“I’m dying to know,” said Nedra Feldstein-Delaney.
“I think it’s a response to terrorism. From the time we’re little girls, we’re taught to fear the bad man who might get us. We’re terrified of being raped, abused, even killed by the bad man, but the problem is, you can’t tell the good ones from the bad ones, so you have to be wary of them all. We’re told not to go out by ourselves late at night, not to dress a certain way, not to talk to male strangers, not to lead men on. We take self-defense classes, keep our doors locked, carry pepper spray and rape whistles. The fear of men is ingrained in us from girlhood. Isn’t that a form of terrorism?”
“For God’s sake, Nola. You’re going to get us both fired,” said Nedra Feldstein-Delaney.
? ? ?
THE SEARCH FOR JENNIFER and her cohorts continued. By September, sales of Fuckability Theory had increased dramatically and Marlowe was in demand by news organizations as an analyst on Jennifer-related topics. Verena had been asked for analysis too, particularly by Japanese news outlets, as Eulayla’s documentary, Born Again, had been a cult hit there, but Verena refused. She said that Jennifer was a distraction from real work.
In between media interviews, Marlowe had begun writing a new book called The Jennifer Effect. The sound of her furious typing filled the kitchen as I finished my baking for the morning. I wrapped up the pastries and cakes, then sorted through the piles of newspapers and magazines that were scattered all over the table. “Leeta Albridge in Montana?” read one of the familiar tabloid headlines. I barely noticed these stories anymore. Wherever Leeta was, I was sure it wasn’t at the fast food restaurants and shopping malls where she was routinely spotted.
With Marlowe and the other women busy with their projects, I began to crave one of my own, something beyond cooking and eating, writing in my journal, and obsessing about Jennifer. Marlowe was so engrossed in her work that she didn’t respond when I tried to start a conversation, so I washed the dishes and prepared to go out for the afternoon.
I forced myself to go out for a while each day. When I did, I often had run-ins with people who stared at me in a way I didn’t like or who were somehow rude. I’d perfected the evil eye, and my favorite response: What the hell are you staring at?, which I sometimes upgraded to What the fuck are you staring at?. I had begun to look forward to these encounters. The people I confronted seemed shocked that I responded and didn’t give me a fight. Sometimes I wondered if a fight was what I wanted. After years of not fighting back, I was coiled like a snake.
I took a few freshly baked ladyfingers from the kitchen and ate them as I headed to the bus stop, the front of my dress speckled with powdered sugar. “Look at that big lady,” said a little girl as she walked by, holding the hand of her mother or nanny. The woman blushed and was about to say something, but I spoke first.
“Yeah, look at me,” I said, popping the last ladyfinger into my mouth and brushing the crumbs from my hands. “Aren’t I fabulous?”
I rode the bus to Midtown, then got off and walked for a few blocks. Through the forest of buildings, I looked up and saw part of the Austen Tower’s chrome trunk. Kitty was up at the top and Julia was down in the depths.
Back at street level, another familiar sight: a poster of the lilac negligee woman, whose breasts I’d seen sailing around town on the sides of buses. Outside one of the flagship branches of V— S—, the poster was more than two stories high, the woman’s breasts tire-size. If I’d had Jennifer’s powers, I would have demanded the posters be taken down. They were everywhere, like leaflets dropped on a population during a war. Propaganda.
When the hordes of pedestrians thinned out, I could see myself reflected in the plate-glass window of the store, superimposed over the lilac negligee woman’s knees. I was wearing my knee-length brown and violet dress, with violet tights, the black boots on my feet. I smiled at my reflection, which then disappeared behind a group of people streaming by. No matter how big the crowd became, the woman on the poster loomed large, her breasts conquering Manhattan. I’d first seen her the day I saw Leeta on the T-shirt: two women, two different messages. I could never be like the negligee woman—I no longer wanted to—but I wondered if I could be like Leeta.
A Baptist isn’t afraid to become an outlaw.
I headed to the drugstore to buy supplies and gather my courage. Then I breezed into V— S—, doing my best to appear nonchalant. The sizes at Bonerville didn’t reach the outer limits, so the sight of me entering the store raised some eyebrows. One of these things is not like the others! A bouncy-haired salesgirl bodychecked me at the entrance. “Can I help you with something?” she said.
“I’m shopping for a normal-size person. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve come in here.”