Mercy Street(22)

It happened in a single afternoon that fell, in 1983, on the first warm day of spring. In Maine, it is a holiday of sorts: the hats and gloves packed away, the Bean parkas moved to the back of the closet. These are the rituals of a primitive people blessing the return of the sun. At Clayburn Middle School, the sixth-grade boys whooped it up during an extended recess. The girls, meanwhile, were trapped indoors, sequestered in the cafeteria for a Very Special Presentation by a sales rep for the Modess corporation, an ebullient young woman whose entire job was to drive back and forth across New England showing schoolgirls a filmstrip about menstruation. After the movie, she handed out sample packs of Modess sanitary napkins. At age eleven, the girls had no possible use for these items; in 1983, synthetic hormones had not yet reached alarming concentrations in the American food supply, and puberty was still a ways away. Still, most were poor enough that getting something—anything—for free was worth crowing about.

The sales rep showed them how to wrap a used napkin in toilet paper and dispose of it properly. Through the open window they heard the crack of ball against bat, boys cheering and shouting. Someone had scored a run.

Along with the napkins they were given a booklet printed on heavy paper, with a title in curlicue script: Growing Up and Liking It. It looked like a child’s storybook, and in a way it was. The main character was a girl named Patty, whose family had moved to a new city and who kept in touch with her old friends, Beth and Ginny, by writing letters (a quaint notion, even in 1983). The girls swapped news about school and boys, but mostly about getting their periods and using Modess products. They discussed the mysterious requirements of “heavy flow days” and “light flow days,” and whether you could wash your hair or shower during your period.

Who would even ask such a question? Why would anyone think you couldn’t? Even Claudia knew better, and she knew almost nothing. Her information about sex came mainly from Justine, who knew as little as she did, but with greater certainty. From the moment Justine got her period, Claudia wanted one desperately. This was Justine’s superpower. She could make anything—even bleeding from the crack—seem glamorous.

Of course, none of that had anything to do with sex. For that, Claudia turned to television. Vague references to the act—what Bob Eubanks, the toothy host of The Newlywed Game, called making whoopee—were everywhere, but actual information was rare. At least once per episode of The Love Boat, a make-out scene would cut to a close-up of the DO NOT DISTURB sign being placed on the cabin door.

What happened after the door was closed? Answers were elusive. Her mother, naturally, was no help. If forced to speak of certain body parts—for instance, when toilet-training a foster—Deb resorted to euphemism. A girl’s private area was called her princess. This caused a comical confusion in the summer of 1981, when Deb, who loved weddings, woke the whole family at dawn to watch the British royals get married. When Prince Charles made Lady Diana Spencer his princess, the fosters couldn’t control themselves. Their giggling could not be contained.

Her mother loved weddings.

Given the quality of her education, Claudia has done reasonably well in life. Given the quality of her education, she should have ten unwanted children and be riddled with syphilis.

Her afternoon with the Modess rep did nothing to enlighten her, and yet, for some reason, she’d needed a parent’s permission to attend the session. Deb had signed the form without comment. They’d never had a conversation about sex and never would. The following year, when Claudia started bleeding, she saw no reason to mention it. She simply swiped a maxi pad from the box under the sink.

NAOMI AND CLAUDIA WERE WORKING THE HOTLINE.

The caller gave her name, Brittany, and asked how Claudia’s day was going. Never underestimate the politeness of mannerly young women! Even those who’d been date-raped or infected with chlamydia were happy to observe the conventions, reflexively eager to please.

Brittany sounded anxious. Four days earlier, she’d had unprotected sex. She was scared to death she might be pregnant.

“It just happened,” she said—apologetically, as though she had wronged Claudia personally. “It was all my fault.”

Over the years, Claudia had heard the same words from teenagers and middle-aged women; from nurses and teachers, cops and soldiers; sex workers and rape victims and survivors of incest. It was a lesson they’d been taught from birth, swallowed and digested: at all times, in all circumstances, the woman was to blame. Claudia resisted the urge to correct them. If you’re pregnant, you had help.

Brittany said, “What can I do?”

It was a simple question with a confusing answer. Most pharmacies in Massachusetts dispensed emergency contraception without a prescription. The morning-after pill could be taken within five days of unprotected sex, but its effectiveness diminished with each passing day. To complicate matters, it was less effective in overweight women. Explaining this to a caller was delicate.

“This is a little personal,” Claudia said, “but how much do you weigh?”

Silence on the line. Of all the prying questions she asked the callers (Does it burn when you urinate? Is the lesion red, or crusted over? Is your husband circumcised?), this one incited the most outrage. She’d been called a nosy bitch, a body Nazi. Occasionally a caller hung up in disgust, but no one ever said I don’t know. Claudia had yet to encounter a woman who didn’t know her own body weight. (Her mother—a woman who could polish off a can of buttercream frosting in a single sitting—had known her weight to the ounce.)