.
    W. When did she die?
    E. I guess over four years ago. On a Wednesday.
    W. Were you at home?
    E. (confused) I was upstairs.
    W. Did you live then with your aunt?
    E. With Aunt Morgen?
    W. Do you have any other aunts?
    E. No.
    W. Then, when your mother died, were you living with your aunt?
    E. Yes, with Aunt Morgen.
    W. Do you think you can tell me anything more about your mother’s death? (She seemed most unwilling, and I thought on the edge of weeping; since I knew I could secure all the information I needed from the other selves, I did not intend to persist in a cruel cross-examination, but I did want as much information as possible for purposes of comparison.)
    E. That’s all I know. I mean, Aunt Morgen came and told me my mother died.
    W. Came and told you? You mean, you were not with your mother when she died?
    E. No, I was upstairs.
    W. Not with your mother?
    E. Upstairs.
    W. Was your mother downstairs, then?
    E. Aunt Morgen was with her. I don’t know.
    W. Try to stay calm, if you please. This was all very long ago, and I think talking about it will be helpful to you: I know it is a painful subject, but try to believe that I would not ask you unless I felt it to be necessary.
    E. No. I mean, I only don’t know.
    W. Had your mother been ill?
    E. I thought she was all right.
    W. Then her death was quite sudden, to your mind?
    E. It was—(thinking deeply)—a heart attack.
    W. But you were not there?
    E. I was upstairs.
    W. You did not see her?
    E. No, I was upstairs.
    W. What were you doing?
    E. I don’t remember. Asleep, I guess. Reading.
    W. Were you in your own room?
    E. I don’t remember. I was upstairs.
    W. I beg you to compose yourself, Miss R. This agitation is unnecessary and unbecoming.
    E. I have a headache (touching her neck).
    And that was, of course, the end of my information from Elizabeth; I knew by now that her headaches, all-enveloping, would obliterate