The Book Club Chronicles: Part Eight – as You Like It

By Joan H. Parks

The ladies keep trying to find as easier Shakespeare play to study and decided upon As You Like It, a comedy. As they start reading it, they discover that it is complicated. Most of the plot is confined to Acts 1 and 5. They use a Globe version on a DVD and use it and the text for study. They reflect upon the friendship between Rosalind and Celia, and how it changes throughout the play, Celia being dominant until Rosalind disguises herself as a boy, when she becomes the leader. Their reading deepens as they witness their own responses to this very female tale. All wrestle with their physical aging and the threats and advantages of retirement. They reflect on the intensely lyric nature of As You Like It and the many subversions, subtle or not, that Shakespeare wrote into this beloved play. They wrestle with their own love stories, late life marriages, and the how their pasts haunt their present as they struggle to make sense of this simple on the surface but very complicated theatrical play. Most of all, once again they, as a group, revel in the beautiful language of Shakespeare that pierces their hearts and at the same time uplifts them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781663228161

Joan H. Parks

Joan H Parks lives in Chicago, IL, and after a career in clinical research refreshed her life by becoming a fiction writer. Her undergraduate degree was from the University of Rochester in Non-Western Civilizations, her MBA from the University of Chicago. She studies poetry, including Yeats and the Canterbury Tales (in Middle English); has an interest in the ancient world which she has gratified by studying at the Oriental Institute of The University of Chicago; is an aficionado of The Tales of Genji, which she rereads every year or so. Her family regards these activities with amusement, for she also listens to Willie Nelson and Dierks Bentley. She can be contacted at joanhparks.com

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Copyright © 2021 Joan H. Parks.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by

any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system

without the written permission of the author except in the case of

brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Direct quotes from As You Like It are from the Folger Library

paperback edition. Simon and Schuster Paperback, 2009

The Shakespeare Globe DVD of As You Like It is available

for anyone who has an internet connection.

1599 A Year in the Life of William Shakespeare by

James Shapiro. Faber and Faber, 2005

Players of Shakespeare 2: Further Essays in Shakespeare in performance

by players with the Royal Shakespeare Company; edited by Russell

Jackson and Robert Smallwood. Cambridge University Press 1988

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-2815-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-2816-1 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 08/24/2021

CONTENTS

Chapter 1     Lunch at Piccolo Mondo

Chapter 2     Preparing for the First Book Club Meeting

Chapter 3     The First Book Club Meeting

Chapter 4     Claire Talks about Act 1 with Henry

Chapter 5     Annie and Claire on their Morning Walk

Chapter 6     Celia and Rosalind

Chapter 7     Katherine Returns Home

Chapter 8     Clarissa and Steve Talk about the Past

Chapter 9     The Forest of Arden

Chapter 10   Troubles

Chapter 11   Annie and Bill Gossip

Chapter 12   Still in the Forest of Arden

Chapter 13   Sweet are the Uses of Adversity

Chapter 14   Claire and Annie Walk and Talk

Chapter 15   Katherine at the Studio

Chapter 16   Orlando Realizes Ganymede is Rosalind

Chapter 17   Claire and Henry Contemplate his Retirement

Chapter 18   Annie Talks to Bill About Writing

Chapter 19   Clarissa and Steve after Supper with Katherine and Mark

Chapter 20   Oliver Reappears

Chapter 21   Clarissa Finds Ease

Chapter 22   Claire and Henry Walk

Chapter 23   The Weddings

Chapter 24   The Ending

Chapter 25   The Party

CHAPTER 1

LUNCH AT PICCOLO

MONDO

I had reached Piccolo Mondo first, as I usually did, unless we walked together from the 1700 Building. I chose our favorite table in front of the windows so we could take advantage of whatever sun there was, and so I could see Annie and Katherine walking to meet me. We had all lived in the same neighborhood as we raised our children, and now, having migrated, we all nested in the same building. Annie moved into her mother’s apartment when her first marriage to Bill disintegrated, and I moved in when I was released from my struggles as a single mom. Katherine, years into her widowhood and weary of maintaining a large home and yard, had sold the family home to one of her children and followed Annie and me to the building.

Annie arrived in a snit and immediately launched into her diatribe.

"So, I asked, ‘Why are you rinsing them so thoroughly? So thoroughly as to constitute washing. And then you put them in the dishwasher.’ Bill replied, as he does every night, ‘To keep the dishwasher clean.’"

Annie waved her piece of bread slathered with butter in the air. I mean, does this make any sense? He washes them before he puts them in the dishwasher, whose function is to wash the damn dishes! She dropped the piece of bread, butter side down, in her lap—fortunately on her napkin. Oh rats! She looked around for our usual waiter, caught his eye and signaled him to bring another napkin.

Katherine, red hair shining in the sun, took a dainty sip of her martini and asked, with the appearance of being fascinated though her eyes crinkled with suppressed mirth, When exactly did he start doing the dishes and cleaning up after meals? Hasn’t he always been the complete master of the universe, expecting to being waited upon by you and his minions?

Katherine’s beloved Geoff had been a doctor, and I had worked with doctors as a researcher, so both of us were familiar with the breed. I tried not to grin; I found Annie’s tale vastly amusing.

Shortly after we remarried... Annie looked guilty. He said that since I did the shopping and cooking, it was only fair that he cleaned up after the meals. Not that I do much cooking these days, you understand. Looking even more guilty, she mumbled, He does his own laundry, too. Arranges for his shirts and dry cleaning.

Katherine sighed theatrically, tossing her red curls. Annie, he’s a surgeon. Surgeons have to be neat and clean. Bill can’t turn that off and turn into a slob, he just can’t. If he tried, he would probably become hypertensive or so anxious he would have to spend all his spare time at a shrink.

Oh. Annie looked thoughtful. After running her hand through her white hair, she buttered another piece of Italian bread and, holding it carefully, asked Katherine, Did Geoff act that way?

A shadow passed over Katherine’s averted face. She blinked at her martini glass, straightened her shoulders, and put up her chin. Sadly, he wasn’t permitted to reach that point in his life. Before his life ended, he still expected me to manage all those pesky details, which I did. He supported all of us, took care of his patients, etcetera. She waved her scarlet-tipped fingers over her martini glass. No doubt, if he had lived, we might now be bickering over dishwashing techniques.

Annie put out a hand in mute apology. Ghosts. We are surrounded by ghosts. Hans had never got to that stage either. We had so little time together.

I ran my hand over my helmet of dark hair to be sure it subdued as usual, checked my scarf’s knot to be sure it was still tied precisely as usual, and steered the conversation out of dirge territory. Katherine, remember the cruise to the Hebrides where I met your first husband? What was he like with the dishes? I remember your muttering something about dishes in one of your rants.

Oh god, yes. Katherine perked up. Relieved to cease dwelling on dead husbands, she gave me a grateful glance.

Annie, you weren’t on that cruise, so you can’t comprehend his full, horrible flavor. You know about bad first marriages and the resentments that can fester for a lifetime. Katherine twirled a red curl in her finger. He was a graduate student in chemistry, bench chemistry as well as theoretical. He had to be fastidious about his glassware in the lab, which he went on an on and on about at home. He then escalated to pompous complaining about the way I did the dishes, not clean enough for him, not sanitized enough for him. He would say charming things like, ‘I know that you were only an English major, but how do you expect to run a household and raise children if you are so slovenly in your habits?’ Katherine’s voice became deeper and angrier, a bright red color crept up her throat, and she held her martini glass with white knuckles. But would he ever volunteer to do the dishwashing? she demanded rhetorically. No kids yet, and I, too, had a full-time job, but would he do anything so menial as to wash the dishes, despite priding himself, in that odiously patronizing way, on his pristine glassware in the lab. No! The two male academics at the next table jumped at Katherine’s loud No!, turning to see if there was a scene starting. She looked at them apologetically, smiled and mouthed, Sorry.

Katherine recalled her irritation and then her fury. I knew the end had come one evening when, instead of picking up the bread knife and sticking it in his chest, as I was tempted to do,—she lifted her toothpick and aimed the olive menacingly at her friends— I smeared butter on his water glass, deliberately and with malice, and said, ‘There! If you want the damn glass pristine, wash it yourself!’ He raised his fist. Claire and Annie looked at her in horror. No, he did not use it on me, but on the wall—where he left a hole. He stormed out and didn’t come back. I spent the night packing, mostly precious things I didn’t want to leave with that prick: the gold striped teapot from my mother, six sterling teaspoons from my favorite aunt, my collected Shakespeare with my notes. I left the wedding album, never wanting to see those pictures again! I called a taxi early in the morning, flew back home, filed for divorce, and never saw or heard from him again until that cruise.

Katherine brooded for a minute before her color returned to normal and she all at once smiled triumphantly. I got full revenge by looking really hot and having Russ pay me homage. Gosh that was fun. Her face fell again. Remember him? Dear Russ, what a lovely man. We never married—I just wasn’t ready. It’s awful of me to say so, but I’m glad I didn’t, for then I would have had a second husband get sick and die on me. I don’t know if I would have survived. She paused and then blurted out: Because Mark is so much younger than I, there is little danger he will die on me.

Annie and I giggled, surprised into laughter by her abrupt appraisal of Mark.

What’s so funny? Katherine asked, looking baffled.

Isn’t that a little blunt? Annie replied, muffling her laughter.

You are friends, and I don’t have to pussy foot around, Katherine replied.

We cherish your honesty, I said, trying to keep a straight face and not choke on my bread.

There were times when I wondered if Katherine were frittering away her life, but then other times, like right now, when I knew she was not. Her choices were not mine, for sure, but hers. Knowing her as long as I had, I had learned, if not to understand, to respect her choices. Yet I always had a flicker of regret that she didn’t use her fine mind in a more rigorous way. Or did I mean, intellectually respectable? In the Hyde Park sense? Was I becoming an intellectual snob? I hoped not. Even if I am, I thought happily, I can rely on my friends to point it out to me.

Katherine once more squared her shoulders to flick off tragic memories: Anyway, Annie, could you try to think of Bill’s dishwashing habits as part of what you like about him? Part of what makes your laugh?

Subdued, Annie replied, Don’t we get het up about the most absurd things? I remember getting so angry because Bill would bring me arranged flowers when I told him time after time after time that I like to do the arranging myself. I screamed at him about the flowers when I left. He probably thought I was insane. I knew I was totally justified.

I looked around restlessly. I was hungry. I know he only brings you loose flowers now, so people can change. Doesn’t that satisfy you? I didn’t mean to sound snippy, but I knew I did.

Annie was stern as she ripped off another piece of bread. Claire, it’s that he finally listened to me that was important. Too bad I had to get a divorce to make my point. We could have used the money we squandered on the divorce on a vacation, or a marriage counselor.

I persisted in pushing reality on my friend. But then you wouldn’t have reconnected with Hans and married him.

And lost him, Annie replied, giving me a reproachful look. I guess I would rather laugh and complain about Bill’s dishwashing habits than remember the hard times.

Katherine nodded and looked at her olive with lust. "It’s much, much better to laugh about present absurdities than reflect on our tragic pasts. We all see friends dropping off their perches, so to speak, and know that one day we will too. Might as well enjoy the time we have left. I wonder if the waiter is ever going to deliver our food to us, or are we to sit here like Waiting for Godot— except you two will be starving. I won’t be because I will keep ordering martinis with extra-large olives."

We were saved from either fate by the arrival of our food: my spaghetti and beloved meatballs, which I could never have when Henry was with me as he had a strong aversion to meat loaf or meat balls. Annie had her usual chicken marsala, and Katherine a green salad with chicken to make up for the calories in the martinis. We all knew the menu at Piccolo Mondo, our neighborhood hangout, and had wasted no time in our ordering. As we looked around the restaurant, we saw the usual mix of academics, local middle class black people, assorted Hyde Park intellectuals, and some older people festooned with canes and walkers, taken out for a meal by their middle age children. There usually weren’t any students, unless visiting parents were treating them to dinner. We had our usual seat near the window, where we could see the toddlers from the neighborhood nursery school out for a walk with their minders. Arrayed in their bright vests, the little ones obediently held onto the rope that stretched along their single file line. They looked like a giant caterpillar as they made their way. We beamed at them, for they were a dear sight amid all the adult concerns.

It’s time to think about what Shakespeare play we should study next, I, all business, declared after I had taken a few bites. Any suggestions? Should we tackle something that’s harder?

Harder in what way? Annie inquired. "If you mean complicated and hard to grapple with, I thought Twelfth Night was hard." Annie cut up her potatoes and chicken, speared a bite, and put it into her mouth.

"I’m thinking of one of the great tragedies, like King Lear or Othello? Or maybe Taming of the Shrew, which is difficult to play in our ‘MeToo’ times. Or perhaps The Merchant of Venice, which has the anti-Semitic tropes that cause us to flinch." I neatly cut my meatball in four pieces, speared one and twirled some of the sauce on it before lifting it to my mouth.

Oh, yuk! Katherine exclaimed. "I don’t think I can stand to take on King Lear or Othello. Everything in the news is so horrible that I don’t want to take on more horror. Or anti-Semitism, or the male-female interactions as in The Taming of the Shrew. I need some escape! Honestly Claire, we studied Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth and Hamlet. Isn’t that enough of the tragedies?"

Escape? I glowered. I set my fork down on my plate. I sat up straighter and fussed with my water glass so it was exactly where I wanted it. Was Katherine serious about wanting ‘escape’?

Yes, escape, Claire, Katherine shot back. I am not suggesting that we read some frivolous romance without characterizations or depth. I just don’t wish to take on one of the so-called ‘problem plays’ or plays that we know will be difficult. At least with the comedies there is a happy ending, no matter how unlikely. But I need happy endings. Is that so hard to understand? Katherine was close to being belligerent, her face flushed and her eyes sparkling. She pointed at me with her olive, impaled on a toothpick.

No, I replied, remembering all that Katherine had been through with her lovely husband Geoff dying, her swain Russ losing his wits before he succumbed, and then having to cope with breast cancer. It was all too easy to misread Katherine and think her a frivolous airhead. I knew better. For me, it was easy to become impatient with her blithe spirit and wonder why she hadn’t put that fine mind to better use. But it was her mind and her choice, I kept telling myself. I picked up my fork again. No, I said, it isn’t hard to understand. I even agree. It’s my prissy side that comes out. That side of me thinks that, if it isn’t hard, complicated, and unpleasant then the play is lacking seriousness and we shouldn’t waste our time on it.

Annie rolled her eyes, as did Katherine. Both were very aware of my prissy side. Both called me on it, which meant they were true friends. Annie suggested, "How about As You Like It? It’s a comedy, so it has a ‘happy ending’, the Forest of Arden, and it’s got strong female characters. I saw Maggie Smith at Stratford in Ontario as Rosalind many years ago, in the last century, actually, and have never forgotten it. I’ve known many male teachers who have fallen in love with Rosalind, not that that should stop us from studying it. With Cleopatra, it’s easier to understand, but Rosalind, not so much."

Doesn’t it also have female friendship? Katherine asked. Something we are well qualified to study and appreciate.

You’re right, Katherine. I had forgotten, Annie replied. Are we decided then?

No, not so fast, I declared, holding up a traffic-cop hand. I have to see what DVDs there are, and if they are any good. Because we have always used a DVD to help us understand the play in performance. I briefly consulted my iPhone. Drat, I’m not like the kids. I simply cannot eat and use the search engine at the same time. I’ll do this later on my computer.

I spotted a date on my iPhone. "I had forgotten, but As You Like It was written about the same time he wrote Hamlet. One of the scholars we read for Hamlet pointed that his writing became much better in this period. Not that he was a slouch before, but this period was the phase where the great mature masterpieces came tumbling out. That should please you, Annie, since you’re a writer. I’ll do more research before we make a final decision. If we decide on it, everyone can get the Folger edition and we can start at the first meeting. Do you think we will get any blowback from the others about the play we choose?"

No,