On Home Read online

  Owen looked at his hands resting on the table, ashamed.

  “I meant it,” Owen said. “I meant everything I said. I’ve never met a girl like you. Even Mary—”

  “Mary who? What’s her name?” Jane demanded. What poor girl had she done this to?

  She knew, somehow. There couldn’t have been a more common name. There must be a thousand Marys of marrying age in Washington. But somehow, Jane knew.

  “Sintsink,” Owen said. “Mary Sintsink. Our families are good friends back home. They were vying for years for us to—”

  Jane thought back to her first day with the FBI and the mousy, friendly woman who had rescued her in the busy Department of Justice building. She had been so sweet—so unbearably, unconscionably kind.

  “Give Mary my regards,” Jane said, leaving Owen at the table and storming up the stairs. It was quiet in the kitchen for a few minutes and then, from her room, Jane heard the sounds of a chair scraping the floor, keys jangling, and the front door opening and closing.

  She would go back to being the picture-perfect FBI girl. There would be no more men for her, no more fooling around.

  Ding was in their room, studying her new Cadet Nurse manual. “No picnic?” she asked.

  “Not unless we wanted to run into his fiancée.” Jane sat next to Ding, hanging her head.

  “Oooh, I’m going to give it to that fathead.”

  “Don’t bother. I’m such a schnook.”

  “You are not,” Ding said, leaning her head on Jane’s shoulder. “It’s different here than in Buckhannon. It’s different when you don’t know everyone and their business. You wouldn’t have gotten snookered into this at home.”

  “There aren’t men like him at home either.”

  Jane squeezed her eyes shut. “Would you like me to paint your nails?” She opened her eyes to see an aide sitting across from her, holding a plastic caddy of polish, clippers, and files. Jane looked at her fingers. She’d painted them this morning, in preparation for the picnic. But her nails were unpolished, their ends uneven. She reached up to touch her hair and found it thin, uncurled. She looked up at the woman with confusion.

  “How about pink?” The aide held up a small bottle and shook it so the ball inside rattled. “Or do you want to do green? Go really wild.”

  “No, no.” Jane wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Pink is fine.”

  Cassidy

  Downtown, the flower boxes on the corners, which in summer burst with reds and whites and purples, were bare, and Cassidy felt just as stripped of color. However much men’s appreciation made her bloom, actual physical touch from a man, she had confirmed, did the opposite.

  Simon, on the other hand, could barely contain the glow from behind his beard. He held Cassidy’s hand tightly on the center console and she gritted her teeth to stop herself from pulling it away.

  “There’s a protest downtown,” Simon said. “Against an anti-trans bathroom bill the city council’s discussing.”

  “Sure, I’ll go,” Cassidy said, though Simon hadn’t asked. She was desperate to get out of the car. Her clothes seemed to cling to her body in all the places Simon had touched, as if his fingers had made her sticky. She itched all over. They parked and walked to the courthouse.

  “We are here to demand that Buckhannon be an inclusive, welcoming space for people of all genders,” a waifish young woman said, her voice booming through a megaphone almost as big as she was. The small crowd—a few college students, a few professors, and a dozen or so other community members—cheered.

  The woman’s front teeth were rotting and the edge of a stick-and-poke tattoo peeked out of her sleeve.

  “Faggots!” called a gangly kid as he drove by in a rusty truck, FARM USE spray-painted on its side. Cassidy was drawn instantly back to high school. She could hear the same word mumbled from the mouths of the jocks as she and Simon walked by their table. The offenders never looked up when they said it, just hunched over their yellow trays of rectangular pizza so that all Cassidy saw was a row of blue-and-white varsity jackets, like something out of a bad teen movie. The rednecks were bolder. When they yelled “faggot” and “dyke,” they swiveled to reveal the fronts of their camo vests and squeaked their Red Wing boots on the tile floor, leaving black scuff marks.

  Cassidy thought of the waitress, of Michael McCoy. There were so many ways to be cruel, and her classmates had mined the depths of them.

  Everything in Buckhannon was a caricature of itself. People said “seen” instead of “saw.” They walked around with snaggleteeth and heroin scabs, and the worst of it was that they thought this was normal. They thought Cassidy was the weird one, that there was something wrong with her. How could Cassidy live in a cartoon? But her dad hadn’t been a cartoon. Grandma Jane wasn’t a cartoon. Simon wasn’t a cartoon.

  She took a deep breath. It was all symptoms of poverty. People here were oppressed, too. Being ignorant dickheads wasn’t entirely their fault. But the competing truths made her dizzy.

  “Hey, can you take me home?” Cassidy asked.

  “Oh.” Simon looked confused. “Sure.” They hurried back to the truck and Simon drove toward the farm while Cassidy kept her hands in her hoodie pockets and stared out the window.

  Her dad had given her all these ideas—don’t swerve, don’t leave extra work for people—and look how that had turned out for him. Look how it was turning out for Cassidy. She wondered, for the first time—Were her daddy’s ideas just ideas? Had he been full of shit? He’d tried so hard to love this place that she’d convinced herself she should, too, but the town was as cruel as it had ever been.

  Her dad was gone. Without Noeli there, making it feel more like a vacation, she felt it more acutely. She was barely speaking to her mom. Grandma Jane was in a nursing home. She’d made things weird with Simon. She was alone. Traversing the long gravel path felt symbolic. She was trekking into the depths of herself, journeying deeper into the wilderness.

  The untreated wood of the house was wet at the bottom, discolored. This would be her responsibility. Another fucking idea that didn’t work in practice. Ken was so insistent about his principles and now, she realized, she was stuck with it all.

  Cassidy knew she should kiss Simon goodbye before hopping out of the truck, but she couldn’t bring herself to lean close enough to smell the nutty coffee aroma that hung around his beard again. Instead she said goodbye with a quick wave and tried not to notice Simon’s bewildered face as she turned around to close the front door. She stood behind it, head leaning against the wooden panels, and listened to him drive away.

  Jane

  “Let’s get you a fresh panty liner. Lift your bottom for me, honey.” The nurse pulled down Jane’s sweatpants and underwear, another of the indignities of this place, as if the incontinence of old age weren’t horrid enough. She thought back to Washington, to the mortification of buying feminine hygiene products as a young woman, and to what had come of it.

  A pile of Series E bonds had lain on the night table, fanned at precisely the right angle to reveal, in triplicate, Jefferson’s disapproving face. Jane had flipped the bonds facedown before tying the bow of her red rain bonnet under her chin, securing the hood over her curlers, and setting out for the bus stop.

  She would focus on her work, as she had every morning for the last week. She would put all her money, whatever wasn’t absolutely necessary, into war bonds. Her feet slipped in her stacked-heel Oxfords, and she cursed herself for not having listened to Ding when she’d declared heels “impossible” for working girls. The bus, of course, was late. Raindrops plopped like gravy all around.

  In the powder room, Jane vied for space in front of the mirror. The girls were crowded in, rain bonnets strewn across the chairs, removing their curlers.

  “Oh!” Erma cried dramatically. “My female pain is just horrible.”

  The voices faded to the back of Jane
’s awareness. Female pain. Jane willed herself not to look, again, at the sanitary belt and pad in her pocketbook. At the drugstore two days prior, she had lingered by the boxes of Tampax. It would be more convenient, she thought, now that she needn’t worry about the consequences of wearing something . . . internally. But the thought of placing the box beside the register, a clerk studying her conspicuously naked ring finger, mortified her.

  She should have bought the Tampax. The universe was playing a cruel joke on her. She had forgone the convenience of tampons, embarrassed at what she had become, and now she was being punished, made to wait and worry.

  The pad and belt sat unused, coiled like an elastic snake at the bottom of her purse, through the weekend. Jane watched Ding model her Cadet Nurse coat and hat, a lovely outfit to leave in. Later, they sat together in the small victory garden in the back and drank Coca-Colas, their foreheads sweating as much as the bottles, but Jane’s undergarments remained perfectly dry.

  On Monday, Jane left for work a half hour earlier than usual, stopping by the drugstore and lifting the Tampax from the shelf. She tucked the box under her arm, avoiding the other customers as she walked to the back of the store. The thrumming lights shone directly upon her head. Anyone who saw her would know she was unclean, that the Tampax couldn’t sully her because she’d already been defiled.

  “I don’t know what they expected, turning you village girls loose,” the clerk, an old man with sparse gray hair, said as Jane paid. Hot tears filled her eyes, but she did not respond. He shook his head and handed Jane her change. “Practicing your welcome on everything in trousers.”

  Jane hated this man for his accusations about her morals and his assumption about her background, however right he may have been about both. Jane snatched the box from the counter and ran out the door.

  Full of hope—she had paid her penance now, hadn’t she?—Jane rushed up the Armory steps and threw open the door to the restroom. Claudine was inside, applying her lipstick in the empty cavernous space.

  “You’re here early.” Claudine’s voice echoed and she smiled, smacking her lips and turning her head, viewing it from various angles.

  “So are you.” Jane’s own lower voice fell flat.

  “It’s better than snide remarks from the girls who think I should use the smaller bathroom.”

  Jane nodded. People were just awful. Was anyone in the world truly decent?

  “What’s your excuse?” Claudine asked. Satisfied with her lipstick, she’d moved on to patting her already perfect curls.

  Jane considered lying. Instead she burst into tears. Her sobs bounced across the walls, amplifying the sounds of her misery and shame.

  Claudine turned from the mirror and gave her a look of such kindness and concern that Jane spilled the whole story.

  “Do you promise you won’t tell?” Jane asked when she had finished explaining.

  “You’ve kept my secret, haven’t you?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Does he know?” Claudine asked.

  Jane looked at the floor and shook her head. “I don’t know how to get in touch with him.”

  “He’s at the Hamilton every weekend.” Claudine placed a cool hand on Jane’s arm. “I’ll give him a note to meet you.”

  “All done,” the nurse said, and Jane lowered her bottom back onto her bed. She rolled to her side and lifted her eyes toward the window, letting herself dissolve into the motions of the hula girl’s swaying hips. It was easier, sometimes, to pretend you weren’t in your own body, your own life.

  Cassidy

  Cassidy cammed when Paloma was out, using the jenky old webcam on the family desktop, the old woodstove in the background, just as she’d pictured it. She hadn’t packed lingerie, so her shows were straightforward. When she reached each tipping milestone, she removed an article of clothing. When she met her goal, she masturbated. All her regulars joined; they were happy to have her back, and Cassidy did her best to fill them in without bumming them out. She accepted their sympathy graciously and they tipped her more than usual, though she knew her video quality was subpar.

  She’d missed camming. She’d missed private chats with MannyBoy27 when she showed him her wedgies, CraftyCrotch’s stupid jokes, and the ridiculous strings of emojis TitZoomer sent when her boobs finally came out. Cassidy wasn’t fooling herself—she knew it filled a void, one that had begun to spread since before she could remember, since the first overtly loud whispers and darted glances during middle school phys ed. But did it matter why she liked it, especially when so many people spent decades at jobs they hated? At least these people made her feel good about herself.

  Oh. My. God. Fuck, C. I adore watching you cum, MannyBoy27 messaged her after a show. She’d missed this most of all. No matter how many times he saw her naked, Manny always acted like she’d blown his mind. She loved imagining him in genuine awe, stunned by her beauty. But Cassidy hadn’t really climaxed. She hadn’t been able to since she’d slept with Simon.

  Thank you, M. I adore you watching me. Cassidy pulled her pajama pants on just before Paloma opened the front door. Gotta go . . . Night, love. She pressed the PC’s power button and ran up the stairs before she had to talk to her mom.

  There was a twinge in the middle of the night, a tiny twitch in her abdomen that woke Cassidy for the slightest second. When she rose the next morning, already hoping Paloma would leave so she could sign on, she wasn’t sure if she had dreamed it.

  Cassidy peed, and when she wiped, she saw the toilet paper was tinted the slightest bit pink. When was her last period? She stared hard at the green-and-white striped panties around her ankles as she tried to remember.

  She watched herself in the mirror as she brushed her teeth. When she’d graduated from college, Paloma had made a comment: “You’re getting your adult face.” At the time, Cassidy hadn’t been sure what she’d meant, but now she saw it. Her features were sharper, the skin on her forehead less plump. Instead of dark circles, her eyes had white rings under them where the skin looked paler and thinner. Is this how she usually looked? Was her grief aging her? When was her period? Why did she feel sadder now than she had at the memorial?

  “Can I borrow the car?” Cassidy asked her mom.

  “Sure. What are you going to—”

  Cassidy stuffed the keys in her pajama pants pocket and was out the door before Paloma could finish her question. It took longer to find a parking spot at Walmart than it had taken to drive there, as if every person in Buckhannon had gone to the superstore at once.

  An elderly greeter with a short white perm hunched on a stool near the sliding doors in a yellow windbreaker, staring at the ground, and Cassidy remembered a documentary she’d seen about how poorly the chain treated its employees. The interior of the store was overwhelming, the blue-and-white walls rising what felt like hundreds of feet into the air, giant signs announcing Rollbacks, an incessant beeping pulse from the cash registers.

  For a few minutes Cassidy was mesmerized, forgetting why she was there. The refrain that had been playing on repeat in her head all day—When was my period? When was my period?—faded under the beeps. She wandered, gawking at the pink camouflage T-shirts in the children’s clothing section, fifteen-foot aisles packed with bulk paper towels and Dixie cups, the flashing lights of the electronics section. The Walmart had opened when Cassidy was small—the most exciting thing she could remember happening in Buckhannon. In middle school, her parents had dropped her off in front of the entrance to hang out with Simon. They would loiter for a while in the CD section and then walk from aisle to aisle, making fun of the people they saw. In high school, Simon drove them himself and they did the same thing. They’d spend their allowance on a huge tub of ice cream, drive back to Simon’s, and share the whole thing while watching a movie.

  When was her period?

  “Cassidy?” The voice interrupted her thoughts and she looked up
.

  “Oh my gosh! I thought you were in California.”

  Though she couldn’t remember the woman’s name, Cassidy recognized her instantly, particularly her eyes, which looked like they could belong to a friendly cartoon chipmunk. She had gained weight and Cassidy was surprised at how much she now looked like an adult woman. She had definitely gotten her adult face, but her eyes had remained the same. Two dirty kids hung off the sides of her cart, which was packed to the top with Coke, Pop-Tarts, and frozen chicken nuggets in the shape of dinosaurs.

  Cassidy wondered if it was too late to pretend she hadn’t heard her.

  “Yeah, uh. I’m back,” she said. When was her period?

  “Well, that’s great.” The woman smiled with her whole face. “I hope I see you around.” Cassidy remembered a sense of sweet innocence that the woman had always conveyed. It was still there.

  “Yeah.” Cassidy forced a smile that she hoped seem just as genuine, relieved the conversation had been short.

  The woman rolled toward the produce section, and Cassidy hurried toward Health and Beauty. She passed shampoos, deodorants, and tampons, recognizing at least three more faces as she walked. It was like a fishbowl, or a snow globe, here, everyone walking around thinking they were living independent lives. They thought they were as separate as people somewhere big, but they were all here, together, entangled. People in Buckhannon moved around from downtown to Walmart, to their schools and houses, and thought they were living real lives, but they were all trapped here together.

  Cassidy arrived then, in front of the pregnancy tests, various shades of pink and white under fluorescent lighting. She stared for a moment before becoming self-conscious, imagining someone else from high school approaching her while she contemplated the merits of First Response versus EPT. Hastily, she snatched one that guaranteed results “6 days sooner” and clutched it to her body as she darted to the self-checkout line, avoiding looking at the shining eye of the security camera as she paid. Stuffing the test into a bag, she took her purchase to the bathroom at the front of the store.