Up For Review:
Shut Up, Uncle
This story was published in ASSM three years ago as part of a 9-story collection. It was the eighth story (1,405 words in length) in that collection and according to Dr. Spin, seemed to get lost in the shuffle. He calls it a quirky story, with only passing references to sex but still sexy. His editor at the time called it literature. He wants to know what we call it. Could it be better? Longer? More interesting? Should it have sex? Is it literature, or is it dreck?
She'd more or less come around to it in just nine days, which surprised her because she thought she'd be the one with the lesser tolerance. Uncle Stanley wasn't her crazy relative, for God's sake. She'd married into this absurd arrangement involving Phil's father's younger brother. Most of the pressure had landed on her, but she was finding she was able to get on with things - if not normally, then at least passably.
Here she was, sitting at the kitchen table folding clean laundry while across sat Uncle Stanley, babbling at her incessantly, shouting frequently and in a stream of words not sequentially or consequently linked. Uncle Stanley could and did say all sorts of things, but none of it together made any sense. That was what you had to learn quickly - not to listen to what he was saying. He sprinkled his rantings with extraordinarily complex and uncommon words and an occasional blunt and colourful obscenity, unfortunately always shouted very loudly indeed.
Poor Phil wasn't coping, which was a big problem. Phil's career was taking off excitingly after a long struggle for acceptance. In the past year his scripts were in high demand, and he'd signed an excellent contract to write the stage play of a best-selling novel. The pressure was on and Phil was working day and night in the study they'd just finished remodelling with the money flowing in from his script work. They should have thought more about soundproofing. Uncle Stanley's invective, in his loudest and most indecent moments, intruded often on the fragile threads of Phil's creative brilliance and, as is the case with brilliantly creative people, he didn't take it kindly.
"Ginny," he'd said to her meaningfully, after he'd calmed down from a scarlet-faced outburst that had outperformed Uncle Stanley.
"Ginny," he'd said, as if the matter was entirely in her hands. "You have got to do something about this."
His words had contained much implication. He was under pressure and she wasn't. He was working and she'd given up her job in their more comfortable circumstances to look after things. He was a genius and she wasn't. He'd already tried to give Uncle Stanley back to the family but had been rebuffed. It was, he was saying, up to her to give him the time and space he required.
"Asshole," shouted Uncle Stanley across the table.
Well, not really. Poor Phil was slipping behind schedule, and his agitation was understandable.
Uncle Stanley, it was said, had been brilliant himself. He'd been a dedicated research chemist doing important things for humanity. One day something broke inside his head and he started raving and shouting. The family took on the responsibility and it was decided he would live with and be cared for by the various family households for four-monthly periods in turn. There'd been six such households sharing the task for years. Now that Phil had been married for three years and settled into his career, it was decided collectively and unanimously, there were seven.
It was an imposition, certainly, but it wasn't a nightmare. Apart from the sound and the presence of him, Uncle Stanley was not hard to handle. He ate anything and everything neatly and carefully, thankfully not talking between mouthfuls. He slept ten hours a night almost precisely and bathed himself every morning after waking. He dressed himself adequately and kept himself clean.
The big problem was the talking and the way he attached himself to whoever was close at hand. If you passed him he followed you until he couldn't. If you went into the bathroom and shut the door on him, he'd wait and babble until you opened it. Unless somebody else came by, in which case he'd follow.
In nine days she'd more or less come around to it. Uncle Stanley would follow her around the house. She could do most things she'd always done and she had her necessary moments of privacy when she shut the door. She could not watch television or listen to the radio when Uncle Stanley was awake. Nobody could, except Phil in his study, and that was work. But she could do housework. She could cook, she could read, she could even walk in the garden and think about life and times. Uncle Stanley was always there, but she found she could do it.
But after ten days Phil was coming apart. "Ginny," he said to her with an edge of ragged desperation. "Ginny," he said, looking into her eyes imploringly. "You've got to do something."
Well, sure. But what?
She took him out into the garden but Phil rattled the window of his study. She took him into the kitchen but Phil opened his door and shouted at her. She took him upstairs but Phil banged on the ceiling with something. So she broke the family rule and took him shopping. Bad move. His language caused a stir in the supermarket and she had to chase after him to stop him following people out the store.
She took him home and, thinking deeply about what she could do, walked up the stairs to her room to change her clothes.
She shut the door on Uncle Stanley. "Cunt," he shouted through the timber frame. But he wasn't being personal.
She took off her dress and was rummaging for a shirt when some change in the environment made her look up questioningly. She saw Uncle Stanley framed in the doorway, watching her. His mouth was shut and he was silent. The door had not latched and it had swayed partly open under the pressure of a breeze.
She straightened, not particularly disturbed because she was wearing a respectable bra and pants, and walked to the door and closed it.
Immediately he started ranting again. She stood at the closed door, listening to him run up and down the roller-coaster of his amazing vocabulary. She put out her hand and opened the door. He stopped mid-word and stood silently, watching her. She closed the door and he started talking. She opened the door and he stopped.
She left the door open and walked back into the room. He stayed outside, silent, watching. She sat on the bed and pulled on her jeans. She stood up and pulled the cotton shirt over her head. Uncle Stanley started babbling again.
She looked at him, considering. She took off the shirt and he stopped.
They stood looking, each preoccupied. His head was hunched forward and he was watching her intently. His lips started to move, working silently. Then the words started, low and slow, emerging hesitantly but gradually picking up pace, volume and continuity. She sighed deeply, realising how much she'd treasured the silence while it had lasted.
But it was not as it was. There was something about him and the way he was looking at her, in fact the way he was talking at her. The words made no sense but she was sure that, for the first time, they were being directed.
Instinctively she knew what had to be done and, reaching behind, she acted before logic and reason intervened. She unclipped the bra, drew it off and threw it to the bed.
Eyes wider, Uncle Stanley shut down the noise instantly.
That was it. She knew she had the answer. She could tell by his expression. He was hooked and he couldn't utter a word to save himself. Peace was bliss and the price was cheap.
She stood and thought about it while Uncle Stanley stared at her breasts. She couldn't just walk around topless. Phil might appreciate the silence but he would surely not approve.
She searched through the wardrobe and pulled out a light cotton housecoat she had barely worn. She took off all her clothes while Uncle Stanley watched, silent and goggle-eyed, and put on the housecoat. She left it open and untied, walked past Uncle Stanley and down to the kitchen to get on with the things that had to be done.
He followed silently.
When Phil came out for coffee she tied the housecoat. Uncle Stanley, watching and waiting, didn't say a word.
Two weeks later Mavis dropped by. Ginny tied her housecoat before answering the door.
"You know I'm due to have Uncle Stanley next," Mavis said, over coffee. "Phil says you're a marvel with him. What's your secret?"
"Come and see me when you get desperate," Ginny said.
ENDS