When Women Were Dragons(49)

My skin felt hot. Even though I thought that the general aversion to dragons was stupid. It was just a thing that happened. There was no reason to get embarrassed about it. Still. I didn’t like looking at it. I didn’t like the attention that Beatrice had given it. It was too embarrassing. Too female. I felt ashamed in ways that I couldn’t explain. It was as though she had drawn pictures of naked breasts. Or soiled sanitary napkins. “I drew that,” she said cheerfully.

“I figured,” I said. My voice rasped, and my mouth was dry. I closed my eyes for a second, to shut the image away.

“And Ralphie made a rude noise and Inez started to cry and Sister Claire made me stand in the corner.”

I took this in. “I see,” I said.

I turned the page. There was a picture of a dragon riding on top of a school bus.

I turned the page. There was a picture of a dragon at a picnic in the forest.

I turned the page. There was a picture of a dragon on a stage wearing a tutu.

I turned the page. There was a picture of a dragon in a cage at the zoo.

“Do you want to see my favorite one?” Beatrice said. I was mystified. How could she have no discomfort? It was all I could do to keep myself from running out of the room.

“No, thank you,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Beatrice frowned. She put her hand on my cheek and crinkled her eyebrows in concern. “Alex?” she said. “I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

I tilted my head back, examining the ceiling, trying to clear my head. “Do you know why these pictures were taken away from you?”

She raised her hands to her shoulders, palms up and tilted forward. “My teacher says they’re not appropriate,” she said matter-of-factly. I watched as she started to force her face into a fa?ade of meekness. She looked at the ground and folded her hands, though I noticed her eyes occasionally flicking upward as though checking my response. I guessed that this was exactly how she behaved at school. No wonder she was in trouble.

“Do you know what that means?” I clarified. “Do you know what not appropriate means?”

“No?” she said with a hopeful smile.

“Oh, really,” I said drily.

She slumped in her chair and folded her arms. She did too know what not appropriate meant. Beatrice was smart. So why was she being intentionally obtuse?

I turned the page. A dragon fixing a car.

A dragon on the beach.

A dragon holding hands with a line of children, heading down the road.

A dragon sleeping in a regular bed.

A dragon eating soup.

“Did Sister Claire punish you every time?”

“Most times,” she said. “She’d make me go in the corner, or she would make me write lines, or she would say she was going to call Daddy.”

“Did she call Dad?”

“I dunno.” Beatrice turned her head toward the wall, as though there was a window. Instead, Mr. Alphonse had an anti-Communist poster showing men engaging in fisticuffs with Soviet officers as flames rose up behind them, with the words BETTER DEAD THAN RED emblazoned above. Mr. Alphonse saw most things as possible Communist threats. Perhaps even Beatrice’s drawings.

And I was about to comfort her. And I was about to kneel down in front of her and take her hands and tell her that everything was going to be just fine. And I was about to lean over conspiratorially and make fun of Mr. Alphonse and laugh and laugh.

Instead I turned the page.

And instead of a picture, it was a page full of text. The next ten pages were simply full of text. Different styles of handwriting and lettering. Different colors. Different sizes. The same words.



I am a dragon. I AM A DRAGON.

I am a dragon.



I Am a Dragon. I am a dragon. I AM A DRAGON.



A Dragon. A Dragon. A DRAGON.



My head swam. My face grew hot. I felt pinpricks on my skin and a line of sweat going down my spine. Even the room started to contract a bit. I sank to the ground, feeling profoundly dizzy. I braced myself, holding on to the seat of my chair with one hand and Mr. Alphonse’s desk with the other. I tried to breathe, but it was difficult.

“Alex?” she said, her voice very small. “Alex, what’s wrong?”

Now, of course, I know that what I was experiencing was a panic attack. I had no such language then, no such context. All I knew was that my heart pounded and the room constricted around us and my breathing became labored and strange. The papers on my lap felt unreasonably heavy, and my chest felt as though it had been transformed into lead. All I knew was that the words on that page—and worse, the wish inside those words—was dangerous. I swallowed hard and tried my best to keep from throwing up. I turned the stack of paper over and slammed onto the desk with my fist.

Beatrice jumped. And then she held herself terribly still. She had never been afraid of me. Never before this moment. But now she was. I could see that fear, harsh and livid, pressed into her face. I couldn’t take this moment away. Another Before and After.

I remembered my aunt looping her arm around my mother’s waist when she first came home from the hospital, gently guiding her to her room. I remembered my aunt fussing over her, and feeding her. Rubbing her skin. Caring for her every moment. And yet. She couldn’t be bothered to stay. She left her body and left her life and left. And then my mother was alone. And then my mother died. And now we were alone.