The History of Jane Doe

by Michael Belanger

  She surveys the room. Water bottles strewn around, a graveyard of my last week’s meals, my dresser and closet in the process of throwing up my entire wardrobe.

  “You can’t live like this,” she says.

  I take a deep breath, weighing my options.

  Today in history—pretty much the only class I can almost pay attention in—Mr. Hillman taught us about a type of diplomacy called the carrot and the stick. It comes from the barbaric practice of placing a carrot in front of a mule to get it to walk. It’s kept just out of reach so the mule is forever chasing this one measly carrot. As if that wasn’t cruel enough, someone also starts to beat the mule. Since teachers are always telling us to apply what we learn in school to real life, I figured I’d try out this technique on my mom.

  “You’re right,” I tell her, a smile pasted across my face. “I can’t live like this. I love you, Mom.”

  The carrot.

  She stops, caught off guard. “You do?”

  “Of course I do.”

  Rich would call this progress.

  “But if you don’t get out of my room right now, I’m going to start throwing things.”

  The stick.

  She glares at me, but instead of saying anything, she turns, marches out the door, and slams it.

  Okay, I could have handled that better. It’s just that everything in my brain is all twisted up.

  It’s like I can only move backward. But Jane’s not really there either. Just the memory of a person I guess I didn’t know as well as I thought.

  206–205 DAYS BEFORE

  THE FOLK WILLIAMSBURG FESTIVAL

  Soon after Halloween, while we were eating lunch in the cafeteria, Jane invited us over to have dinner with her parents, though she somehow made it seem like a punishment. “Feel free to say no,” she said, looking down at her plate, “but my parents want you guys to come over for dinner. They keep bugging me about it. I don’t think I can take another reference about the Three Musketeers, Stooges, or Amigos.”

  By then, we were hanging out almost every day. The list of Burgerville sites remained in my backpack, but neither one of us seemed intent on finishing too quickly, as if finishing would make us define what we were outside the realm of Burgerville’s history. We weren’t ready to be labeled. Not yet.

  We’d “study” together at the library, watch movies, or just spend hours talking. Those days were my favorite, when the three of us would lose ourselves in conversation about anything that popped into our heads.

  “You actually believe the unibrow is a form of natural selection?” Jane asked me during one of our talks.

  “Hear me out,” I said. We’d just finished a unit on Darwinism in biology, where Mr. Parker had compared the process of natural selection to the comic book Ant-man. “Your forehead’s kept warmer and it conveys power.”

  “Says who?”

  “Simon told me.”

  “And who told Simon?”

  “My mom,” Simon said. “After I accidentally shaved off half of my eyebrow.”

  “I’ll tweeze for you,” Jane said.

  “Thanks. I’m also thinking about waxing my chest.”

  “That sounds like a job for Ray,” Jane said.

  Jane and I also started to work together on school assignments for Mr. Parker; I’d suddenly discovered a newfound love for science—and explaining the terms to Jane.

  “Why do you try so hard?” she asked me while we were studying together at the library.

  “When the zombie apocalypse comes, I have to have something to offer.”

  Jane smirked. “You mean your brute strength isn’t enough?”

  I flexed and Jane felt my biceps, maintaining her grip a few seconds after I’d finished flexing. I swallowed hard. It wasn’t quite second base, but at least the ball was in play.

  “Keep studying,” she said.

  We even coordinated our Halloween costumes to go trick-or-treating with each of us dressing up as a different conspiracy theory: Simon wore an astronaut suit to commemorate the “fake” Apollo moon landing, I donned a reptile mask in honor of the reptilian elite that secretly control the world, and Jane dressed the same as she always did—all black—with the addition of a black cone on her head to personify the magic bullet in the assassination of JFK. To complete the outfit, she brought along a magic wand. Of course, nobody got it. Someone even thought she was a character from Harry Potter.

  So when Jane invited us over for dinner, it felt important, another step in a friendship that had quickly become a defining moment in our lives. Simon could barely contain his excitement. “They want to meet us?” he asked, surprised. He began to list the things he could potentially bring—a dip, one of his grandfather’s war medals that had been buried before the government could take it away, maybe even a gallon of milk, his own version of a bottle of wine.

  “We’re trying to be nice to each other,” Jane said, making eye contact with me before quickly returning her gaze to the plate. “My parents and me.”

  I nodded. “Is it like a shirt and tie sort of event?”

  “A shirt would be a good idea,” she said.

  “This isn’t prom,” Simon said. “Will there be time for pictures, though?”

  “It’s not a big deal,” Jane said. “Actually, you know what? Let’s forget the whole thing. Maybe another time.”

  “You can’t do that,” Simon said. “We’ve already cleared our schedules.”

  Jane thought for a while, weighing the pros and cons. “Okay, fine,” she finally said. “How about tomorrow night?”

  Simon and I quickly agreed.

  Jane let out a deep breath and shrugged. “Here goes nothing.”

  The bell rang and Jane left to go to class. Simon and I walked to our last period trying to guess what her parents would be like.

  “I bet her dad owns a chain of Italian restaurants and her mom was Miss America,” Simon said.

  “What about this,” I said. “Her mom’s family invented the glue stick and her dad spends his time doing a form of art using only his butt cheeks.”

  “Nice. Wait, how about this. Her mom’s a doctor and her dad works on Wall Street.”

  “That’s very probable, Simon.”

  “It sounded funnier in my head.”

  “I got it,” I said. “Her mom’s a witch doctor and her dad was in the movie Wall Street.”

  Simon adjusted his glasses. “I killed the joke.”

  We stopped in front of Simon’s chemistry class.

  “Are you nervous?” I asked.

  “A little,” he whispered.

  I paused to let the moment sink in. We had never been worth having over for dinner before. Sure, we’d been invited to a couple of birthday parties, the play date with meal provided, the reluctant parent who bought me popcorn. But this was a night devoted to us. It felt like we graduated from middle school and found our way into Harvard.

  “It’s just a dinner,” I said.

  The rumors had died down about our little trio. There were still whispers, but for the most part, no one really bothered us. I felt triumphant; Jane had chosen us and the universe had bent to accommodate this new twist in reality. The only wrinkle in the plan was that we hadn’t changed. Simon was still hopelessly naïve and a little too obsessed with tween vampire books. I was still me, a collection of stories without a story of my own.

  “Are you bringing the milk or am I?” Simon asked.

  “Is everything milk with you?” I snapped.

  Simon looked wounded, lowering his gaze to the ground like a sad puppy.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  Simon remained staring at his shoes.

  “You bring the milk,” I said.

  He lifted his head. “Great, pick you up at seven.”

  * * *

  • • •r />
  The next night, Simon picked me up in the minivan and we made our way over to the New York Strip. It was dark by the time we left, and because there were hardly any streetlights in Burgerville, it felt like we were flying through space. I’d decided to bring a plate of cookies made by my mom to go along with Simon’s milk, which was proving to be a major test of willpower. Luckily, trying not to eat any was helping me focus on something other than my nerves.

  Once we got to the Strip, I noticed a lot of the houses already had Christmas lights up. Even Christmas came early for Burgerville’s elite.

  “What do you think of my tux?” Simon asked, referencing the T-shirt he wore replete with bow tie and ruffles graphic.

  “Classy,” I said.

  I had decided on a loose-fitting collared shirt I found when raiding my mom’s closet. Before my mom’s trip to the Goodwill, most of my dad’s clothes remained in a dark corner dubbed “his side,” pants, shirts, and jackets collecting dust like a museum exhibit about the way things used to be. It’d been that way for almost two years. Meanwhile, my most recent growth spurt had opened up an entire new realm of fashion possibilities. While I was excited that I could finally wear his corduroy blazer, it also made me think about how much time had passed since I’d last seen him.

  When we made our way onto Jane’s street, Simon slowed down to look for her house number, which Jane had shared with us as if revealing classified information from a secret government dossier. She lived on the type of street where you could see the mailbox, but the houses were far out of sight, behind iron gates and stone walls.

  “That’s it!” Simon said.

  We pulled in front of an iron gate that would have been more at home around a castle. I think both Simon and I thought the same thing. If Jane lived in a castle, who were we: knights in shining armor or enemy invaders?

  Simon opened the window and reached out to press the button on the intercom.

  “They’re watching,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Who’s watching?”

  We heard a beeping noise as the gate magically swung open.

  Simon’s face went pale, as if he’d seen a ghost. He pressed the gas and inched forward.

  The driveway was long and winding, with evergreen trees on either side. “Dude, she’s rich,” Simon said.

  “No shit.”

  By the time the house came into full view, I was sweating profusely. I aired out my collar, not because it made any difference, but because I had seen it done in movies when characters were anxious. Simon did the same thing with his T-shirt. Emulating Jane, I said, “Here goes nothing.”

  We walked up the steps to the doorway. I expected to see a statue of a lion or some mythical beast, but the house itself was pretty understated. Maybe a little bigger than most, with a few extra flourishes like the intercom, but for the most part it wasn’t all that different from a regular house.

  The door swung open just as we reached it. Simon and I looked at each other, slightly freaked out by the Does’ uncanny ability to anticipate our next move.

  But the person who answered the door wasn’t what we’d expected. “You made it,” Mrs. Doe said excitedly. She wore a dress and a string of pearls around her neck. At least that’s how I remember her that night. Something about her screamed wholesome, like she belonged in the 1950s: black-and-white, a manicured lawn, and a white picket fence, while her husband smoked a cigar.

  “Come in,” she said. The door opened wide, revealing a brightly lit foyer.

  Like the astronauts of the fake moon landing, we timidly stepped through the doorway, afraid gravity might suddenly change. A chandelier hung high overhead and a portrait of an old lady stared at us from the stairwell. “My mother, Irene,” Mrs. Doe said, following our gaze to the portrait. Dressed in black like her granddaughter, Irene had that same look of confusion Jane had when I first saw her in Mr. Parker’s class, only sadder, like she’d never found what she was looking for.

  “So who’s Ray and who’s Simon?” Mrs. Doe said, pointing at us. “No, wait, let me guess,” she added cheerfully. She glanced down at the gallon of milk in Simon’s hands, the label facing her as if it were a bottle of wine.

  “It’s whole milk,” Simon said. “From a very expensive farm in New York.”

  “You must be Simon,” Mrs. Doe said without missing a beat.

  Simon nodded and handed her the milk, delicately placing it in her hands like a newborn baby.

  “Which means you must be Ray.” Mrs. Doe stared at me a second too long. She threaded her fingers through the handle on the milk, and with her free hand, took the plate of cookies from me.

  “Scott, they’re here,” she yelled to the kitchen.

  From across the room, we heard a quiet motor humming. Mr. Doe eventually revealed himself, riding on top of a motorized scooter. He was bald, but not in the weak nerd way, more like in the all-powerful Mr. Clean sort of way. He drove up next to us.

  “Forgive me if I don’t get up,” he said, smiling.

  “Ray,” I said, putting out my hand.

  He grabbed my hand and squeezed. Hard. I considered the possibility that every bone in my hand might now be broken and I would have to make it through dinner in severe pain, my fingers bent and twisted.

  Simon approached Mr. Doe’s chair and reluctantly extended his hand, having noticed the look of pain on my face during our introduction. At the last second, Simon balled his hand into a fist. Mr. Doe smiled and the two of them fist-bumped.

  Just then Jane came to the stairs.

  “There’s still time to leave,” she said when she reached the bottom step.

  Mrs. Doe shook her head and rolled her eyes, the same way Jane would have.

  “Who’s hungry?” Mr. Doe asked. He turned his scooter and started toward the kitchen. We followed. I turned to look behind me and see how Jane was coping. All things considered, she seemed to be in a good mood, especially given how reluctant she was to have us over.

  On our way to the kitchen, I tried to find pictures of Jane as a little kid, something with braces, or, even better, a picture of her riding in one of those pretend cars. But no such luck. Instead of putting their life on display the way most families do, it seemed to be locked away, the question of their past hidden in a few pieces of abstract art and phallic-inspired sculptures similar to my fourth-grade masterpiece (unless everything looks phallic to me, in which case I should probably bring this up to Rich). Scattered in between there was an odd assortment of clues, including a sign that said The Does, Est. 1994, and the portrait of Grandma Irene, of course.

  We made small talk in the kitchen before taking our seats at a long wooden table in the dining room.

  I was surprised to learn that Mrs. Doe was actually from Burgerville. “A hundred years ago,” she said.

  “She escaped,” Jane added.

  “It’s not a prison,” Mr. Doe said.

  “It sure feels like one.”

  “It used to be a mental institution,” I said, referencing the old McCallen Mansion where A. J. McCallen, Burgerville’s founder, first opened his doors to those in need of help.

  We were still on the first course, some sort of cold soup that had the consistency of glue.

  “Used to be?” Jane asked.

  “Maybe it still is and we just don’t know it,” Simon said.

  “Back then, they really didn’t know how to deal with mental illness,” Mrs. Doe said.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jane give her mom a look, the kind you give your parents when you’re warning them not to bring out the photo albums or talk about your old imaginary friend.

  “Well, I love it here,” Mr. Doe said to fill the empty space. “I’ve never felt more free.” He must have thought we didn’t believe him, because he added, “Seriously, I do.”

  “When did you leave Burgerville?�
�� I asked Mrs. Doe.

  “A few years after the Folk Williamsburg Festival,” she said. “I was just a baby.”

  I slurped the last of my soup, confused. There was no chapter of Burgerville’s history I hadn’t heard before. I pushed my bowl away and began mentally scanning through all of the detritus of the town’s past—a long list of strange stories, crazy characters, and oddly colored animals. But I couldn’t remember ever hearing about a folk music festival.

  “You must know about the festival?” Mrs. Doe said in disbelief.

  I shook my head.

  “They don’t teach that in school? It completely changed Burgerville.”

  Mr. Doe grabbed our bowls, preparing us for the next course.

  “Jane’s grandma organized the whole thing,” Mrs. Doe said. “Back in the sixties she was one of the most respected folk singers in the country. How do you boys feel about folk?”

  “I love it,” Simon said. “The folkier, the better.”

  I agreed, not wanting to admit that I couldn’t even name one folk song. “Folkadelic,” I added.

  “That’s good to hear. You’ve got to have a big heart to like folk. What was that your friends in Brooklyn listened to?” she said to Jane.

  “EDM,” Jane said.

  “Sounds like a medical condition,” Mr. Doe said.

  Jane gave him a stern look, which Mr. Doe took as a cue to continue. “Sorry, I can’t come to work today. My EDM is acting up.”

  Jane covered her mouth to hide her laugh. “It stands for Electronic Dance Music,” she said.

  “Sure it does,” Mr. Doe said, making his way back to the kitchen while mumbling in the voice of one of those medicine infomercials: “If you suffer from EDM . . .”

  “Anyway,” Mrs. Doe said, laughing, “my mother never quite made it to the level of a national headliner. She was known, but mostly by other musicians. One day, she decided she’d had enough of the New York scene and moved back to her hometown, Burgerville.”

  “The place where dreams go to die,” Jane said.