What A Thought by Shirley Jackson, 1996
The magic trick:
Keeping the story simple so that the reader is free to enjoy and not analyze
Another gem from Shirley Jackson that wasn’t even published during her lifetime. It amazes me how these authors have backlogs rotting in the basement full of material far better than we mortals could ever dream of producing.
To be fair, this one does feel like something Shirley just jotted down one afternoon. Its sketch-like feel is part of the appeal, though.
It’s simple. It’s a small idea – the narrator, for no apparent reason, starts imagining different ways she could murder her husband. The story never works hard to circle back on any motifs or symbols. It never overcomplicates itself. And the reader feels that lack of effort and, I think, appreciates it. We never feel compelled to study the story or read too deeply.
As such, we’re free to enjoy the perverse pleasure of the idea.
And that’s quite a trick on Jackson’s part.
The selection:
Dinner had been good; Margaret sat with her book on her lap and watched her husband digesting, an operation to which he always gave much time and thought. As she watched he put his cigar down without looking and used his free hand to turn the page of his paper. Margaret found herself thinking with some pride that unlike many men she had heard about, her husband did not fall asleep after a particularly good dinner.
She flipped the pages of her book idly; it was not interesting. She knew that if she asked her husband to take her to a movie, or out for a ride, or to play gin rummy, he would smile at her and agree; he was always willing to do things to please her, still, after ten years of marriage. An odd thought crossed her mind: She would pick up the heavy glass ashtray and smash her husband over the head with it.
“Like to go to a movie?” her husband asked.
“I don’t think so, thanks,” Margaret said. “Why?”
“You look sort of bored,” her husband said.
“Were you watching me?” Margaret asked. “I thought you were reading.”
“Just looked at you for a minute.” He smiled at her, the smile of a man who is still, after ten years of marriage, very fond of his wife.
The idea of smashing the glass ashtray over her husband’s head had never before occurred to Margaret, but now it would not leave her mind. She stirred uneasily in her chair, thinking: what a terrible thought to have, whatever made me think of such a thing? Probably a perverted affectionate gesture, and she laughed.
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