Carrie (2 page)

“It hurts,” Carrie groaned. “My stomach . . .”

“That passes,” Miss Desjardin said. Pity and self-shame met in her and mixed uneasily. “You have to . . . uh, stop the flow of blood. You—”

There was a bright flash overhead, followed by a flashgun-like pop as a lightbulb sizzled and went out. Miss Desjardin cried out with surprise, and it occurred to her

(the whole damn place is falling in)

that this kind of thing always seemed to happen around Carrie when she was upset, as if bad luck dogged her every step. The thought was gone almost as quickly as it had come. She took one of the sanitary napkins from the broken dispenser and unwrapped it.

“Look,” she said. “Like this—”

From
The Shadow Exploded
(p. 54):

Carrie White's mother, Margaret White, gave birth to her daughter on September 21, 1963, under circumstances which can only be termed bizarre. In fact, an overview of the Carrie White case leaves the careful student with one feeling ascendent over all others: that Carrie was the only issue of a family as odd as any that has ever been brought to popular attention.

As noted earlier, Ralph White died in February of 1963 when a steel girder fell out of a carrying sling on a housing-project job in Portland. Mrs. White continued to live alone in their suburban Chamberlain bungalow.

Due to the Whites' near-fanatical fundamentalist religious beliefs, Mrs. White had no friends to see her through her period of bereavement. And when her labor began seven months later, she was alone.

At approximately 1:30
P.M
. on September 21, the neighbors on Carlin Street began to hear screams from the White bungalow. The police, however, were not summoned to the scene until after 6:00
P.M
. We are left with two unappetizing alternatives to explain this time lag: Either Mrs. White's neighbors on the street did not wish to become involved in a police investigation, or dislike for her had become so strong that they deliberately adopted a wait-and-see attitude. Mrs. Georgia McLaughlin, the only one of three remaining residents who were on the street at that time and who would talk to me, said that she did not call the police because she thought the screams had something to do with “holy rollin'.”

When the police did arrive at 6:22
P.M
. the screams had become irregular. Mrs. White was found in her bed upstairs, and the investigating officer, Thomas G. Mearton, at first thought she had been the victim of an assault. The bed was drenched with blood, and a butcher knife lay on the floor. It was only then that he saw the baby, still partially wrapped in the placental membrane, at Mrs. White's breast. She had apparently cut the umbilical cord herself with the knife.

It staggers both imagination and belief to advance the hypothesis that Mrs. Margaret White did not know she was pregnant, or even understand what the word entails, and recent scholars such as J. W. Bankson and George Fielding have made a more reasonable case for the hypothesis that the concept, linked irrevocably in her mind with the “sin” of intercourse, had been blocked entirely from her mind. She may simply have refused to believe that such a thing could happen to her.

We have records of at least three letters to a friend in Kenosha, Wisconsin, that seem to prove conclusively that Mrs. White believed, from her fifth month on, that she had “a cancer of the womanly parts” and would soon join her husband in heaven. . . .

When Miss Desjardin led Carrie up to the office fifteen minutes later, the halls were mercifully empty. Classes droned onward behind closed doors.

Carrie's shrieks had finally ended, but she had continued to weep with steady regularity. Desjardin had finally placed the napkin herself, cleaned the girl up with wet paper towels, and gotten her back into her plain cotton underpants.

She tried twice to explain the commonplace reality of menstruation, but Carrie clapped her hands over her ears and continued to cry.

Mr. Morton, the assistant principal, was out of his office in a flash when they entered. Billy deLois and Henry Trennant, two boys waiting for the lecture due them for cutting French I, goggled around from their chairs.

“Come in,” Mr. Morton said briskly. “Come right in.” He glared over Desjardin's shoulder at the boys, who were staring at the bloody handprint on her shorts. “What are
you
looking at?”

“Blood,” Henry said, and smiled with a kind of vacuous surprise.

“Two detention periods,” Morton snapped. He glanced down at the bloody handprint and blinked.

He closed the door behind them and began pawing through the top drawer of his filing cabinet for a school accident form.

“Are you all right, uh—”

“Carrie,” Desjardin supplied. “Carrie White.” Mr. Morton had finally located an accident form. There was a large coffee stain on it. “You won't need that, Mr. Morton.”

“I suppose it was the trampoline. We just . . . I won't?”

“No. But I think Carrie should be allowed to go home for the rest of the day. She's had a rather frightening experience.” Her eyes flashed a signal which he caught but could not interpret.

“Yes, okay, if you say so. Good. Fine.” Morton crumpled the form back into the filing cabinet, slammed it shut with his thumb in the drawer, and grunted. He whirled gracefully to the door, yanked it open, glared at Billy and Henry, and called: “Miss Fish, could we have a dismissal slip here, please? Carrie Wright.”

“White,” said Miss Desjardin.

“White,” Morton agreed.

Billy deLois sniggered.

“Week's detention!” Morton barked. A blood blister was forming under his thumbnail. Hurt like hell. Carrie's steady, monotonous weeping went on and on.

Miss Fish brought the yellow dismissal slip and Morton scrawled his initials on it with his silver pocket pencil, wincing at the pressure on his wounded thumb.

“Do you need a ride, Cassie?” he asked. “We can call a cab if you need one.”

She shook her head. He noticed with distaste that a large bubble of green mucus had formed at one nostril. Morton looked over her head and at Miss Desjardin.

“I'm sure she'll be all right,” she said. “Carrie only has to go over to Carlin Street. The fresh air will do her good.”

Morton gave the girl the yellow slip. “You can go now, Cassie,” he said magnanimously.

“That's not my name!”
she screamed suddenly.

Morton recoiled, and Miss Desjardin jumped as if struck from behind. The heavy ceramic ashtray on Morton's desk (it was Rodin's
Thinker
with his head turned into a receptacle for cigarette butts) suddenly toppled to the rug, as if to take cover from the force of her scream. Butts and flakes of Morton's pipe tobacco scattered on the pale-green nylon rug.

“Now, listen,” Morton said, trying to muster sternness. “I know you're upset, but that doesn't mean I'll stand for—”

“Please,” Miss Desjardin said quietly.

Morton blinked at her and then nodded curtly. He tried to project the image of a lovable John Wayne figure while performing the disciplinary functions that were his main job as Assistant Principal, but did not succeed very well. The administration (usually represented at Jay Cee suppers, P.T.A. functions, and American Legion award ceremonies by Principal Henry Grayle) usually termed him “lovable Mort.” The student body was more apt to term him “that crazy ass-jabber from the office.” But, as few students such as Billy deLois and Henry Trennant spoke at P.T.A. functions or town meetings, the administration's view tended to carry the day.

Now lovable Mort, still secretly nursing his jammed thumb, smiled at Carrie and said, “Go along then if you like, Miss Wright. Or would you like to sit a spell and just collect yourself?”

“I'll go,” she muttered, and swiped at her hair. She got up, then looked around at Miss Desjardin. Her eyes were wide open and dark with knowledge. “They laughed at me. Threw things. They've
always
laughed.”

Desjardin could only look at her helplessly.

Carrie left.

For a moment there was silence; Morton and Desjardin watched her go. Then, with an awkward throat-clearing sound, Mr. Morton hunkered down carefully and began to sweep together the debris from the fallen ashtray.

“What was
that
all about?”

She sighed and looked at the drying maroon handprint on her shorts with distaste. “She got her period. Her first period. In the shower.”

Morton cleared his throat again and his cheeks went pink. The sheet of paper he was sweeping with moved even faster. “Isn't she a bit, uh—”

“Old for her first? Yes. That's what made it so traumatic for her. Although I can't understand why her mother . . .” The thought trailed off, forgotten for the moment. “I don't think I handled it very well, Morty, but I didn't understand what was going on. She thought she was bleeding to death.”

He stared up sharply.

“I don't believe she knew there was such a thing as menstruation until half an hour ago.”

“Hand me that little brush there, Miss Desjardin. Yes, that's it.” She handed him a little brush with the legend
Chamberlain Hardware and Lumber Company NEVER Brushes You Off
written up the handle. He began to brush his pile of ashes onto the paper. “There's still going to be some for the vacuum cleaner, I guess. This deep pile is miserable. I thought I set that ashtray back on the desk further. Funny how things fall over.” He bumped his head on the desk and sat up abruptly. “It's hard for me to believe that a girl in this or any other high school could get through three years and still be alien to the fact of menstruation, Miss Desjardin.”

“It's even more difficult for me,” she said. “But it's all I can think of to explain her reaction. And she's always been a group scapegoat.”

“Um.” He funneled the ashes and butts into the wastebasket and dusted his hands. “I've placed her, I think. White. Margaret White's daughter. Must be. That makes it a little easier to believe.” He sat down behind his desk and smiled apologetically. “There's so many of them. After five years or so, they all start to merge into one group face. You call boys by their brother's names, that type of thing. It's hard.”

“Of course it is.”

“Wait 'til you've been in the game twenty years, like me,” he said morosely, looking down at his blood blister. “You get kids that look familiar and find out you had their daddy the year you started teaching. Margaret White was before my time, for which I am profoundly grateful. She told Mrs. Bicente, God rest her, that the Lord was reserving a special burning seat in hell for her because she gave the kids an outline of Mr. Darwin's beliefs on evolution. She was suspended twice while she was here—once for beating a classmate with her purse. Legend has it that Margaret saw the classmate smoking a cigarette. Peculiar religious views. Very peculiar.” His John Wayne expression suddenly snapped down. “The other girls. Did they really laugh at her?”

“Worse. They were yelling and throwing sanitary napkins at her when I walked in. Throwing them like . . . like peanuts.”

“Oh. Oh, dear.” John Wayne disappeared. Mr. Morton went scarlet. “You have names?”

“Yes. Not all of them, although some of them may rat on the rest. Christine Hargensen appeared to be the ringleader . . . as usual.”

“Chris and her Mortimer Snerds,” Morton murmured.

“Yes. Tina Blake, Rachel Spies, Helen Shyres, Donna Thibodeau and her sister Mary Lila Grace, Jessica Upshaw. And Sue Snell.” She frowned. “You wouldn't expect a trick like that from Sue. She's never seemed the type for this kind of a—a stunt.”

“Did you talk to the girls involved?”

Miss Desjardin chuckled unhappily. “I got them the hell out of there. I was too flustered. And Carrie was having hysterics.”

“Um.” He steepled his fingers. “Do you plan to talk to them?”

“Yes.” But she sounded reluctant.

“Do I detect a note of—”

“You probably do,” she said glumly. “I'm living in a glass house, see. I understand how those girls felt. The whole thing just made me want to take the girl and
shake
her. Maybe there's some kind of instinct about menstruation that makes women want to snarl, I don't know. I keep seeing Sue Snell and the way she looked.”

“Um,” Mr. Morton repeated wisely. He did not understand women and had no urge at all to discuss menstruation.

“I'll talk to them tomorrow,” she promised, rising. “Rip them down one side and up the other.”

“Good. Make the punishment suit the crime. And if you feel you have to send any of them to, ah, to me, feel free—”

“I will,” she said kindly. “By the way, a light blew out while I was trying to calm her down. It added the final touch.”

“I'll send a janitor right down,” he promised. “And thanks for doing your best, Miss Desjardin. Will you have Miss Fish send in Billy and Henry?”

“Certainly.” She left.

He leaned back and let the whole business slide out of his mind. When Billy deLois and Henry Trennant, class-cutters
extraordinaire,
slunk in, he glowered at them happily and prepared to talk tough.

As he often told Hank Grayle, he ate class-cutters for lunch.

Graffiti scratched on a desk in Chamberlain Junior High School:

Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet, but Carrie White eats shit.

She walked down Ewen Avenue and crossed over to Carlin at the stoplight on the corner. Her head was down and she was trying to think of nothing. Cramps came and went in great, gripping waves, making her slow down and speed up like a car with carburetor trouble. She stared at the sidewalk. Quartz glittering in the cement. Hopscotch grids scratched in ghostly, rain-faded chalk. Wads of gum stamped flat. Pieces of tinfoil and penny-candy wrappers.
They all hate and they never stop. They never get tired of it.
A penny lodged in a crack. She kicked it.
Imagine Chris Hargensen all bloody and screaming for mercy. With rats crawling all over her face. Good. Good. That would be good.
A dog turd with a foot-track in the middle of it. A roll of blackened caps that some kid had banged with a stone. Cigarette butts.
Crash in her head with a rock, with a boulder. Crash in all their heads. Good. Good.