Brad Watson - Miss Jane

“My friend in Baltimore sent me this pamphlet. It’s part of their stock-in-trade, see. It explains — graphically and in detail — how it is that a man and a woman come to be with child,” he said. “I know you’ve seen things,” he murmured, almost to himself. “But. In any case, if you’ll pay particular attention to page three, the inside-view illustration there of the usual female anatomy. As I said before, while you were growing inside your mother, becoming who you are, something happened to alter or change the normal process of this development. Or more likely stopped the development before you were fully formed. But now, after you have read this and seen the illustration he’s made and put in here — after talking to me and to that Dr. Davis in Memphis — you will understand what I mean when I say that, in your case, conceiving a child and carrying it to term would be extremely unlikely without major surgical repair or alterations, and as I said, I believe that will be possible one day but there is just no way to say when. And if you, as you are now, were able to engage in intercourse or sexual relations — do what you’ve seen your sister and, ah, the others do — it wouldn’t be the same as it is with people who have what’s considered the ‘normal’ anatomical makeup. I’ve said that you are a normal girl, and you are. But inside you down there, because you stopped developing before everything was finished, and maybe some wires got crossed in the process — that is where you’re not ‘normal.’ I’m afraid that if the Key boy were to marry you, on your wedding night — I’m afraid he might feel confused and unsettled. He might even believe he had been betrayed. There is nothing in this world that saddens me more than to have to tell you this straight-out. But it simply is not right to get into a serious relationship with someone without everyone knowing the facts. Or at least enough of them.”

The doctor paused.

“You see the slip of paper there in the back of the pamphlet.”

“Yes.”

“You can look at that and compare it to the illustration in the pamphlet, which is a drawing of the interior female anatomy without any sort of complications.”

In the margin of the pamphlet on that page he had drawn an arrow and written, This is where one has access to the part inside that allows a child to be conceived . And there was another arrow pointing to the drawing of the male parts, without additional words, as if to say, This is self-evident, no?

“You can see the obvious and extensive difference if you look here”—and he pointed to the pamphlet graphic—“and then here”—and he pointed to the handmade drawing. It looked to have been traced from some professional document. Looking from the one to the other, the printed drawing in the pamphlet and the drawing on the slip of paper, she felt a cold heaviness flood into her heart. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t known it anyway, on some level. But she had never really been able to imagine the details. Seeing it there, laid out so plainly, was a form or level of confrontation with the reality of her self that she had essentially avoided — just by being herself, she supposed. She dropped her hand holding the drawing and pamphlet to her side, fought back useless tears. There was no sense in being upset over what just couldn’t be. Or at least no sense in making a scene over it in front of anyone else.

He held out his long, big-knuckled hand and took hold of hers. She tried to withdraw it but he held on.

“I may have overstepped my rights,” he said.

“Did you tell him all this?” she said, butting in. “Did you show him this ?”

“Heavens, no, child. No. I did talk to him. I kept it private, just him and me. I said nothing more than that it was not likely you could ever conceive a child. And that for the sake of both of you, you ought to take that into consideration. I beg your forgiveness if I have gone too far. But I thought it might be easier on you for me to tell him that. And only that.”

She held his gaze and said, deliberately, “What if I just told him right-out, told him everything, and see what he says?”

“Do you think he would be able to understand, Janie?”

She couldn’t answer that, and fought to control her emotions. She knew the answer to the question.

“What they call your condition is printed there, you see. There are variables — not every case is exactly the same, so this is what I guess you might call a generalization. But the variations are generally not great. And from what Dr. Davis saw during his examination in Memphis, and from what I can tell, myself, I think it’s pretty accurate.”

She said nothing, trying to control her emotions.

“You are starving yourself,” he said. “And dehydrated. I’ve heard of young women dying of such measures, for whatever their reasons.”

“Well,” she said. “That won’t happen. I’m fine.”

Then, when he still stood there, she said, “I understand, Dr. Thompson.”

He left her there and walked back to their house. She saw him reach the porch and speak for a little while to her parents, who said nothing. She saw her father nod and say something. Then the doctor got into his car and drove off.

When Jane approached the gallery her father got up and walked past her without saying anything. Her mother, when Jane met her gaze, gave a small, grim-faced nod of approval. Jane went past her and on into her room. She sat on her bed, set down the pamphlet, looked again at the drawing. Read the words she’d never seen or heard before printed there, defining her: Urogenital sinus anomaly. Persistent cloaca . They made no sense.

He should have let me tell him , she thought, anger welling up. Then she realized the truth of the matter. She wouldn’t have known how to do it. She would have had to just turn her back on him. And she didn’t know how she could have done that.

Dear Ellis,

Thank you for sending me those materials, although it was painful to use them. She took it hard. Maybe harder than I’d even expected. I’d fooled myself into thinking she had not indulged in some illogical youthful optimism.

It was impossible to tell just what went through the parents’ minds as I was telling them what I told the girl. Essentially. Seriously if I were a card player I would want Chisolm’s deadpan visage. Not as if he doesn’t wear his hardships in that expression that is somehow not hard but enduring. Like the surface of some hard-traveled rutted clay road. As if made for that. The wife shows more, albeit not without some amount of the inscrutable.

Not as if the whole thing isn’t something these folks hardly ever talk about. Not comfortably, anyway. Country folks being the kind who kindly turn away, out of discretion and courtesy as much as helplessness.

If any consolation’s to be had from this it is possibly that young Jane will stop starving herself to death, and suffering dehydration, in some kind of last-century version of lovesickness. She looks almost like those consumptive maidens my father would talk about sometimes, wooing young gentlemen with their darkened eyes full of death. Visibly becoming ghosts of themselves until the ghost is given up.

I wished I’d thought to hint at the possibility of a fresh bit of corn whiskey from the man before leaving. Would have felt awkward, though. Barely had the heart to look them in the eye after I said what I had to say. Nor did he have the heart to look at me. Mrs. did. Like some bitter, deposed old queen thinking to kill the messenger.

Ed

ONE DAY SOON after that, Jane took her solitary walk in the woods and went down to sit in her favorite little meadow, shaded on one side. It was her private place. The shaded grass was cool on the soles of her bare feet. She heard something and looked up to see Elijah Key standing only a few yards away, seeming a little abashed at having followed her there. She thought he must have been watching the house. She was startled, but when she saw it was him, she breathed again. Then another moment of alarm until she realized she was clean, not having thought about it on her way out. Then she burned with the knowledge of why he was there. He moved closer, hands shoved into the pockets of his overalls.