When Women Were Dragons(12)

“She’s inside,” I said, as I continued to make funny faces at Beatrice. “Doing the dishes. My father is—”

“Yes,” my aunt said, sucking in her last inhale and throwing the rest of the cigarette down on the ground, smashing it with her boot. “Business trip, right?” Her face was blank, except for a bit of a scornful curl in her upper lip.

I shrugged. “I guess.” I didn’t know what else to say.

My aunt’s eyes stayed focused upward. I wondered in that moment if she was remembering flying planes. I wondered in that moment if maybe she didn’t particularly like her job at the mechanic’s shop, where all she did was look down at engines, instead of keeping her gaze on the domed sky above.

“Come inside with me,” she said. “I need you to be in charge of Beatrice. I have to talk to your mother.”

I didn’t need to be asked again. I skated over the icy walkway (my aunt had no trouble with her heavy military boots), and we went inside.

What happened next, I still can’t entirely make out.

Beatrice and I settled in the living room, where my mother kept a tub of toys just for her. I often said that they should just move into our house, since my uncle was never home, as far as I could tell. But no one listened to me.

My aunt set Beatrice down and walked into the kitchen.

“Where are your bracelets,” I heard my mother say.

There was a long pause. “Gone,” she said finally.

My mother said nothing in response. She just banged on the dishes for a while.

This wasn’t nearly as interesting as Beatrice. I flattened myself onto my tummy in front of her on the floor, and I built towers of blocks that she knocked over with a squeal of delight. We did this over and over. Beatrice thumped her heels on the ground. She brought her small hands to her round cheeks. She was my favorite person in the whole world.

My mother raised her voice.

So did my aunt.

I made a stack of blocks. Beatrice knocked it over. She had drool on her chin. She picked up one of the blocks and chewed on it desperately, her mouth spreading into a wet smile on either side of it.

My mother’s voice was louder.

So was my aunt’s.

A glass fell and shattered on the kitchen’s tile floor. My mother cried. My aunt’s voice became soft. I built a stack of blocks. Beatrice knocked it over. Her laugh lit the room.

And then . . . well. The world became strange.

My mittens, sitting on the ground next to Beatrice and me, began to change. I watched as the yarn unwound itself and rewound differently, writhing gently like a basket of snakes. I inched away, and tucked my hands under my bottom. Afraid to touch anything. Afraid to move. And it wasn’t just the mittens. The crocheted curtains and the lace table runners and the handmade sashes. Each knot began to unravel, and then re-form. The morning light slanted through the windows and spilled onto the floor. I tilted my head and squinted at the curtains. The loops untwisted and unraveled and rearranged themselves. My mittens unwound into a heap of yarn, and then, loop after loop, twist after twist, came back together. Same mittens. Different patterns. I held myself perfectly still. Beatrice knocked a block on another block with a terrific clack. She howled with laughter. She knocked her heels on the ground. Her booties, also knitted by my mother, also with dense, complicated patterns at the toes, rearranged themselves. The patterns became denser, more complex, the tight curls latticing themselves together like an impenetrable lock. Beatrice did not notice. I didn’t know what I was seeing, but I still paid attention. I filed each detail away, so I wouldn’t forget.

“ENOUGH,” my mother yelled. “It simply won’t happen.”

My aunt, I could hear from the other room, suppressed a sob. I made a stack of blocks. Beatrice knocked it over. The light spilled through the room. The curtains and the table settings and my mittens and the booties, all in flux and transition not moments before, were now stable and whole. As though nothing had happened. The slanted sunbeams glinted with stirred-up dust motes. I hadn’t imagined it. I knew I hadn’t. But I couldn’t ask about it either. How could anyone have words for something like that?

I made another stack of blocks. Beatrice knocked it over.

My aunt in the other room said, “You are my favorite. And you always will be. No matter what happens.”

I didn’t know what that was supposed to mean.

My mother didn’t say anything. She stayed in the kitchen. My aunt strode out and knelt next to me. She put her arms around me and hugged me, and covered Beatrice’s face with kisses. She looked at the window, her face brightened by the sunlight. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but so bright they were nearly gold. Had they always been gold? I couldn’t quite remember. Then she patted our heads, walked outside, and lit another cigarette as she got into her car. I watched her from the window. I watched as a ribbon of smoke curled out of the driver’s-side door, like the exhale from some creature out of a fairy tale. The car rumbled, spurted, and shuddered before sliding down the road and vanishing from view.





6.

This is what we know:

On April 25, 1955, between the hours of 11:45 a.m. and 2:30 p.m. central time, 642,987 American women—wives and mothers, all—became dragons. All at once. A mass dragoning. The largest in history.

My mother was not among the women who dragoned on April 25, 1955. But my aunt Marla was. The distribution of dragoning across the country was haphazard and unpredictable. Six children in my third-grade class had mothers who dragoned. In the grade above me, only two children had mothers who were lost. The grade behind had twelve. There were towns hit hard by the dragoning, and towns that were blessedly untouched. The reasons why remain a mystery. Even now.