When Women Were Dragons(21)



When the boys were done with the visitor, we took their place in the classroom. The boys stood in line waiting to exit. Their faces were as red as lollipops, and they could not meet our eyes. One boy shuddered. Another snickered into his hands.

“That’s enough, gentlemen,” Dr. Ferguson said from his immobile stance at the front of the room. The boys calmed and started filing out.

I assumed that they, too, would be taken to the home economics classroom. I was wrong. They were taken outside. To blow off steam, Sister Saint Stephen the Martyr said, as she herded them away.

We took our places and folded our hands, as we had been taught. The visitor said nothing. He waited for our teacher to return. We knew better than to talk without invitation. Finally, Sister Saint Stephen the Martyr hustled into the room.

“Thank you for your patience,” she said to him and not to us. The man with the beard nodded gravely at her, and then inclined his eyes toward the class. “Oh yes,” our teacher said, suddenly flustered again. “Ladies. Today’s topic is feminine health. Dr. Angus Ferguson is one of the region’s foremost experts on the topic. His perspective is very special as he is both a doctor of medicine and a doctor of philosophy. This allows us to discuss both the practicalities of the subject at hand as well as the ethical considerations that all of you are about to face.”

Sister Saint Stephen the Martyr paused and cleared her throat, her hand going instinctively to her veil. She frowned and pressed forward. “I’m sure some of you have heard about . . . changes. Others of you are wondering about . . . other changes.” She stammered, flushed, and then, by sheer force of will, emptied the redness from her cheeks through the sternness of her expression. She nodded firmly as her face returned to the color of oatmeal, and all became right with the world again.

At our desks, with our hands folded, my classmates and I exchanged puzzled expressions. We weren’t invited to raise our hands. But I had questions. Confusion accumulated in the room, like exhaust in a locked garage. If there was one thing I learned from my aunt, is that stuff will kill you if you let it build up. I raised my hand, since clearly no one else was going to. Sister Saint Stephen the Martyr and the bearded guest exchanged a grim look. I raised my hand a little higher. My teacher shrugged and pointed at me.

“Yes, Alexandra,” my teacher said with grim resignation.

“It’s Alex,” I said.

She closed her eyes for a moment, and took in a long breath through flared nostrils. “Alexandra, what is it that you’d like to ask.” This should have been a question, but she said it like an accusation.

“Well,” I said. I cleared my throat. “I’ve heard that many girls start wearing . . . implements by the time they’re in fifth grade, so I’m glad we’re finally getting to—”

“That’s enough questions for now,” Sister Saint Stephen the Martyr said briskly.

“But I was just wondering which sorts of changes we will be discussing. You know, girls-growing-up sorts of changes, or . . . well . . . are we going to talk about the other kind of changes? The kind that can destroy a house. Because you see—”

“THAT IS ENOUGH OUT OF YOU.” The color in Sister Saint Stephen the Martyr’s cheeks deepened until they were scarlet. I half expected her to cross herself, but she didn’t.

“Any giggling will result in a four-day detention. Any interruptions will result in suspension. And any off-color remarks,” she cast a hard look in my direction, “will require an immediate meeting with your parents, myself, Doctor Ferguson, Mr. Alphonse and possibly even Father Anderson.” She let that sink in. “When in doubt, pull your rosaries out of your pocket and pray a decade or two, and give it all a good long think. You’ll probably find yourselves relieved that you didn’t say the very silly thought in your head out loud. Be sure to thank the Blessed Mother for yet again preventing you from looking like a fool in front of everyone. And now, Doctor? You have the floor.” She gestured to the podium as she flowed imperiously to the back of the classroom.

The next fifty minutes were a bit of a blur. I still have my notebook from that day, and all my notes. Even then, I was an excellent student. Even then, I took excellent dictation.

We learned quite a bit about pollination. “You see how this relates, obviously,” the good doctor said. We didn’t.

We learned about the process of seed germination. We learned the purpose of a flower in the life cycle of a plant. We learned about a blossom’s private, intricate parts: the brave stamen, whose filaments stood at attention like soldiers; and the dark world of the pistil, the sticky, seductive opening of which was called the stigma, which, to my fifth-grade ears, felt like a term that was a bit on the nose, to be honest. We learned about metamorphosis in nature—from tadpoles to frogs, and from leptocephali to eels, and from larvae to ladybugs, and from caterpillars to butterflies. He showed us pictures of skeletons from across the animal kingdom and complex diagrams of the endocrine network and a single image of the female reproductive system. I thought about the cover of the booklet, still hidden in my closet, showing a uterus and ovaries superimposed on the face of a dragon. I still hadn’t read it. I wasn’t sure if I ever would.

The doctor closed his eyes for a moment. He held up his hand. I learned much later that in 1955, he, too, came home to a dragon-destroyed house. I also learned that there had been a message burned into his front door, left for all to see. It said I CONSIDERED EATING YOU, BUT I COULDN’T RISK THE INDIGESTION. THANKS FOR NOTHING. Everyone pretended they didn’t notice it. The whole neighborhood averted their eyes. But everyone saw.

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