“This Door You Might Not Open” by Susan Scarf Merrell, recommended by Fifth Wednesday Journal


Issue No. 207


We all have stories that refuse to let us go. We read them, they wrap their tentacles around us, then we carry them trailing behind us for years. Possibly this happens to writers more often than to other people, or maybe it’s just that, when it does happen to them, writers are more likely to let us know. Sometimes, after years entwined in a story, something magical happens—some mysterious alchemical exchange. Then, bit by bit, the story wriggles free from our hold, just as powerful but transformed.

For Susan Scarf Merrell, that haunting and haunted story is “Bluebeard.” If you don’t remember, “Bluebeard” is a nightmare commentary on power roles in marriage in which the price of wifely disobedience is death. In Merrell’s brilliantly original evocation, “This Door You Might Not Open,” something crucial has changed: the wife, through casual inattention, has broken the spell, and now it is the husband who obeys her, bringing her a hairbrush, engaging Ina Garten to cook dinner, even shaving his trademark beard. (“I do not like a beard,” the narrator, Alice, tells us.) All this he finds time for amid the tasks of daily magic that his job requires he perform: from making rain for the crops out of brown clay shaped into baby’s tears, to opening the new Wegmans supermarket. These two modes—magical and mundane—coexist in compelling tension here, as in much of Merrell’s fiction.

Exploring how the world is changing is central to Merrell’s motive, but what I love most about this story is how it sets modern questions in a world that still feels enchanted, crepuscular, alive with the unbounded possible. Partly she does this through the way she uses language. Her prose is both clean and incantatory, and she knows when to explain and when to leave a mystery. In a kind of prismatic sorcery, we see the old “Bluebeard” story in a new way, yet at the same time we feel the hundred tenacious threads that connect our new world with the old one. In both, Merrell suggests, marriage can be perilous territory. A locked, bloody room inside which anything can happen.

Rachel Pastan
Guest Editor Fifth Wednesday Journal

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This Door You Might Not Open

by Susan Scarf Merrell

Recommended by Fifth Wednesday Journal

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My mother wishes most of all for a home that cleans itself. As far back as I can remember she has talked about this. She is turning
fifty, ancient for women in my family, and I would like to honor her. Carl says it would be easy to do. A minor spell.

When can we give her the magic, I ask?

But he demurs. Dirt is what makes clean beautiful, he tells me.
Certain dreams are better unfulfilled.

Carl, entering through the kitchen door on the afternoon of his first day back at work, is in a good mood. He stopped for beet greens and a fresh-killed chicken from the outdoor market. He was treated royally at the poultry farmer’s stall. He did not have to wait in line; his proffered twenty was rejected. Carl puts the chicken on the counter and watches my face until I remember to give him an approving smile.

We have been pretending all is as it used to be. My family’s curse is broken. His has begun. Why rub it in? I hope to be a kinder tyrant.

In the evenings, lately, Carl and I watch cooking shows on television. He finds knife work infinitely fascinating. I like the way the chefs imagine combinations I would never consider: saffron and chocolate, Aleppo pepper and rose petal, palm sugar with lavender and thyme. Some of the best combinations may not yet have been considered, as Carl pointed out soon after the change between us happened. The obligations of his clan had come to wear on him. He says he is relieved. “The infinite is real, Alice,” he tells me. I snuggle closer on the couch and kiss his neck.

He now shaves twice a day. Rough beard; I swear I can see it growing. He used to wear it long, so that his wife at the time could comb it out at bedtime. I do not like a beard.

“Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds,” I tell
him. I want to say something original, but everything—between us and about us—has already been said.

“You are a verse,” I tell him.

The villagers have asked for rain, and tonight he takes an hour to shape brown clay into baby’s tears. The table is littered with the impossibly tiny drops; the dirt under his fingernails would make another dozen. “I am the chorus,” I remind him. It used to be the other way, you see.

I don’t expect an answer. The new ways we are creating leave room for silence. Building bridge struts from folded origami birds that flutter into place, clearing fields with a flung glove: still his purview. Shall we let the villagers know that they are safe? He will not kill again, except on their behalf. He has promised me. He has promised me.

The villagers dressed me in black for our wedding. My mother hugged me tightly, believing we would never meet again. I was the last daughter in my father’s bloodline, and she had no one left to give. Did I know my fate? I’m not entirely certain. I was like the rest of my sisters, my aunts, my cousins—I did my job. I did not think about what was to come.

When I appear with him at town council meetings—he no longer attends without my support under at least one elbow—they study me. I measure admiration and fear; neither is the winner. But I am.
I am the chorus that returns.

My mother telephones. “What happened? No one has ever—how did you survive?” She is relieved; I think I hear this in her
voice. Also curious. There are details none of us have ever been
alive to share. And also, there is this: now she will have to get to
know me; I am no longer a sacrificial lamb.

I tell her I left the egg outside the room, the one he told me
I was to carry always. “Death comes to anyone who drops the
egg,” he said before he left on that first journey, a few months
into our marriage. In his voice, I heard regret—eons of it. Not
simply his own, but that of his brothers, his father, his uncles.
(No one lives forever, not even Bluebeard.) His family has
always preferred mine.

And me? The fact is, I forgot his orders. Or so I tell myself. Some weeks after his departure, I placed the egg on the table in the hall,
watched it wobble for a moment, and went inside the room.

What I saw there I do not share with my mother. I do not share with anyone. The plump mouse that gnawed at Isobel’s toe, that’s what I remember, and how its eyes assessed me expectantly, how it did not bother to be frightened of an intruder. It merely wondered how I would taste. Dried blood crusted the tatters of her jeans and what was left of her brilliant brown hair−strands dotting the bones of her skull. After death had been no kinder to her than life, and she my favorite, my dearest, the sister closest to me in age. The freshest corpse. I saw others, my sisters and my aunts, I saw them all, but Isobel is all I can remember. I squeeze my eyes closed, picture the man my husband has become, the way he holds me on the sofa, how he says he loves me more because I broke the rules. Because the egg stayed outside, he does not have to kill me. He didn’t want to kill any of them.

The curse is broken, I tell her.

“I didn’t know it was possible,” she says. She believes in
Bluebeard, what he provides for our village. She married my father knowing any daughter she produced would have to die. I have always found her cold, but I begin to understand her.

I say, “Why didn’t you tell me what he is?” It was not fair.

She says, “Nothing is fair.”

She says, “There was no point.”

She says, “I wanted you to be happy for as long as possible.”

I am happy now.

He shakes his head no when I ask him to do the dishes, but then
he does them. He does anything I want. “Bring me my hairbrush,”
I command, and because he cannot help himself, he pushes aside
the pile of bedclothes, clambers down from our high bed. If I have
left the brush in my bathroom, he raises the lights so he can find
it. When the moon is full, I hear him tossing and turning like a
woman whose reds are controlled by ebb and flow. He has become
like the sea, all strength and no purpose. I do not fear him.

“Sing me a song,” I command, and when his voice cracks into
tenor, I close my eyes and pretend I am not listening. My head
aches with the effort it takes to make no effort. He braids my hair; I
tell him not to pull the strands so tightly, and he murmurs that he
is sorry. He does not miss the man he was.

I was provided to him under village statutes. He required a new
wife. My family has been fodder for his as far back as anyone
remembers. In the uncles’ chamber in my parents’ house are files
full of contracts, the correspondence ritualistically identical for
each new bride. The walls in that room and in the formal parlors are
lined with paintings and (for recent generations) photographs: we
have always been well honored. Look at the formal perspective of
that Renaissance master, the subtle tones of Wyeth’s brushstrokes!
See how our hands are never clutched in fear, or splayed in longing.
We are proud, all of the Mansfields are proud! I asked for oils,
though my sisters were photographed, Mara by Richard Avedon,
Isobel by Annie Leibovitz. Look at our portraits! Museums would
salivate to own these beauties. No expense was ever spared to
memorialize our sacrifice. Loved? Perhaps. Doomed, yes, yet ours
has been a noble profession.

Why does this surprise you? We inherit beliefs, along with eye
color and a position with regard to cilantro.

“Did you want to kill me?” I ask again because I want to be sure. “You expected that you would.”

It is afternoon, the sun is high and hot, and we are in our bed
letting the dull wind drift over our bodies. He says, so quickly I
like him for it, “This is the job my family does. It has duties. I never
allowed myself to want.” I put my hand on his thigh. I say, “You
like this now.” He nods. He says, “I wonder what comes after us?”
We are silent. Neither of us has the answer.

I gather eggs for breakfast. This is the job I chose to keep for
myself alone, a private joke. So private I am the only one amused.
For breakfast, he makes omelets. I like to see him crack the eggs;
his mouth tightens as if each tap on the counter is a knife dissecting
wrist from hand. I do not pity him.

“We are going to have a child,” I say one morning. He drops a
plate into the sink, but it does not break. Under the faucet stream,
it seems as if his hands are shaking. “I’m so happy,” he says finally.
I think perhaps he is.

He has always had this house, with its long crenellated roof,
and its many rooms, and the grassy slope that smooths down to
the county road like caramel. When I was a little girl, my older
sisters and I would sit on the high stone pillars and throw horse
chestnuts onto his land. He was my sister Mara’s age, and he
loved her first. Then Cynthia. Isobel was next. I do not forget
this. The house belonged to his great-grandparents, and their
parents before them. There has never been a time when our
village existed and this house did not. When I moved into it, he
mentioned difficulties. What happened to my sisters had been
unfortunate. “I am aware,” I told him staunchly, pretending I
had all the facts. I had none of them.

For one thing, I had imagined I would find Isobel. That she was
hiding here, waiting for me. I knew about sex, about getting stains
out of laundry, about thank-you notes. I am not a creative woman,
I suppose. In any case, I had not understood.

The baby is a girl. She has a fragile, pale exterior, as if any jolt
might harm her, and I fear for her, but do not let her father
know. Nonetheless, he shares my worries; he does not like to let
her from his arms. He wishes to take her with him when he goes
to work, but I do not allow this. I tell him no, leave her at home.
Obedience is required, and yet he does not leave her. He will
not leave her. Difficult to move rainclouds from one pasture to
another when only one arm is free; he did not tell me, but one of
our neighbors confided that he set fire to a small section of the
Hudson River two weeks ago. If Miriam Dougherty feels free to tell me this, I am certain that others are gossiping behind our
backs. That can’t be good.

And now my mother has emailed to tell me she intends to visit.
This has never happened, not with me, not with Mara, not with
Cynthia, not with Isobel. It has never happened. Carl does not look
as tall to me; his shoulders curve from his neck as if his back might
begin to hunch under the baby’s weight. I want her to walk, I tell
him. My voice is firm. “Listen to me,” I say, “She has to grow up,
no matter what happens. We have to teach her, we have to make
her ready. That’s what life is.” He puts our dinner on its plates. He
has made lamb stew, with spinach and sweet potatoes. Tendrils
of steam rise as if from his hands as he places my meal before
me; my stomach muscles soften in anticipation; I smooth the skin
of my fork.

And this is what he says, as if I don’t already know: “Everyone
answers to someone, Alice, even me.”

You answer to me, is what I want to say.

Carl is asked to preside over the opening of the new Wegrnans
supermarket. The stores are large and modern and clean, the prices
are good, and they have a huge organic section. Nonetheless, we
are both taken aback by the request. We do not talk about it. My
mother arrives just in time for the opening; she is very excited to
hear we are getting a Wegrnans and says she will visit frequently
because of it. She has six insulated grocery bags in her car.

“The world is changing,” Carl says, as if I am too inexperienced
to notice.

“What will you do for them? Freeze the ice cream?”

He is putting various supplies into an insulated bag just like
the ones my mother brought. They have not yet said hello to one
another; it is as if my mother cannot see him, as if he is only real
to me. Post-it notes in various colors, a plastic container of toy
soldiers, some cotton balls and silver glitter. Baking soda. A length
of gray thread.

My mother wants to go ahead before us to make sure she gets a
place. She offers to take the baby, and for the first time Carl looks
at her directly. “No,” he tells her. “That’s my job.” Then he asks for
a trowel, some chicken dung, and a box of matches.

My mother says she is not frightened of him, not any more. That
no one is.

“Shh,” I tell her. Why is everyone so nasty? He did not want to
do the things he did. It is the way everyone blames the woman
who has an affair with a married man. My family is also to blame. My mother is obediently silent. Either she is a good guest, or she has figured out the same thing Carl has.

I am the chorus, I think to myself defiantly. I am the chorus
that reappears. There has never been another woman like me. I
tell her to get in the car; I will drive us there. Carl sits in the back,
his hand on the baby’s car seat. I watch them in the rearview
mirror. “You look handsome,” I tell him. When we arrive at the
grocery store parking lot, my mother takes out a tube of coral
lip stick, but there are so many people watching, waiting to greet
us, that she doesn’t get a chance to put it on. The clerk who
helps me from the car compliments my outfit. I smile at Carl.
We picked my jacket out together.

Then I say, “My mother will take the baby. That way, you have
both hands free.”

When I place her in my mother’s arms, Carl shudders. The baby’s
skin glows against the pink of her lips. Her eyes are marine blue
and always watching. She is not afraid.

At first, Carl has trouble with the spells, but eventually he settles in. The crowd likes it when he sends the boxes of breakfast cereal
floating high above and has them waft slowly down, a gift from
the store. Later, in the car, I mention that the first flourishes were
not up to par. “A little embarrassing. You can do better.”

He has the baby on his lap. He shakes his head absently, busy
fitting her into the car seat. My mother wipes some spit-up off her
shoulder with a wet nap.

Carl was ill for nearly two months after I went into the forbidden
room. I was not ill; I was—something. Angry? Confused? I
don’t know the word. If no one has ever survived but me, what
does that say about my family? Generation after generation,
century after century, and I am the first woman lazy enough to
place the egg on a table before stepping over that threshold? He
had told me the egg was my responsibility, that I must hold it
in my hand or keep it in my pocket no matter where I went or
what I did. He told me it was tradition. It was my job. I think of
Mara and Cynthia and Isobel and all the aunts that came before
me. We are responsible women, we fulfill the requirements of
our clan. For all I knew, the egg was what kept my family alive.
And when I placed it on the table outside the forbidden room, I
wasn’t thinking about them at all. I wasn’t thinking. I just put it
down, the way I might do to brush my teeth. A moment here or
there, and all the world is changed.

I shrink from the knowledge that I was as close to death as anyone else. To change history I would wish to have been purposeful and
wise. But what is true is often not pretty.

His strength returned slowly, as did the color in his cheeks and
the shine to his hair. One morning, he said that he was ready to
dress, to come downstairs. I told him I would help to shave his
beard. Comb it, he said stupidly. No, I told him, we are cutting it
off. I do not like it, I explained task manager.

The baby and Carl and I rent a house in the Hamptons for August.
I trust he will be able to speed us through the traffic jams on Route
27 and get us into all the best parties. I have a hankering to meet
Ina Garten and discuss cooking with her, and Carl assures me this
will be easy to manage. Our house is a modern home, on the ocean,
and I like the way we are visible to the vast blue-gray expanse
and the horizon while protected on the dusty dirt road side. The
babysitter we hire is short and plump, and has a funny name—I
think it is Amina, but never feel it is the correct moment to ask
again—and she recommends a cook and housekeeper. I tell Carl
I would like to hire Ina. He studies the outsize black and white
photos of English castles our landlord has placed ironically over
the fireplace and says nothing.

In the evening, however, Ina is there, cheerfully describing the
rib-eye steaks and duchess potatoes she is making for our dinner,
her interactions with the camera crew and support personnel so
practiced and off-hand that I almost imagine she is there only for
us. The meal is delicious. I ask her for her shortcake recipe and she
says she uses cornmeal. I ask her to return and cook for us again,
and she murmurs something noncommittal. I tell her I would
like to meet some of her friends. “Yes,” she says, but her tone is
neutral, and then the two young women who have loaded up all
her equipment in large brown tote bags usher her from the house.
When she is gone, the silence is deafening. Even the baby’s cries
are not as loud as the swirling confidence of fame.

“I want to tell people about you,” I say to Carl. “About us.”

Carl arranges for me to be interviewed by Jane Pauley, who has
been given an hour-long slot on network television in the late
afternoon. This is a new opportunity for her, and it seems fair that
she be allowed it, given all she has done for the medium. I like her.
She has a soft and friendly energy. Jane and I do several long shots
of us walking along the beach in front of the rental home. Although
I am far taller than she, it feels as if we are the same height. The
white caps on the waves have a certain ominous gray soapiness.
And then we sit in the living room, where the camera crew and
Jane’s staff hover officiously, and she asks me to describe what
I saw inside the forbidden room. No set-up, no polite dithering, just the question. I should have been prepared. For a moment, I
think I will faint, the entire room goes fuzzy like an Impressionist
painting, and her face shimmers. “Jane,” I say, buying time, “I’m
not sure you want to know.”

“That’s why we’re here,” she answers, shifting her trousered legs so that the toe of one pointy pump is slightly lifted, perhaps a better angle for the cameras. The surface of my eyes feels taut, as if I will
cry. I can see Carl holding the baby; they are out on the deck, and
the sun glitters in his hair, and I am a little frightened at what I have
done, what he has let me do. And then the words rise like fuel or
blood, and I am ready to tell. My sister Isobel was the one I saw,
and I describe the way I found her. Blood in dry pools, her jeans
stiffened with it, the way her neck lolled and the sparse remnants
of her hair trailed. He had left her hooked to the gray wall. Jane is
aghast, as if this is not the story she expected me to tell, when it is of
course precisely what I had described for the cheery pre-interviewer
hours earlier. Why was that so much easier? Cameras, I suppose.
They make you believe your words are permanent as death.

I do not tell her about the mouse.

“How can you stay with such a man, such a brutal man? He
should be imprisoned,” she says. Carl sits down with the baby,
on the sofa near us, and he dandles her lovingly. Bouncy, bouncy,
she has taken to standing on his thighs and bending her knees. She
wants to walk. In the long silence, the ocean begins to make itself
heard. I can feel my body pulsing to align itself, to find the languor
in the crash and drag of the surf along the sand. Jane clears her
throat, glances meaningfully at her producer. The silence throbs.
Sunlight flickers across the photos above the fireplace, along the
crease of Jane’s white slacks. The baby emits a sound; it is not glee
or sadness, simply a coo, a statement of being alive.

The producer opens her mouth, about to prod us into further
revelation, and Carl lifts one hand. Violets spray from the
producer’s mouth, a firework of florals. Jane bursts into astonished
laughter, and then the crew does, and then the producer says, “Can
you do that again? For the cameras?”

Carl nods. Of course he can. Take after take until the camera
crew is satisfied. I notice that Jane does not repeat her question. He
has stolen my interview, but I try not to mind.

That night, before he puts the baby to bed, I mention to Carl that
Jane has raised an important question. He has brought our girl to
me in bed, so I can kiss her. He pets my shoulder with his broad,
hairy fingers, and I latch onto them before I turn away, drawing
his hand with me. It is dark enough for sleep in our beachfront bedroom, but the light the moon makes on the waves dances along
the ceiling like so many shooting stars.

“I’ll take her now,” Carl whispers. “So you can sleep.”

I had been pretending I had already drifted off but now I change
my mind and turn back toward him. “If she breaks, will you fix her?”

“The baby?”

“Nobody did that for me,” I say. Lucky girl. I am thinking that
my mother raised me for death and principle. For ritual. To be
broken was the reason I was born.

He strokes my back. “I would fix her,” he says.

I sit up against the pillows, take her in my arms. She is a fragile little thing. I meet his eyes directly as I hug our baby’s precious body.

His breathing goes faster. “Not so tight,” he says.

He is scared, isn’t he? And that is why I love him.


About the Author

Susan Scarf Merrell is director of the Southampton Writers Conference, and a professor in the MFA in Creative Writing & Literature program at Stony Brook Southampton. She is the author of the non-fiction work, The Accidental Bond: How Sibling Connections Influence Adult Relationships, the novel A Member of the Family, and, most recently, SHIRLEY: A Novel, which was selected as one of the top fifty novels of the year by The Washington Post, and has been optioned by HBO.

About the Guest Editor

Fifth Wednesday Journal is an independent not-for-profit literary magazine based in Lisle, Illinois. Now in its tenth year, FWJ publishes interesting and challenging literature from established and new writers for a diverse reading public across the country. Work in FWJ is often recognized by many anthologies, including the O Henry Prize, Pushcart Prize, Best American Stories, and others. Guest editors for fiction and poetry are responsible for selecting the work appearing in each issue, giving the magazine an exciting “new feel” and broadening our appeal to talented writers and savvy readers. We are proud to publish Susan Scarf Merrell’s story, “This Door You Might Not Open” in the spring 2016 issue.

About Electric Literature

Electric Literature is an independent publisher amplifying the power of storytelling through digital innovation. Electric Literature’s weekly fiction magazine, Recommended Reading, invites established authors, indie presses, and literary magazines to recommended great fiction. Once a month we feature our own recommendation of original, previously unpublished fiction. Stay connected with us through our eNewsletter, Facebook, and Twitter, and find previous Electric Literature picks in the Recommended Reading archives.

“This Door You Might Not Open” by Susan Scarf Merrell is published by permission of Fifth Wednesday Journal. Copyright © 2016 by Susan Scarf Merrell. All rights reserved.

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