When Women Were Dragons(44)
From his prison cell, Mr. Wyatt wrote another epic poem about a brave engineer who singlehandedly attempted to quell the beastly nature lurking inside girls and mold them into what Christendom requires—that they be chaste, industrious, obedient, and good. And despite his tireless efforts, monstrous Nature prevailed. His poem acquired few readers and delighted no critics. After all, one newspaper quipped, “the ravings of a debtor are as empty as his purse, and, with neither purchase nor relevance, are easily forgotten.” Mr. Wyatt died in prison. He was buried under a simple wooden cross, but this was burned to ashes by an unknown assailant, several months later.
—“A Brief History of Dragons” by Professor H. N. Gantz, MD, PhD
20.
How do I explain the next two years? Honestly, it’s hard to remember all of it. Or even most of it. When I try, all I can see is a whirlwind of laundry and textbooks and dishes and lists and letters and breathless worry. I took care of Beatrice. I read her stories at night. I washed her clothes and drew her baths and ironed her sheets and brushed her hair. I took her temperature and gave her medicine and worried over her when she was sick. I kept her in school. I made her flash cards and checked her homework and taught her how to study for spelling tests. I learned to cook and kept her fed. I kept her safe. She was my first and last thought, and most of my thoughts in between, every single day.
Beatrice was my whole world.
I made sure that she arrived at school each day, clean and braided and with her clothes mended and pressed and unstained, her shoes wiped and buffed, and absolutely on time. My father made it clear that I wasn’t to draw attention to our unusual living situation. He didn’t want anyone asking questions or snooping around. I put up curtains and never played the radio too loud. I trained Beatrice to keep her voice low and not disturb the neighbors. I studied constantly, often staying up well past midnight after Beatrice was asleep. I crammed for exams while cleaning clothes at the laundromat. I took extra classes via correspondence through the university, thanks to an extension program at the library, which allowed me to amass college credits while I was still in high school.
Because I didn’t care what my father said. I was going to college, no matter what. And beyond that too. The more I dove into mathematics and chemistry and physics, the more I became more than myself. The more the world became more than itself. For me, at this time, learning felt like food—and I was starving for it.
The head librarian and my mother’s former friend, Mrs. Gyzinska, had taken a special interest in me, and had convinced me to sign up for the university correspondence program, and to stick with it, which gave me the opportunity to study advanced mathematics and history and physics on my own at the library, with professors at the university guiding my progress through the mail. She told me often that she had high hopes for my future, which gave me high hopes for my future, in spite of myself. She showed me pictures of universities around the world, and handed me literature on scholarships and special programs. Mrs. Gyzinska proctored my tests and provided me with recorded lectures on 35mm film in the audiovisual room and made sure I had all the materials I needed for each class on hand in the reference section.
My father made an arrangement with the local grocer to leave a box of food and sundries in the lobby of our building every Saturday morning before breakfast. He told the grocer it was part of a philanthropic effort on his part, because we were a “charity case.” He knew if I went to the market too often by myself, people would start to wonder at it, and ask questions, and sometimes those questions would be directed at him, and that would make him uncomfortable. I didn’t mind. It was one thing taken off my endless list of tasks, which meant I had an extra hour each week to study.
It’s remarkable how quickly a person can get used to an impossible situation. How terror and panic can start to feel familiar, even ordinary. My father called each Sunday at nine o’clock. He told me not to go running after boys because no one can love a fast girl. I wasn’t remotely interested in boys, so this wasn’t a problem. He told me to make sure I took the classes on shorthand and dictation so I could be gainfully employed after high school. He told me to make sure I was still a good girl so he could stay proud of me. He said nothing besides a brief hello to Beatrice. Beatrice didn’t seem to mind. There were other children in our building, and epic games of Kick-the-Can in the alley, and in the end, talking to a grown-up you can barely remember gets boring after a while. She tore down the hallway at a run.
She ran wild, my Beatrice. I didn’t see the point of trying to contain her. She ran faster, climbed higher, and yelled louder than anyone else in the neighborhood. She was also helpful, hardworking, and kind, and always had excellent report cards. I assumed I had nothing to worry about.
Which is why I was surprised that two weeks before the start of my senior year of high school, I found myself, once again, summoned to the principal’s office, this time for Beatrice’s apparent wrongdoing. I had no idea what Beatrice had done, but given that we were called in before school had even started, I knew it was going to be big.
“Maybe you should just tell me what you did before we head over,” I said, reading through Mr. Alphonse’s letter for the fifth time. “Just so we can start coordinating our stories now.”
Beatrice shook her head and held up her empty hands. “Alex, I have no idea. Really I don’t.” I wasn’t sure that was true. She gulped her milk and made a face as a bit dribbled down her chin, which meant it had turned again. I dumped her glass and made a mental note to pick up milk from the market on the way back. I wondered if the grocer was giving us expired food on purpose and pocketing the difference. I also wondered if he did so at my father’s request because he wanted to spend less money on our upkeep. Both seemed plausible.