Much Ado About Jessie Kaplan (8 page)
Read Much Ado About Jessie Kaplan Online
Authors: Paula Marantz Cohen
“You're saying my mother needs a social life?”
“And why not? Being a grandmother isn't a full-time job. Why do you think Sylvia and I go down to Florida every January?”
“But her references are so bizarre,” protested Carla. “Her story about Shakespeare is so detailed. It'sâembarrassing to hear her go on about it.”
“What harm is it doing? If it's not hurting her, ignore it. You might ask that she curtail some of the talk in public, out of courtesy to family and friends, but let her indulge in private with you. It probably serves a cathartic purpose. The creative impulse, you know, is wonderful thing.” He motioned to his wife's paintings on the wall. “It continually takes new and unexpected forms.”
“So now you're saying that my mother's stories are some sort of artistic expression?”
“I wouldn't presume to say anything,” said Samuels, sitting back in his chair and putting his hands up. (It was his philosophy never to push too hard. “I throw out some ideas,” he liked to explain to his therapy workshop students, “but I don't bully. These people can tell bullying a mile awayâmost of them are experts at itâso they don't respond well. I give my opinion, let them think it over, and usually, after they go home and have a good meal, they come around to agreeing.”) “I wouldn't even discount the fact that she might be telling the truth,” he added mischievously. “Maybe she
is
the reincarnation of Shakespeare's girlfriend.”
is
the reincarnation of Shakespeare's girlfriend.”
“Dr. Samuels!” Carla exclaimed, surprised at what she took to be his flip tone.
“If you like, you can bring her in,” he continued, unfazed by her exclamation. “We can book back-to-back with your son. I'd enjoy the opportunity. How often, after all, do I get to meet Shakespeare's
geliebta
?”
geliebta
?”
“Dr. Samuels!” Carla exclaimed again.
But he responded seriously now: “In my profession, you don't rule anything out. There are, you know, âmore things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy.'”
J
essie stood
IN THE FOYER OF THE MIDDLE SCHOOL, GAZING down at the piece of paper Carla had handed to her as she left the house. It was Stephanie's course schedule, and Carla had instructed her to go to each of the classes on the list. “Pay particular attention to Stephanie's English teacher,” Carla said. “Stephanie actually likes him and thinks he might be a good match for Margot. We want you to check him out.”
essie stood
IN THE FOYER OF THE MIDDLE SCHOOL, GAZING down at the piece of paper Carla had handed to her as she left the house. It was Stephanie's course schedule, and Carla had instructed her to go to each of the classes on the list. “Pay particular attention to Stephanie's English teacher,” Carla said. “Stephanie actually likes him and thinks he might be a good match for Margot. We want you to check him out.”
Jessie was pleased to be entrusted with such an important mission but confused as to how to carry it out. The school seemed a vast labyrinth of aluminum and concrete, its corridors stretching out in all directions. Apart from the smell of dirty socks, it was nothing like the schools she had known in her youth: dowdy, three-story brick structures with central staircases and classrooms that lined up consecutively in logical order. All the classrooms on the sheet seemed to have been written in code. What had become of numbers like 1, 2, and 3? Obviously, they had gone the way of the lindy hop and the typewriterânot to mention the bagatelle and the quill pen.
Jessie had been standing in a bewildered state in the middle of the entryway until a pimply youth with a badge identifying himself as a member of the student council finally came over, glanced
at her schedule, and pushed her in the direction of one of the maze-like corridors. A disparate array of parentsâsome in jogging suits, some in saris, and some in mink coatsâwere milling about, peering into classrooms and checking their sheets of paper assiduously.
at her schedule, and pushed her in the direction of one of the maze-like corridors. A disparate array of parentsâsome in jogging suits, some in saris, and some in mink coatsâwere milling about, peering into classrooms and checking their sheets of paper assiduously.
“Do you know where A-15C-1 is?” asked a woman with long fingernails and a humongous diamond ring who was holding her daughter's schedule at arm's length as though it were an accessory that didn't match her outfit.
“I'm afraid not,” said Jessie. “I'm looking for A-13D-4.”
“Here it is,” said a beefy man in a Rutgers sweatshirt, who seemed relieved to find someone going to the same place. “I'm Tyler's dad,” he said, putting out his hand.
“I'm Stephanie's grandmother,” said Jessie.
They entered the room, where a heavyset woman in a jumper and the air of a drill sergeant motioned them to sit down. Jessie and Tyler's dad joined a group of parents huddled inside the room. They all looked anxious but also relieved that they were no longer in middle school.
“Seventh-grade earth science. Mrs. Pulansky,” said the woman in a no-nonsense tone. Mrs. Pulansky did not define earth science, which Jessie imagined to involve digging outside the school, but instead spent the time explaining her grading system, which she also said she would post on her Web site. She then put a number of cryptic sentences on the blackboard that she identified as her Web page, her e-mail address, and an earth science chat group where she said that the children could discuss the subject matter (left mysteriously undefined).
When the bell rang, indicating that they should move on to the next class, Tyler's dad edged up to Jessie and glanced at her schedule.
“I see we're taking all the same classes,” he said happily. He had been ostracized in middle school for being overweight and, ever since, had made a point of establishing solidarity wherever he could. At work, he was said to be a great guy, no one guessing that
his warmth and good cheer were developed to counteract the self-loathing generated in the seventh grade.
his warmth and good cheer were developed to counteract the self-loathing generated in the seventh grade.
“I went to this school, so I know my way around,” said Tyler's dad.
“How nice,” said Jessie.
“Not really. I was miserable, but it helps me to think that I got through it without a major suicidal or homicidal episode. I tell Tyler all the time, this is the low point; it'll only get better from here.”
Jessie followed Tyler's dad down the hall to the next classroom, which turned out to be something called cultural geography. The teacher, a very decrepit-looking man who had perhaps spent too much time with maps and atlases, explained to them the importance of the current unit on latitude and longitude, all the while twirling the globe on his desk as though trying to place them in a trance. Tyler's dad said that he thought he had had the man for seventh-grade geography (it wasn't cultural geography then)âthough it might have been someone who looked like him.
Math followed, where a very small woman with flyaway hair explained a system involving various problems and projects by which their children could gain extra credit. The assumption seemed to be that everyone would fail the tests and need to have their grades buoyed. Some of the parents were furiously scribbling notes on the fine points of this system while others were staring out the window.
Next was health, where a very young woman with bleached blond hair, a short skirt, and high vinyl boots explained how the children would become thoroughly versed in sexual reproduction. “They've had bits and pieces in elementary school and in fifth and sixth grade, but now it's the whole shebang,” said the teacher, straightening the seam of her skirt and pushing a strand of hair seductively behind her ear.
Finally came language arts, and Jessie followed Tyler's dad into a classroom more inviting than the others. It was covered almost
entirely with a colorful array of material. Facsimile pages from the first folio of Shakespeare's plays were prominently displayed near the blackboard, and other Shakespeare-related memorabiliaâpictures of Christopher Marlowe, Queen Elizabeth I, and Ben Jonson, as well as posters from film versions of the playsâscattered the walls. The impression, as Jessie saw it, was artfully designed to catch the fleeting attention of the restless seventh grader. She settled into a chair toward the front, where she could view the instructor at close range. He had been riffling through papers in a file cabinet near the window, his back to the class, so that when he turned around, the surprise of his appearance caused her to let out a gasp.
entirely with a colorful array of material. Facsimile pages from the first folio of Shakespeare's plays were prominently displayed near the blackboard, and other Shakespeare-related memorabiliaâpictures of Christopher Marlowe, Queen Elizabeth I, and Ben Jonson, as well as posters from film versions of the playsâscattered the walls. The impression, as Jessie saw it, was artfully designed to catch the fleeting attention of the restless seventh grader. She settled into a chair toward the front, where she could view the instructor at close range. He had been riffling through papers in a file cabinet near the window, his back to the class, so that when he turned around, the surprise of his appearance caused her to let out a gasp.
“Are you all right?” The teacher looked solicitously in her direction.
She nodded weakly, continuing to stare. He was about thirty-five, of middle height, dressed in jeans and a sweater, his hair slightly disheveled, as though the idea of combing it had not interested him long enough to be fully accomplished. But it was his face that captured her. It was, she noted at once,
his
face. The head was well-shaped with clearly defined features; the eyes had a gentle penetrating quality that one might call intellectual but were also playful, even mischievous; the hair was fine and beginning to recede, making the forehead appear even more prominent. It was not quite the face on the frontispiece of the first folioâshe glanced over to where a copy of that document was taped to the wall next to the blackboardâthey had never gotten him quite right there, she thought.
his
face. The head was well-shaped with clearly defined features; the eyes had a gentle penetrating quality that one might call intellectual but were also playful, even mischievous; the hair was fine and beginning to recede, making the forehead appear even more prominent. It was not quite the face on the frontispiece of the first folioâshe glanced over to where a copy of that document was taped to the wall next to the blackboardâthey had never gotten him quite right there, she thought.
“My name's Hal Pearson,” said the young man, smiling at the group, and appearing, or so Jessie thought, to give her a particularly warm glance. “I'm your kids' English teacher. You can e-mail me if you have practical questions about grading and curriculumâno need to waste our time with that here. Instead, I thought we'd spend the next half hour doing the sort of thing we do in this class. I've already discussed four of Shakespeare's sonnets with
the parents before you. They were full of ideasâjust like their kids. You're my last class, so I thought I'd end with sonnet number one-thirty, one of my favorites.” He handed a pile of papers to the parent at the corner desk to be passed out to the others, though for some reason he handed Jessie her sheet individually.
the parents before you. They were full of ideasâjust like their kids. You're my last class, so I thought I'd end with sonnet number one-thirty, one of my favorites.” He handed a pile of papers to the parent at the corner desk to be passed out to the others, though for some reason he handed Jessie her sheet individually.
“As you may know,” said Hal, “Shakespeare's sonnets are wonderful, highly personal documents. It's not too clear when they were written; most estimates date them from around 1593 to 1600.”
“Fifteen ninety-seven,” said Jessie under her breath.
“Give or take a year or two.” Hal nodded in Jessie's direction. “We see language and imagery from the plays of that period, which would put Shakespeare in his midthirties at the timeâquite young, which is odd, given several allusions that would seem to suggest an older man.”
“Made himself out a man of the world,” muttered Jessie.
Hal paused and looked curiously in her direction, then continued: “The sonnets are written to two people, the first group of a hundred twenty-six to a young man, probably a nobleman, with whom Shakespeare was infatuated.”
Jessie let out a slight snort, and Hal nodded with apparent understanding: “I realize that this idea may strike some of you as unseemly, and of course we don't know to what extent the sonnets express a consummated relationship. Nonetheless, the idea of love transcending the particularity of gender seems very central to the great creative spirit that we associate with the Bard.”
Jessie made a face but said nothing.
“Most of the remaining twenty-seven sonnets seem to be written to a woman,” Hal continued. “We refer to her as the Dark Lady, because it appears she had dark hair and eyes. While the young man is associated with a more refined and even spiritual passion, the Dark Lady is associated with something more sensual and earthly.”
“Spite,” muttered Jessie with particular vehemence.
Hal seemed momentarily startled by her comment but then
continued briskly, motioning to the Xeroxed sheet. “This sonnet is typical of the sonnets written to the Dark Lady,” he explained, “and is more straightforward than most. So I thought it might be a good one to share tonight. Let me read the sonnet to you and then get your response.”
continued briskly, motioning to the Xeroxed sheet. “This sonnet is typical of the sonnets written to the Dark Lady,” he explained, “and is more straightforward than most. So I thought it might be a good one to share tonight. Let me read the sonnet to you and then get your response.”
He cleared his throat and read aloud in a strong, sonorous voice:
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound.
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound.
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
“So,” he said, looking expectantly around the room at the parents, who had settled into surprising attentiveness. Some had laughed during the reading, which seemed to have pleased him enormously. “What do you think? How would you feel if the sonnet were written to you?” His eyes panned the women in the room.
“I'd be insulted,” said a carefully made-up woman whose hair was streaked a color not found in nature. She straightened slightly as she spoke, as if she had decided to take the poem as a personal affront. “He says she has bad hair and bad breath. It seems very rude to put that in a love poem.”
Hal nodded. “Good point,” he said. “Anyone else?”
The man behind the woman who had just spoken shifted in his seat, then finally burst out, “That's what's wrong with you women!” he exclaimed. “You have no sense of humor. He's having a little fun, what's the harm?”
Hal nodded encouragingly again.
“He admires her inner beauty,” said another woman with long gray hair and a peasant blouse. “He doesn't care that she doesn't look like a fashion model.”
“Yes,” said a large woman in a pantsuit. “But it's also buying into society's standards. He's saying he loves her, but he's also pointing out where she falls short. Men do that all the time. I love you, but why don't you lose twenty pounds? That sort of thing.”
Several women in the room nodded.
“I think”âit was Tyler's dad, speaking for perhaps the only time ever in a middle-school classroomâ“Shakespeare wants to say that the lady isn't cookie-cutter and so he can't use the standard expressions that poets use to describe their loves. Her eyes aren't as bright as fire; her lips aren't as red asâ?”
“Coral,” said the large woman in the pantsuit helpfully.
“Right, coral. That's what we've been taught to say. He doesn't buy into it.”
Hal, who had been nodding vigorously during all these comments, now exclaimed in a tone of unfettered enthusiasm: “This is great! This is fantastic! In just a few minutes, you've managed to open up the sonnet and show the full range of what's going on in this poem.”
Jessie raised her hand.
“Yes,” said Hal, nodding encouragingly in her direction.
Jessie spoke rapidly and with obvious emotion: “I knew what he was up to. Very sly. Write a nice poem, but get a few digs in. And that one's not the worst of them. There are a lot more that are worse: how his false eyes do dote, how she's telling him lies, being loose with the men, that sort of thing. But always it's, âDon't you see how much I love you?' âDon't you see it's because I'm jealous?'
What does he care if he writes slander that will last maybe a thousand years?”
What does he care if he writes slander that will last maybe a thousand years?”
“Okay,” said Hal carefully, “there's something in that, too.” He was obviously used to the incoherence of his students and unwilling to dismiss what he didn't understand. He therefore nodded to Jessie before turning to address the group as a whole: “I sense that you all bring your life experiences to bear in the way you interpret the sonnet, which is exactly the point. It's a very rich piece of work and open to a variety of readings. It reflects how complicated and contradictory Shakespeare's feelings for the lady probably were, as opposed to the purer emotion he felt for the young man.”
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