Since I finished We Have Always Lived in the Castle — my second Shirley Jackson thanks to JenX’s recommendation — I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the things that are not said. We go through so much of life living in our own heads while interacting with others who carry their own histories and lives and have their own shit happening. As important as it is to hear what is said to us, just as important is the ability to see the meaning behind the unspoken. How does the absence of something in a mundane conversation inform you of the situation? Here’s an everyday example:
Colleague 1: Oh, you used to work with Andy! He’s so nice!
Colleague 2: Yea, I did! He’s a really good editor!
Most of us might leave that interaction thinking both people here have a favorable impression of co-worker Andy, but what Colleague 2 did not do was confirm the idea that Andy was a nice person.
Jackson is an absolute master at the “what’s not said”. She crafts whole mansions of lore and entire estates of meaning behind the unspoken, the ignored, the undescribed. A reader could be satiated by the plot of We Have Always Lived in the Castle and still get a nagging feeling that they’ve missed something — so much so that if they were like me, they’d re-read the book immediately after, hungry for understanding.
The book is written from the point of view of Mary Catherine Blackwood — or Merricat. She lives with her older sister Constance, Uncle Julian, and her very obedient cat Jonas in a mansion on a massive plot of land in a decaying village. Twice a week, Merricat makes a trip to the village for groceries and library books, as Constance is an agoraphobe while Uncle Julian is an “eccentric” invalid. The villagers “have always hated us,” Merricat says early on.
The origin of their unpopularity is left a bit hazy — her mom and dad sound like they were classist dicks — but what hasn’t helped matters is that six years ago, nearly all the Blackwoods were poisoned to death from a dinner at their mansion. Constance had cooked the meal and was accused of the mass murder, but she was acquitted. Merricat survived as she was sent up to her bedroom without dinner that night while Uncle Julian had pulled through, though he is now wheelchair-bound and appears to have dementia. Yet that hasn’t stopped him from trying to obsessively piece together the details of that fateful day.
Since her acquittal in a trial that gained massive attention, Constance has been holed up in their mansion. But she’s not sad nor is she a Miss Havisham-type. In fact, from Merricat’s point of view, Constance is an amazing homemaker who cooks, cleans, gardens, and has managed to build a loving home for the three of them. She also appears to maintain the picture of a perfect host when they get the occasional high society visitor, and is just the epitome of a patient maternal figure — kind to Uncle Julian and accommodating to Merricat’s behavior.
And Merricat is very, very odd. Seeing omens and signs everywhere, she has taken on the role of a house protector. She attempts to shield their home by burying “treasure” around the estate, by nailing their father’s old book of accounts to a tree, by hiding jewels as an offering for a good day of not being hassled in the village. Constance is very understanding of her behavior, saying “silly Merricat” whenever her younger sister returns dirtied from running around outside.
Things change however when their cousin Charles arrives for an unexpected visit. Constance remembers him and welcomes him as a familiar face — remarking that he looks just like their dead father — but Merricat immediately views him as a threat to their home structure. Charles settles in quickly and appears to feel comfortable threatening Merricat and belittling Uncle Julian, whose condition deteriorates as he’s not allowed to talk about the murders anymore. Charles is also vocal about criticizing the way they’ve lived for the past six years, saying it is unsuitable and untenable for the two women.
And the thing is he isn’t wrong about that. But the beauty in Jackson’s writing is her ability to draw a reader over to her side. When Charles is angered that Merricat is taking money and trinkets from her deceased father’s room and hiding it around their land, he is portrayed as a lunatic overreacting. To me, Merricat’s actions made perfect sense in their world, and what actually felt absurd was Charles’ obsession with material wealth (she says, as she looks at her dwindling bank account). Merricat’s reaction to Charles — a vitriol, immediate dislike — also made sense because he was threatening her sense of order. Her methods of trying to drive him away were very much in tune with the universe of her emotionally stunted mind, even as anyone living in the real world (aka not the Blackwood manor) knew it wouldn’t work.
As I’ve said, Jackson’s mastery in her craft lies in what’s not said. When she describes their family life, it not only illustrates their current reality of the past six years, but the lack of what is said also hints at how the Blackwood home life used to be. There is a thread of unspoken horror that she dares us to unspool in her detailing of everyday domestic drudgery. Midway through, I was just struck with why? Why the hell, if they are such a wealthy, hi-so family, was Constance doing so much housework when her parents were alive? Why is Uncle Julian so fixated on faithfully recounting that day’s events, yet says that when he dies, “see that my notes are entrusted to some worthy cynic who will not be too concerned with the truth”? And if Constance blames herself for everything, why is Merricat the one who feels she needs to protect her elder sister and the house? Why such an urgent, visceral need for protection?
Stephen King had dedicated Firestarter to Shirley Jackson, aptly writing that she “never needed to raise her voice.” In Castle, dread is a whisper throughout the chapters, and the sisters’ past lives show up in echoes — in their interactions, in how they see the world, in how they react to the unexpected. In the end, Castle isn’t a whodunit (and to be honest, it’s pretty obvious who murdered the Blackwood family.) And even as my heavily therapized self can’t help but yearn for clarity from their past, what stuck for me — tumbling in spin-dry cycle in my head — was that the “why” of it isn’t important.
What a blessing it is to be able to decipher the threads of our trauma — “I react in this fashion when something triggers me because it reminds me of how I was treated by my father” — instead of blindly wading through our swamp of reactive emotions. At 28 and 18 years old, Constance and Merricat will never have this luxury. The love they have for each other cushions them from all they’ve been through — they are bound by it. Whether if that’s a solace or a curse doesn’t matter. As long as they stay cozy in their kitchen, shielded in their castle from the cruel outside.