Page 14 of One of Them
D elia slipped into the back of the classroom, slightly out of breath. She’d been hurrying to class and was now overheated in her mink coat; she peeled it off and draped it over the back of her chair.
“Showoff,” hissed a voice behind her.
Delia didn’t have to turn to recognize Virginia Worthington, the seeming ringleader of that odious bunch of girls, who never passed up an opportunity to insult her.
Ignoring the comment on her coat—she was already late and wanted to attract no more attention to herself—Delia settled herself in her seat and opened her notebook.
His class was her favorite since she’d arrived at Vassar.
It wasn’t only the intellectual aspects of the material that engaged her; it was Ian McQuaid himself—his melodic Irish brogue, his fair hair and pale-gold lashes, the way his light eyes changed from gray to green and back again.
He couldn’t have been more than thirty. Delia had learned all she could about him, that he’d come from Dublin and read English at Cambridge.
His first name was Ian—a Scottish mother perhaps?
—and he was married, with twin daughters, a fact she knew because his wife had posted a notice in the English department office seeking a babysitter.
Delia let herself entertain the idea of applying for the job.
She’d get to see where he lived, and chat with him outside of class.
But she’d also have to meet his wife and his children, and she didn’t like the idea.
No, she wanted him to herself—a ridiculous idea, but still, there it was.
She was smitten, and even though she was clear-eyed enough to understand the hopelessness of her feelings, they nevertheless bubbled up and over whenever she thought of him.
Today they were discussing Romeo and Juliet , a play Delia had read in high school and privately disdained: the stupidity of the protagonists’ deaths, the colossal waste of it.
And it was all so melodramatic. Delia had been forced to flee from her home, endured the murder of her mother, and reinvented herself in a new country.
Your parents disapproving of your boyfriend? Hardly a reason to kill yourself.
But Mr. McQuaid said that it was his favorite of the tragedies, of all Shakespeare’s plays in fact.
“Did anyone realize that if lifted out of the play, the first fourteen lines that Romeo and Juliet speak to each other form a sonnet?” he asked the class.
Delia had not considered the idea at all, but found herself intrigued.
She did admire Shakespeare’s sonnets; who knew that he’d tucked one into this play?
“Now, if we examine these lines in terms of their power as dialogue, look what he’s able to accomplish here—I’m going to read it aloud to show you, but I need a partner.
” He looked up, and his eyes met Delia’s.
“Miss Goldhush, would you please read Juliet’s lines?
” Thrilled that he had chosen her, Delia didn’t trust herself to look at him, so she cast her eyes down and simply nodded.
“Romeo’s come to this party in search of another girl, Rosaline,” said Mr. McQuaid.
“He’s in love with her, or so he thinks.
But when he sees Juliet, everything changes.
He’s drawn to her—she has a magnetic pull for him.
He has to meet her. So he walks right over, takes her hand, and this is what he says: ‘If I profane with my unworthiest hand / This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this / My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand / To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.’” He looked at Delia, who started reading Juliet’s reply: “‘Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much / Which mannerly devotion shows in this: / For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, / And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss. ’”
Mr. McQuaid, warming to his subject, stood up.
“Look at what Shakespeare’s done in just two lines.
He’s established character—Romeo is more impulsive, Juliet more controlled and cautious; he’s given us a clever bit of wordplay—the way hands touch is likened to the way lips touch—which he’ll carry through until the end of the exchange.
” Delia had never thought of it this way, but she found herself drawn into Mr. McQuaid’s enthusiasm, and as she spoke Juliet’s lines, the words newly meaningful and resonant, she was drawn in.
“‘Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?’” read Mr. McQuaid.
“‘Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in pray’r.’” Delia, as Juliet, was once again the voice of caution, of restraint.
“‘O then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do / They pray—grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.’”
“‘Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.’”
“‘Then move not while my prayer’s effect I take.’” Mr. McQuaid was looking, even staring, straight at Delia.
“And what does he do? He kisses her! All that in fourteen lines, fourteen lines that establish character, that move the play along—he’s just met her and now he’s kissed her!
—and that are interesting and engaging all on their own.
And the very next time these two meet, it’s on the balcony, where they declare their love and make plans to marry.
Shakespeare doesn’t waste any time here. He gets right to it.”
Delia felt the crackle and spark of excitement that she always felt in this class.
How had she not appreciated all this before?
It was because of him, he was the one who unlocked this treasure and shared it with all of them, but maybe, just maybe, he was particularly interested in sharing it with her, sensing a responsive spirit.
A quiet joy spread through her, an awakening.
The way he had looked at her when he described the kiss—Delia felt as if she, and not just Juliet, had been kissed.
She was confused, both titillated and embarrassed at the same time; she could feel the heat in her cheeks, and the nervous fluttering of her stomach.
When the class ended, Mr. McQuaid collected all the papers from the students before they left, but Delia stayed behind, pretending to look for her own paper—she knew full well where it was; she’d put it carefully in the front flap of her notebook—to buy a little time.
When she finally extracted it, she and Professor McQuaid were alone in the classroom.
“Thank you for reading with me, Miss Goldhush. Shakespeare’s words are meant to be read aloud—they’re plays after all. Have you ever seen a performance of Romeo and Juliet ?”
Delia shook her head.
“Well, I hope you will. I have a feeling you’ll appreciate it.” He smiled and took the paper from her.
I hope he likes it, she thought as she was leaving. I hope he thinks it’s the best thing from a student that he’s ever read.
The following week, Mr. McQuaid handed back all the papers.
Delia ignored the comments in the margins and turned to the last page, where a bold red A+ filled the space.
Incisive, engaging and impressive were the words beneath it.
Delia felt a flush of pride—and of happiness—come over her.
But there was no surprise. She’d known all along that the paper was good; it had seemed to write itself, as if the thoughts and words were being spoken to her, and she was transcribing rather than creating them.
Typing quickly if erratically, her fingers had flown along the keys of the Corona Comet, articulating how Shakespeare dismantled the idea of evil as a supernatural force, describing it instead as something completely and utterly human.
In act 5, scene 2, Othello has just learned how Iago has tricked him into murdering Desdemona.
His first horrified thought is that Iago is a devil, only then he says, “I look down towards his feet; but that’s a fable.
” The line refers to hooves, a mark of the devil—yet Othello quickly realizes that no, that’s not it at all.
Iago isn’t a monster, isn’t a devil. He’s just a man—flawed, consumed by jealousy—who is hell-bent on Othello’s undoing, and this truth is far more devastating than anything Othello could have conjured.
On her desk sat the crystal candlestick she’d bought on Main Street, and a tall white taper flickered as she worked.
She was well aware that the flame was purely an affectation; there was ample light from both a lamp and an overhead fixture.
But she liked the atmosphere it conjured; Shakespeare would have written by candlelight.
“So he gave you an A-plus.”
Delia turned to see Virginia looking down at the essay, and she quickly put her hand over the grade to hide it.
Virginia’s hair was held back from her face by a punishingly tight black headband, and her thick brows made her eyes look small and mean.
“Well, it’s no surprise—the way you spend every class simpering at him.
I wonder why he doesn’t see right through it. ”
“And I wonder why you even bother coming to class,” said Delia.
“You haven’t made a single original comment or observation all semester.
” She was gratified by the sight of Virginia’s mouth falling open into a small O of astonishment and savored the feeling even as she put the Othello essay away after Virginia had stalked off.
She didn’t realize the room had emptied out until she saw Mr. McQuaid was standing in front of her.
“Miss Goldhush, may I have a word with you?”
“Of course.” It didn’t matter what it was about; she wanted to hear anything he had to say.
“Our babysitter called to say she can’t make it tonight—she has strep throat. So if there’s any way, any chance at all, you could step in, I’d be very grateful.”
Babysit for his children? That was what she most decidedly did not want to do.
“It’s our anniversary, and Maggie’s been looking forward to this evening. We have tickets to a concert.”