Was he audacious? Certainly.
She’d never known him not to push — the boundaries of good taste, but also physically. He’d put a hand on your arm when he talked to you; he was a hugger, a close talker. He’d even commented on this himself — “I’m Jewish-Italian, I got it on both sides of the family. You know, I was raised to feel that if we aren’t like this, we can’t hear each other” — and he’d thrust his face close to hers. They’d both laughed. She’d found him charming, had not felt threatened by him.
Most #MeToo stories portray a firm point of view. But some, like this one and Mary Gaitskill’s “This is Pleasure” from Best American Short Stories 2020, take a different approach: they show a number of views, and leave it to the reader to define their own position. Here Silverman focuses on generational differences in women’s reactions.
Mars (short for Marsha, but don’t ever call her that), a playwright turned writing professor, has a few casual social engagements with an artistic director who later is accused of “questionable behavior.” Sheila, her advisee, comes to her to discuss the situation, as well as her own problem: a housemate who stares at her in an intrusive way. She’s rather shocked at how easily the professor dismisses anything short of physical touching.
Mars cleared her throat and tried to think about what to say that would be wise and understanding, that would simultaneously illuminate and solve the problem. She found that she had nothing. “But are you concerned that he poses a physical threat?” she heard herself ask.
Sheila sighed, as if Mars had let her down more than usual. “Not all threats are physical,” she said softly. Mars began to argue this point gently — she expected that Sheila would warm to the argument, or in some way would find their usual dynamic comforting — but Sheila refused to engage. In fact, she changed the subject, and shortly thereafter she left.
The encounter stayed with Mars that evening, as she cooked, as she ate, as she did the dishes, as she had a second glass of wine and listened to the radio. Unease worked its way through her body, until she couldn’t enjoy the food, the wine, or the classical strains of WQXR. It came back to language, she thought — you used to know what was really dangerous and what wasn’t by how girls talked about a thing. But these kids now talked about everything the same way — it all had the same weight, so you didn’t know when they were actually in danger or when they were just offended. Mars wanted to think that was progress, but more often than not it left her bewildered and resentful.
Mars and Sheila draw the line in different places; each object to the other’s distinctions. Books have been written about the male gaze, but it seems Mars hasn’t read them. Or doesn’t like them. She dismisses slogans as well. Slogans can become ways of generalizing, but often clichés exist because they reflect something very common.
Sheila begins to decline – paying less attention to her appearance, showing up late – and then starts bringing in “murder plays” for the class workshops. Twenty-six murder plays. I don’t care where you draw the line, that’s alarming. A few weeks later, Sheila stops coming to class altogether, prompting Mars to go to the department head to see if she should investigate. The department head is more interested in Sheila’s prodigious output of twenty-six plays (“only ten minutes apiece” Mars minimizes) than in the erratic behavior, but takes responsibility for pursuing the issue, relieving Mars of any responsibility for Sheila’s welfare, but not her consideration of the issue: does Sheila need to toughen up, or does the world, including her housemate and the artistic director, need to start better observing boundaries?
Then the castigated artistic director calls. He got his golden parachute (scaled for a theater person; for a CEO it would have been a thousandfold more) but notes he’s not particularly welcomed anywhere. Then he asks an interesting question: “Did I ever make you feel unsafe?” He gets an even more interesting answer:
“When we were alone together,” he said. “I . . . this is selfish, but I keep thinking about . . . all the people who didn’t say anything. The women, I mean. And I guess I — keep wondering if all of them felt the same way, but some of them just didn’t . . . say it.”
“I only saw you three times,” Mars said curiously, probing the question from all sides.
“I know.”
“You didn’t put your tongue in my mouth, you didn’t touch me.”
“Yes,” he said. “But . . .” And he was quiet, with the whole weight of the but, and the image flickered into Mars’s mind of Sheila, straightening up from the washing machine, turning to find Javier in the doorway. Watching her. The way Javier had looked at her, that Sheila had felt to be as tangible as a hand on her skin. A reaction that Mars had not fully understood because Mars had made the choice many years ago to ignore all the things that were not hands.
She went to take a sip of her wine and found her glass was empty. On the other end of the phone he breathed, softly — coughed once — but was silent, awaiting whatever judgment she might hand down. Another image came to mind unbidden: Sheila again, studying Mars, her brown eyes liquid with disappointment. I have killer radar for who is gonna be a shady asshole. But that shouldn’t be a requisite for, like, how to get by in the world.
“No,” Mars said at last. Her voice felt rusty, coming from a place deep in her chest. “I didn’t. But I think there’s something wrong with me.”
My first reaction was that he was seeking an ally, or hoping she’d feel guilty for not defending him at the time. But while that’s a possibility, I don’t think that’s what the story is conveying. Granted, we know little about him beyond what we see through Mars’ encounters with him. I do think he’s looking for someone who accepts his interpretation of boundaries. Mars used to be that person; whether she still is or not is the question that’s being raised. The question the story doesn’t answer. The question left for the reader.
Where is the line? We can’t freak out every time a man’s glance roams around, but there are glances and glances, and some are more pointed than others, are intended to be noticed. Why is it incumbent upon women to adapt to what men think is normal behavior, and not the other way around? The answer of course is, that’s how it is with stigmatized groups. A raped woman is asked what she was wearing. A dead unarmed black boy was “no angel.” An Asian woman stabbed on a train to keep her from destroying the world is asked what she did to provoke the attack. The only people who, at least historically, have been able to get away with literally anything are cis white men. And priests. But let’s close libraries over drag queen story hours.
I’ve always remembered a line from a TV show – House, featuring the amazingly talented Hugh Laurie as a drug-popping, rude, and salacious doctor who, when hiring a new resident, puts them through an absurd degree of crudity. One promising prospect says, “Keep your hands to yourself, I’m okay with anything that comes out of your mouth.” I’ve always wondered about that. Yes, it’s only a TV show, but how does he get to set the standard of behavior? And what does it cost her – or Mars, or Sheila – to find a way to be ok with it?
Interesting story, with no answers. But I think that’s good. It’s when nothing bothers me that I’ll worry, like Mars, that there’s something wrong with me. And, by the way – how is Sheila?
* * *
A Just Recompense 