Sunlight on My Shadow (4 page)

I was intrigued with the buzzing feelings I had when a boy paid attention to me, but there was always that taint of guilt that drizzled down on me. Although my friends and I spent the greater part of our time talking about the boys at school, I would never let my mom or dad know about any of the big things in my life, like the crush I had on Bob Flannigan. I couldn’t wait to grow up. I already wore nylons with a garter belt and tiny elevated heels. When Dad first saw me in the grown-up garb he said, “What on earth’s goin’ on around here?” but Mom said it was okay because I was now a young lady. Dad just muttered something about me being too young for that sort of thing, shook his head, and dropped it. But more than the heels and nylons, I wanted a bra. I looked at ads in the Sears catalog and saw how perfectly they fit and helped shape your figure. They looked so feminine and substantial and womanly.

At seven or eight, when my new teeth came in, they were crooked and too big. When my breasts came in, they were tardy and too small. My friends were blossoming, but my body had no clue spring had sprung. They were whispering about what a pain it was having to use Kotex with the belt and how uncomfortable it was. I was thinking that I wouldn’t mind. I would like it: it would mean I was a woman. Mom said I was immature for my age. What an insult! There’s nothing worse than delayed development when you want to hurry up and grow up so you can get the attention of the boys.

I started anticipating some buds in fourth grade when Nancy Griffin showed up after summer vacation with a full figure. I didn’t even know we were old enough for that sort of thing. The boys thought it was the funniest joke in the world, running past Nancy on the playground and calling out, “Where’d you get those jugs?” Nancy got the fly-by treatment until the leaves fell off the trees, and then I guess they got tired of it, since Nancy ignored them.

I wouldn’t have wanted to be the first one at school to blossom, but it was worse to be the last. By sixth grade I was worried that something was wrong with me. I was still what we called “two raisins on a breadboard.”

During a shopping spree at Marshall Field’s with Mom just before sixth grade, I spotted something I wanted more than the pile of clothes stacked on the checkout counter.

There it was, under the glass counter, laid out on a royal-blue velvet cloth. It was snow white with pink lacy fringe and a tiny silk bow nestled between the cups of stretchy material. It was very petite, not like the large cups Mom wore with all the wire and padding. No, this one was for young ladies who were freshly budding like the leaves on the lilies of the valley at Easter time.

They called them training bras. I guess you were training your new developments to spend the rest of their lives inside cups that would forever hold them perky like when they were new. The bra followed the same principle as the stretch panel in maternity clothing. You could wear it a long time, even though your body was changing. That way you didn’t have to run out and get a new bra every week or two. I thought it was very economical and clever. More than ever, I hated the ribbed cotton undershirt I wore. It was hot and hung on me like a gunnysack. People could probably see the telltale U-shaped neck that showed right through my chintzy uniform blouse.

The boys at school were curious about who wore a bra and who didn’t, so they came up behind you and nonchalantly swiped a finger down your back to see if there was a telltale bra clasp under your shirt. Luckily, I was gifted with a super awareness of their intentions and was able to spin like a yo-yo if they were up to their tricks. The last thing I wanted was to publicize the fact that I wore an undershirt. If I wore a bra, I wouldn’t have to worry about such things. In fact, I might even pretend I didn’t see them coming and let them do their whammy snap.

Oh, how I wanted that bra in the display case. I could throw out my undershirts and start living like a real woman. I thought of putting the little cup holders around my would-be breasts and standing in front of the mirror. I would put one hand on my hip and one hand behind my head and push my hair up into a fountain of glamour. I would put the bra on first thing in the morning and no one would know I had it on, but I would feel it all the time, during class, during recess, clasped tight around my body, reminding me I was now a woman.

But how was I going to ask Mom for the stretchy-cupped bra? Mom was already highly invested with the pile of clothes on the counter. I was afraid she would think it was ridiculous because whenever she introduced me to people, she still called me the baby of the family. But I had to ask. I could come right out with it and say, “Mom, can I have that bra?” No. I didn’t think the word “bra” was the right one. I never heard Mom use it. She always said something like, “Just a minute, I’ll be right there after I put on my braazzzeeeerr.” Brassiere? No, that word was for something much larger than the thing in the case. This wasn’t a brassiere: it was a tiny set of hummingbird’s nests. After I went back and forth, groping for the right terminology, I decided to avoid the dilemma altogether.

When Mom pulled out her wallet to pay for the clothes, I said, “Mom, come here. I want to show you something.”

“What do you want to show me?” She already seemed impatient.

“Just come here.” I curled my finger, beckoning her toward me. She pushed the carpet with her feet so she could back the wheelchair over to me. Her hands were too sore to work the wheels. My palms were sweaty and my voice was weak. I had a lot invested in this request.

“Mom?” I paused. “Can I have that?” I pointed down through the glass.

“What are you talking about?” she said, loud enough to make my ears curl.

“That,” I said quietly, so the counter clerk didn’t hear me. I pointed again.

“What is THAT?” Mom squinted her eyes.

Oh, geez, does Mom have to be so dumb? I thought.

“THAT,” I said again, tapping the glass case right above the royal-blue velvet.

“That brazzzeeerrr?” she bellowed loud enough to wake the people of Kansas.

“Mmm-hmmm.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, you don’t need THAT.”

Then she opened her wallet and turned to the saleslady and said,

“How much do I owe you?”

Shot down. I turned and walked away from the counter so Mom couldn’t see the tears that spilled from my eyes. I sucked in my breath as I remembered the doctor-playing episode and thought the NO was another reprimand. Like I was veering into sexy territory and Mom had to put a stop to it. The tears just showed I was a baby and not mature enough for something so grown up. If my throat hadn’t seized up from stuffing the tears, I could have said something like, “All the girls at school wear bras. Please, Mom.” Mom thought she was doing me a great favor with the new clothes, but all I really wanted was the simple little bra. I felt misunderstood and insignificant. Anything having to do with my sexuality or impending womanhood twisted me with a nasty dose of shame.

It wasn’t too long after the Marshall Field’s debacle that I noticed I had something the size of lemon heads forming under my skin. I was finally blessed with two tiny drops to warrant my desire for a bra. It felt like semi-hardened fish eggs. You could move them around a little, but it hurt. Then my nipples puffed out like they were raisins soaked in rainwater. They were full and puffy but still sitting on a flat chest. I expected that once I started developing, I would soon be strutting around like Nancy Griffin from fourth grade. But the growth was retarded. Little by little my breasts formed until they were the size of kiwi fruit—and then they stopped as quickly as they had started. Even though Mom hadn’t bought me the stretchy-cupped bra, Auntie Stell gave me a Christmas present that year that blew me away with delight. She must not have checked with Mom first. It was a powder-blue flowered bra and pantie set. It was too big at first; the cups sagged in a crease when I snapped it in back. Then, after I grew some more, I still needed a swipe of Kleenex to fill out the crease. I was hoping I was still growing. I waited and waited, but my cup never did runneth over.

I didn’t get pregnant because I was ignorant. I knew full well how babies were made. I learned it from Mom before I was really ready and then again in eighth grade, when I was more eager. Eighth-graders attended a six-week class held in the basement of the church. The nuns walked us in single file at 8:45 am every Tuesday so we could be seated and attentive by 9:00 am. This was when Father Monson walked in the room to conduct The Class. The windowless basement had this musty smell like the bowels of the earth. Ghastly fluorescent lights made everything look flat, like a black-and-white drawing, but if you had a zit, that stuck out in perfect 3-D. They called the class Eighth Grade Preparation. I guess we were being prepared to fly off to high school, where we would meet all the challenges of boy–girl relationships. Preparation was a euphemism. The real name would have been “Sex: Stay Away or Go to Hell.”

Father Monson asked, “Who can repeat the lesson we just learned?” He looked around, and when no one volunteered, he glanced over to the left of the lectern and then scanned my row.

My heart thumped as I prayed, “Not me, not me.” His eyes stopped in front.

“You,” he pointed. “Please come up here on stage and explain for the girls and boys the term “menstruation.”

“Me?” she asked.

“Yes, you.”

Father coached her along, making sure she used the proper clinical terms. Her face was red and her voice soft. For the rest of the year, every time I ran into Carol Bromley, I could see her up there in front of one hundred eighth-graders, talking into the microphone and saying words like uterus and blood and vagina. Father made her say it.

When she tried to fudge, using more common words, he said, “Weren’t you listening to the lesson, Miss Bromley? Use the correct terms.”

Father Monson was the pastor at Our Lady of Perpetual Help Church and thought it was his duty to educate us in the proper moral direction. He said necking and petting were serious sins. He said sexual intercourse outside of marriage is the worst sin of all, a mortal sin.

The words “sexual intercourse” haunted me. I hadn’t heard the term since Mom gave me the sex talk when I was nine. I don’t think Mom was planning to tell me about the birds and the bees this particular day, but she was forced into it. My cousin Pamela was sleeping over at my house. In the morning Pamela went into the bathroom; a few seconds later she cracked open the door, poked her head out, and called, “Aunt Ethel, could you come in here?” She sounded like she was about to cry, like something was terribly wrong. I couldn’t imagine what could be so bad that she needed my mom to come in the bathroom with her. I ran into the kitchen, where Mom was chopping up onions.

“Mom,” I said, “Pamela’s in the bathroom. She wants you.”

Mom rinsed her hands and wiped them on the towel by the stove. She rushed into the bathroom with Pamela and closed the door behind her. I sat on the stairs and tried to listen. I heard Mom mumbling in a low tone, like she was teaching a serious lesson. She came out of the bathroom with a stern look on her face. She walked past me and went up to the second-floor bathroom. She came down with a blue-and-white box and went back inside the bathroom, closing the sliding door. I could hear Pamela sobbing.

When Mom came out I asked her, “Is something wrong with Pamela?”

“Oh, dear,” Mom sighed. “She has her menstrual period.”

I was scared to ask the next question. I was almost sure it had to do with Pamela’s private parts, but I said it before I thought of the consequences.

“What’s that?”

“Well,” Mom said, “come into the living room. I want to talk to you about something.”

She sat on the couch, patted the spot next to her, and said, “Sit down here, Judy.” This was before Mom quit smoking, so she opened a fresh pack of Pall Malls and scooted back on the couch. She lit the cigarette. Mom was making a big production out of this. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked. Her face was serious and I couldn’t imagine what was coming next. Mom took a big puff and talked as smoke wafted out of her mouth.

“Auntie Stell hasn’t had a chance to talk to Pamela. It’s too bad because she got so scared. Poor thing, she thought she was bleeding to death.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Oh, it was her period. Honey, when a girl goes into puberty, that’s around twelve or so, she gets what’s called a menstrual period. You ever heard a that?”

“Nope.”

“It’s bleeding from the vagina. It happens every month for a woman. It’s a natural thing.” Mom took another puff.

“Bleeding?” I said.

“Yes, from the vagina.”

I choked down an inadvertent giggle. I squirmed and stared at the floor, afraid that Mom would see the smirk on my face. Did she have to keep saying that word? I wished she could just say “down there.”

“I want to tell you about this now so you won’t be scared when it happens to you. You’re getting to be a young lady now, you know. It’s nothing to be afraid of. Okay, honey?”

“Okay.”

Mom flicked her cigarette over the ashtray.

“It’s just nature’s way of getting the uterus ready for the time when you get pregnant and have a baby. The baby is kept inside the uterus. It’s kind of like a basket that carries the baby while it’s growing in you.”

“A basket?”

“Yes, honey. You know, like a container that has food for the baby. During the month, if you don’t get pregnant, the lining, which is the food, gets dumped out ‘cause there is no baby. They call it the menstrual period. It’s all very natural. It happens once a month.”

This news didn’t seem natural at all. Every month? Every woman? Just in case? It seemed like a whole lot of rigmarole for something that might not even happen, kind of like checking the mailbox on Sundays. Wasn’t there some way to just turn off the fountain until you wanted to have a baby?

She scooted back on the couch and continued. “Now, there’s more. I might as well tell you the whole story. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this.”

I was afraid of that.

“In order to get pregnant, you have sex.”

At this point in my life, I thought that sex was some intense kind of kissing, but I wasn’t exactly sure of the details. I couldn’t get my head around what came next.

“The man places his penis in the woman’s vagina. This is called sexual intercourse.”

At nine years old, I did suspect there was some activity like this that adults engaged in, but I had no idea the man put his entire hot dog in the bun. When she said “places his penis,” I imagined him taking the thing and carefully laying it inside the lady’s lips. You know, lengthwise, like a hot dog in a bun. Whoa … this put a whole new meaning on the word “sex.” I thought it strange and wondered why he would want to do that.

“Do you have any questions?” Mom asked with a sigh that sounded like a period at the end of a sentence. I was too embarrassed to think.

“No, Mom,” I whispered.

Mom took a big puff of the cigarette, let it out, and said, “Well, if you’ve got any questions, Judy, you just come and ask, okay?”

“Okay, Mom,” I said.

But in my heart I knew there was no way I would be bringing up this subject of my own accord.

Mom’s explanation was thorough, except for the missing detail that there was a hole in the woman in which to place the hot dog. When Father Monson explained the mechanics of sexual intercourse with medical diagrams, I learned how the anatomy fit together: the man plugged into the woman like a toaster cord into the wall. The sex words startled my ears and brought embarrassment as I sat in close proximity to the popular boys in my eighth-grade class. I could hear myself breathing while Carol Bromley continued the explanation. As Father coached her along, not letting her gloss over the proper terms, my face got hot. I choked down a giggle.

We had been instructed by the nuns, before class, to refrain from laughing or talking. The nuns said the subject matter was “mature” and it wouldn’t do to be snickering or giggling when we were talking about adult things. We obeyed and sat with our hands folded in our laps, staring at the floor, and then glancing at the clock, wishing Father would hurry and wrap up the lesson—before we got called on.

After I had settled down from the shock, I pondered Father’s words. I thought his assessment was a little harsh and that if a boy wanted to hold my hand, I would go ahead and let him. Anyway, I had already committed that sin. By now I was also used to the impure thoughts and not all that convinced that they were serious sins. But I knew I would draw the line, somewhere after necking and before petting. I would never do that. Father Monson also had said that we should never kiss. Kissing was like a drug, he said: once you started it was too hard to stop, and it would lead to other things. I invented my own question on the SAT test. Marijuana is to heroin like kissing is to blank; the answer, of course, is the hot dog in the bun thing.

Punishment was not a good motivator for me, even if it was an eternity in hell. I tried to follow the advice of the good Father, but when I came up short, guilt and remorse were my constant companions, stalking me like an ominous ghost. I don’t really know why I did exactly what Father Monson said NOT to do, and I had thought I wouldn’t do it, but when I finally got to kissing Bob Flannigan later on in eighth grade, I let his hand wander to forbidden territory. Mom and Dad must have been out somewhere, and we ended up lying on the orange tweed couch down in our rec room. We kissed. He rubbed my back. We fell over like I imagined we would, so we were now lying side by side in a tight embrace. After a bit, his hand went under my shirt and rubbed my back, then it slowly migrated to the front. I didn’t stop him. I thought it felt good, but at the same time I was surprised that I was letting him do this. I became self-conscious about the size of my niblets. Suddenly, he pulled his hand away and sat up. “I better get on home,” he said. “It’s getting late.”

I felt uneasy and strange. I didn’t see much harm in letting him cop a feel; I wouldn’t have let him go further than that. Yet I felt misunderstood and wished there was some way to tell him I was just about to cut the advances. I wished I had been the one to draw the line. I wanted him to know I wasn’t that kind of a girl.

He didn’t call me again, so I felt even worse about what we did on the couch. I wondered if I was too easy, or if he didn’t like what he felt, or if he was just testing me. I wished so bad I had never let him do it. I assumed he thought I lacked moral fiber and he didn’t want a pushover for a girlfriend. The social convention in the 1960s was that a boy wasn’t a man if he didn’t try something, and the girl wasn’t a lady if she didn’t stop him. I guess I showed I wasn’t a lady. I walked past him the next week at school and he just kept his head down, pretending he didn’t see me. Later I found out he was back with Sally Stilleti. That broke my heart. He probably always liked her better and was just using me to make her jealous.

After the episode with Bob Flannigan, I didn’t have a boyfriend for two more years.