When Women Were Dragons(53)
The army informed me that my findings were classified, and that my materials would be confiscated. The only reason I retained any records at all is because of my lifelong habit of always having two sets of notes and exact copies of everything—and the men who ransacked my workspace didn’t check everywhere. Both the National Institutes of Health and my university cast a dim view on my research on dragoning and encouraged me to drop it in favor of more important—and less embarrassing—pursuits. The WRC forbade me from attempting to disseminate my findings, claiming it would put the collective at risk. But I disagreed. My research demonstrated that dragonings were far more common than people thought—and that they were increasing. I published Some Basic Facts About Dragoning later that year. I sent it to every medical school in this country and throughout Europe. It was banned and censored almost instantly.
I could not have known what was in store for this country, nor could I have known what we were heading toward in 1955. I do know that our only hope, our only way through this and any other calamity, is a faithful return to questioning, testing, observing, and drawing conclusions. We must be servants to the data and helpmeets to the facts. Science, I truly believe, is humanity’s only hope, and it is in science, today and always, that I will put my trust.
—“A Brief History of Dragons” by Professor H. N. Gantz, MD, PhD
22.
School began with its litany of indignities.
One more year, I told myself, but my breath caught at the thought of it. I was speeding headlong to the edge of a cliff, with no concept of what was awaiting me when I got there. A bridge? A ladder? A series of ropes and pickaxes? The void of space? Certain doom? Or maybe even a pair of wings . . .
I shook the notion away. Worry wouldn’t get the dishes done, as my mother used to say. And it certainly wasn’t going to help us make it through the year.
On that first day, I walked Beatrice to school. She had complained that she was old enough to do it herself, but I insisted, and still she held my hand the whole way, just as she always did, as I balanced and guided my bicycle with my other hand. Mr. Alphonse met us on the front steps of Saint Agnes, his arms rigidly folded across his chest, his face strangely puffy and bloated. Beatrice, in honor of the first day of school, was so clean she practically glowed in the dark. I had soaked her blouse and bobby socks in borax and bleach and hung them in the sun to dry. I had used men’s pomade to keep her crinkles and curls in check, and a fine-toothed comb to attack the snarls, and corralled her hair into two tight French braids, wound so close to her skull that the skin of her scalp announced itself in harsh relief. No one was going to accuse me of neglecting Beatrice’s appearance or letting anything slide. No one would have any reason to look too closely at our strange living arrangement—no grown-ups, no guidance, no extra pair of hands. Our own little universe. It was best that no one knew.
As we approached the building, Beatrice let go of my hand and skipped around the corner and up the walkway, thrilled as always to see her friends and teachers. She skidded to a halt when she saw Mr. Alphonse. I had been expecting this, however, and I was ready. I put my hand on Beatrice’s shoulder and stepped between my sister and the principal. I took an envelope out of my pocket. I turned to face Beatrice and winked so only she could see.
“Now Beatrice,” I said sternly. “I expect you to go straight to Sister Claire and hand her this letter of apology.” I held my hand up as though she was about to protest. “No complaints!” I gave her another secret wink. “Now, scoot!”
Beatrice took the envelope—which, truth be told, actually did contain a letter of apology, written under duress and with me looming over her shoulder, the day after our meeting at the school—and scampered up the stairs, taking care not to make eye contact with her principal, her relief at not having to talk to him radiating from her body in waves. She disappeared through the open doors. I looked up at Mr. Alphonse, my body matching his stance and arms and jutted chin—only because I knew it would bother him. His forehead creased. I gave him what I hoped was a winning smile.
“Beatrice has written a heartfelt apology, of her own volition in an earnest desire to put the past behind her and make amends,” I said. “You were right, Mr. Alphonse, and you deserve my thanks for bringing the issue to my attention. My father thanks you too, and says so constantly.” I had practiced this, obviously. “It’s a new year, and a new start. I’m glad we both agree.”
Mr. Alphonse looked terrible. He had dark circles under his eyes and his skin, while still blotchy, was generally the color of oatmeal. His dress pants sagged even as his belly loomed over his belt. I wondered if he was ill. He frowned and took a step toward me.
I checked my watch. “If you’ll excuse me, I would rather not be late for my first day of school.” I turned, secured my book bag, and mounted my bike.
“I insist that your father return my phone calls and appear in my office,” he said. “It is most—”
“Happy first day of school, Mr. Alphonse!” I said as I pedaled away.
“We are not done here, Miss Green!”
We’ll see, I thought to myself, noticing with a start that my voice inside my head sounded more and more like my mother’s voice every single day.
I arrived at school early enough to go straight to the girls’ bathroom, and I sat in a stall for about ten minutes, my bottom perched on the edge of the toilet, my forehead resting on my knees, choking on the cloud of hairspray left by the other girls before me. I breathed in and out, bracing my hands on each wall—not exactly enjoying this one moment of solitude and quiet, but certainly appreciating it. I sighed, stood, dabbed the sweat off my face and armpits with a wad of toilet paper, changed into my uniform, and switched out of my sneakers into my flats. I paused, just breathed for a minute, trying to steady myself. I could hear kids hollering and laughing outside.