The Bird’s Nest by Shirley Jackson Page B

almost all awareness of myself and my questions. So I pursued my line of questioning, most pleasantly, by summoning Beth. I longed, at this time, to chat with Beth informally, and at length, and I longed to permit her to open her eyes, so that we might seem friends rather than doctor and patient, but the ever-present fear of Betsy prevented; since blindness was now the only thing I knew of which held Betsy in check, I dared not follow my inclinations and admit Beth as a free personality. I was sad, frequently, to think that Beth’s whole existence had heretofore been passed only in my office, and that none but I knew this amiable girl; my conviction that Miss R. must once have been very like Beth was so far unconfirmed, and yet I deeply wanted to see Beth take her place in the world and in her family, the place to which my most unscientific heart told me she was entitled. At any rate, it was always a great pleasure to me to call Beth, and hear her affectionate greeting. Here are my notes on this conversation, which followed immediately upon the conversation with Elizabeth which I have just described.
    (On May 12 , Beth, or R 2 , in office consultation): Wright (after preliminary trance-inducing introduction of name and place identification) My dear, I want to talk about your mother.
    B. (smiling wistfully) She was a lovely lady.
    W. Much like yourself?
    B. Yes. Very lovely and very happy and very sweet to everyone.
    W. Do you remember her death?
    B. (reluctantly) Not very well. She died that day.
    W. Where were you when she died?
    B. I was thinking of her.
    W. But where?
    B. Inside. Hidden.
    W. As you usually are?
    B. Except when I am with you.
    W. I hope we can change that someday, my dear. But you must help me.
    B. I will do anything you ask me to.
    W. Splendid. I am most anxious, right now, to learn all I can about your mother’s death.
    B. She was very kind to everyone, even Aunt Morgen.
    W. You lived with your aunt at the time?
    B. Oh, yes, we have lived with
her
for years, ever since my dear father died.
    W. And your father died when?
    B. When I was two years old, or about that. I don’t remember him very well.
    W. Were you with your mother when she died?
    B. I? I was never allowed to be with her. I am always kept hidden.
    W. Compose yourself, Beth dear. We can talk of something else if this disturbs you.
    B. No, I am eager to help in any way I can; I don’t want you to think badly of me.
    W. I assure you, I never shall. Can you tell me, then, precisely what you did after your mother’s death?
    B. (perplexed) We had lunch. And Aunt Morgen said not to worry.
    W. Not to worry? You mean, not to grieve?
    B. Not to worry. We had lunch and Aunt Morgen said not to worry, Aunt Morgen said not to cry over spilled milk, Aunt Morgen cried. It was disgusting.
    W. (amused) You will not allow your aunt her grief?
    B. She cried over spilled milk.
    W. (laughing outright) Beth, this is cynicism.
    B. Indeed not; I do not think evil of anyone.
    A man who has just spoken, however inconclusively, with Beth, does not turn hastily to a conversation with Betsy. Nevertheless, it was obvious that the information which Elizabeth and Beth found themselves unable to give must be mined from Betsy, and so, resolutely, I denied the appeal of Beth’s pretty face and dismissed her for Betsy; I made an effort to keep my countenance when Beth’s turned head disclosed that grinning face, even though she could not, of course, see me, and I forced my voice to remain even and controlled.
    (May 12 , Betsy, or R 3 , in office consultation): W. Good afternoon, Betsy. I hope I find you in excellent health.
    By. (jeering) The others won’t help, so you come and ask
me.
    W. I hoped you might tell me—
    By. I know. I was listening. (contemptuously) What do you think
they
can tell you?
    W. —about your mother.
    By.
My
mother? Do you think I claim that poor dead thing as
my
mother? Perhaps (impudently) I have a mother of my own,