Vox(25)

I feel like Cartman in that South Park movie, the one where he gets a chip implanted in his head that shocks him every time he says “fuck,” which, because it’s South Park, is effectively all the time.

“The second requires a bit more action on your part.” He taps the red button at the side of the band. “Once a day, at a time of your choosing, you will press this button and speak into the bracelet. There’s a microphone here.” He points to the other side, opposite the red button. “We’re hoping this practice will help get people—”

“Women,” I interrupt.

“Yes. Women. We’re hoping it will help put you in the mood, understand the fundamentals.”

“How?”

From his breast pocket he removes a folded sheet of paper and smooths it out. It’s a typed list. “You’ll read this, once a day, into the microphone. Press the red button twice before you start, and twice when you’ve finished. It won’t count against your quota.”

“What won’t count?” My mouth has gone dry. I take another swallow of coffee, now cold.

He hands me the sheet. “Why don’t you read it now while I train the device to your voice? We’ll kill two birds with one stone that way.”

The first words I read are in bold blue type at the top of the page:

I BELIEVE that man was created in the image and glory of God, and that woman is the glory of the man, for man was not made of woman, but woman was made from man.

“I can’t read this,” I say.

Reverend Carl checks his watch. “Dr. McClellan, I have a meeting downtown in an hour. If we can’t finish this, I’ll have to call someone who can.”

I’m picturing Thomas of the dark suit and dark complexion and even darker eyes, the one who took my counter off yesterday morning. The man I saw once before, a year ago, when men first came for us.

On the day I announced our team’s progress to a packed seminar room, two dozen uniformed men, their left arms banded with the presidential seal, midnight black weapons in their right hands, pushed through the crowd. My projector dimmed in the time it took me to catch a breath. Behind me, only ghosts of my formulas remained on the white scrim.

It had begun, the terrible, unthinkable thing Patrick had warned me about only days earlier.

They separated our crowd, sending the men away, lining the rest of us up and leading fifty students and faculty women, some tenured, some new, through empty hallways. Lin was the first to voice her resistance.

Thomas was on her like a cougar after prey, that midnight black torture stick of his now pointing menacingly at Lin Kwan’s petite frame.

I watched her fold and bend and collapse on herself, wordlessly, only the thread of a pained sigh, high-pitched and taut, coming from her lips. Five of us ran to the crumpled mass of woman on the tile floor, only to be beaten off. Those who lingered were also tased or stunned. Like misbehaving animals. Cows. Pets.

None of this happened without a fight, is what I’m saying.

“Dr. McClellan?” Reverend Carl has his phone out now, one long finger poised over the green Send button, ready to tap and summon a man who is short on charm and long on persuasive techniques.

“Fine. I’ll read it,” I say, thinking I can speak these horrible words without letting them invade me.

So I begin.

By the time I’m halfway down the page, Patrick’s skin has blanched to a paste color. Reverend Carl nods each time I speak one of the beliefs or affirmations or declarations of intent into the black bracelet.

“We are called as women to keep silence and to be under obedience. If we must learn, let us ask our husbands in the closeness of the home, for it is shameful that a woman question God-ordained male leadership.”

Nod.

“When we obey male leadership with humility and submission, we acknowledge that the head of every man is Christ, and that the head of every woman is the man.”

Nod.

“God’s plan for woman, whether married or single, is that she adorn herself with shamefacedness and sobriety, and that she exhibit modesty and femininity without fanciful or proud displays.”

Nod.

“I will seek to adorn myself inwardly, and to be pure, modest, and submissive. In this way, I will glorify man, thereby glorifying God.”

Nod.

“I will honor the sanctity of marriage, both mine and that of others, for God will judge adulterers with vengeance.”

Nod.

I hope Patrick interprets the break in my voice at this as a sign of discomfort.

Reverend Carl nods once more, when I’m finished with the page, and taps the red button twice. “Well done, Mrs. McClellan.” There’s an emphasis on “Mrs.” “Patrick, will you do the honors?”

Patrick shifts and sets his still-full coffee cup on the end table, spilling it. Then he takes the black thing from Reverend Carl’s hand, encircles my left wrist with it, and snaps it closed.

So this is how I lose my voice for the second time. With a click that sounds like a bomb.





NINETEEN




I think I’ve developed superhuman hearing.

This afternoon, as I wait for Sonia’s bus to snake along the lane toward our bungalow, I hear every sound. Not the sounds I used to hear: not the CNN reporters droning politics from the mini-television in the kitchen; not John, Paul, George, and Ringo telling me through the stereo speakers they want to hold my hand; not my own voice singing—badly, I’ll admit—along. I hear the wet slap of the dough as I knead it into submission, the deafening hum of the refrigerator, the high-frequency whine of Patrick’s computer through the locked door of his study. I hear my own heartbeat, steady, incessant.