The History of Jane Doe

by Michael Belanger

  The crowd applauded.

  “Who’s ready to spin Burgerville Bill?” the announcer shouted into the microphone. “On the count of three . . .” Lester held up his blindfold and put it on. “One!”

  Lester gave the thumbs-up.

  “Two!”

  He tried to touch his toes but got stuck at his knees.

  “Three!”

  The announcer spun Lester ten times, taking hold of his cane and giving him his arm to hold on to. Lester got his bearings and started to hobble north toward a year of good luck. “He hasn’t gone north in ten years!” Simon said.

  He gave me a look that said Told you so—more proof that Simon’s Law was winning out.

  But at the last second, Lester veered east and started walking to the woods.

  The rules of the festival required everyone to stay completely silent so as not to influence Bill. Nobody said a word as he continued the slow march to the woods and a rainy couple of months. Good for the farmers and foliage of Burgerville, bad for everyone else.

  It felt like an eternity, Bill walking with his cane, a couple steps at a time before having to catch his breath, the announcer following closely behind like a vulture stalking his prey.

  “This sucks,” Jane said. “I’m so tired of rain.”

  There was something so genuine about the way she said it, like she really thought Burgerville Bill had the power to change the weather.

  And then a thought dawned on me. To this day, I don’t know what came over me, but when he was about halfway to the woods, I stood up and yelled:

  “You’re going the wrong way!”

  A thousand heads turned toward me.

  “What are you doing?” Simon whispered.

  “Why should we leave it to chance?” I said.

  Burgerville Bill stopped dead in his tracks, disoriented.

  Then I heard another voice. It was Jane’s.

  “Turn around!” she yelled.

  Now it was all chariots of fire, Burgerville Bill with his cane pointed west, marching one slow and painful step at a time.

  Gradually, though, he picked up his pace. A few people began clapping, cheering on the old man as he made his way west, toward the center of Burgerville.

  Simon and Mary stood up, urging him on. Then the whole crowd joined in, a full-scale applause as Burgerville Bill made his way toward the end of the path and a spring filled with sunshine.

  “It’s you,” Simon said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re the chosen one. The next Burgerville Bill.”

  “What?”

  “You guided him,” Simon said.

  He got down on one knee, giving me the respect of a king.

  “Get up,” I said.

  He stood up, laughing. “The next Burgerville Bill,” he called out, pointing at me.

  The crowd joined the cheer, drunk on the moment.

  “Raymond Green, the next Burgerville Bill!”

  I put out my hand to Jane. “What do you say?”

  Jane put her hand in mine. “Burgerville Jill? A whole new era of gender equality.”

  The crowd cheered even harder. Bill stood at the finish line, his white hair blowing in the wind. He took off his blindfold and shook his fist in victory. Despite the will of the gods, Burgerville had now achieved a warm and sunny spring.

  I brought Jane closer and we kissed, the crowd disappearing as I closed my eyes. When I pulled away, Jane’s eyes were still closed, just like our first kiss.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon finishing off the picnic basket, Simon chugging the chocolate milk to impress Mary, Jane and me poking curiously at the “Baked Milk.” Every so often, someone would come to our blanket and congratulate me on my selection as the next Burgerville Bill, even though it had yet to be approved by the town council. I made sure to introduce everyone that came up to me to my First Lady of Fate, Burgerville Jill, a role Jane actually seemed to be enjoying.

  “Does this title come with any actual power?” Jane asked. “Like do I get to imprison people or eat at restaurants for free?”

  “You’re strictly a symbol,” I said.

  “Just my luck.”

  At one point, I looked around the crowd, saw my mom and Tim sitting close together on a blanket. I watched as Mrs. Doe took Mr. Doe’s cowboy hat and put it on, nestling her face close to his for a kiss. Despite all of the horrible things that happen, there was still the possibility of happiness.

  I don’t know what Jane was thinking that afternoon, but I like to believe it wasn’t all that different from what I was thinking: Maybe it was up to us to make our own happiness.

  266 DAYS AFTER

  THE BUTCHER II: THE SEQUEL

  I’m disappointed to say that the town council recently rejected my selection as the next Burgerville Bill in a unanimous vote. They’ve already created a survey on the town website for people to nominate the next Bill, but they must not know how the internet works, because Lester Martin’s hair is currently in the lead.

  I’ve decided to throw myself into a new pursuit anyway. I’m reviving Roger Lutz’s ill-fated petition to change the mural on the ceiling of Town Hall to tell the truth. Today I wrote a long letter explaining why the mural is an offense to history and the real heroes of Burgerville. I’ve already sent it to the Burgerville Gazette, the town council, the mayor, and of course, Roger Lutz. Maybe I can use my powers of history to actually make a change.

  I hear a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” I say. Simon and Mary burst into my room.

  “Your room looks . . .” Simon glances around. “Exactly the same.”

  “It’s a museum of my life,” I say. “Curated by me.”

  After thinking about my CAR list, I invited Simon and Mary over to watch a movie. One of Rich’s little steps to help me get better. Twenty Horror Movies on the Road to Recovery or something like that.

  Simon pulls a DVD out of his pocket like he’s smuggling contraband. “The Butcher Two,” he says. “He’s hungrier than ever.”

  “We just watched the first one,” Mary says. “I don’t think I’ll ever see food the same way.”

  “That’s the first movie we watched with Jane,” I say.

  “I know,” Simon says. “That’s why I brought it.”

  I know Simon means well. It’s his way of telling me how much he misses Jane, even if it’s by watching a movie about a man who eats people. But watching The Butcher is about the last thing I want to do right now.

  Simon and Mary take a seat on the beanbag in the corner of my room. I move my swivel chair in front of the TV.

  The opening credits play. Ominous music that makes you wonder if the Butcher’s right outside the door.

  “The thing about the Butcher,” Simon says, “is that he’s a very relatable character.”

  “He’s a cannibal,” Mary says.

  “But he had a very difficult childhood. His feelings of alienation and being an outsider are universal. Right, Ray?”

  I turn my head to the beanbag. Simon has his arm around Mary, their bodies pressed close, heads only inches apart.

  “Everything except all the stuff about killing and eating people,” I say. A thought comes to me then and it basically destroys me. In our own little story, Jane has already played her role; her screen time is over.

  The Butcher makes his first appearance on screen, prepping a casserole of uncertain origin. Mary screams.

  “He’s literally just cooking dinner,” Simon says. “Trust me, it’s gonna get a lot worse.”

  As the movie continues, body parts flashing across the screen in soups, lasagnas, cheesecake, and an epic scene with Jell-O, I realize the main problem with history. You can talk about. Analyze it. Dissect it. Study it. Put it in a museum. But you can never, ever, no matter how
hard you try, relive it. By its very definition, it’s over as soon as it happens.

  Meanwhile, life moves on.

  Simon laughs. Mary nestles her head against Simon’s shoulder. But Jane . . .

  “You okay, Ray?”

  “No,” I say.

  “What?”

  Everyone’s so used to me saying I’m okay. I’m so used to me saying I’m okay. But something about the Butcher’s bad acting makes me realize I can’t keep up my own crappy performance.

  “I’m not okay. Jane’s gone. How would I be okay?”

  “Well, I know you’re not okay, I just meant are you okay? You know what I mean?”

  Simon presses pause on the TV. It happens to be just as the Butcher is dismembering a body.

  “I don’t know anymore.”

  “Maybe The Butcher wasn’t the best idea. How about Jenga?”

  “I don’t want to play Jenga.”

  “Monopoly?’

  “No.”

  “Maybe chess? I don’t know the rules, but I’m sure I could pick it up pretty quick.”

  “Games aren’t gonna make me feel better.” I know I’m being a dick, but for some reason I can’t help it.

  “Sorry, I’m just trying to—”

  “Then maybe stop being so fucking happy!” I yell. I immediately put my hand over my mouth. I’ve never yelled at Simon before. Simon looks shocked, his face contorted into the same expression he had when I explained to him how chicken nuggets are made.

  Mary takes hold of his hand and angrily glares at me.

  Simon looks me in the eye. “Sometimes you act like I wasn’t friends with Jane too.”

  “It doesn’t seem like it.”

  “I miss the old Ray,” he says.

  “Me too,” I say.

  “Ray?” my mom says through the door. “Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine. Isn’t that what you want to hear?”

  She opens the door. “Ray?”

  “I said I’m fine.” She stands in the doorway framed by the light from the hallway. Tim walks up behind her.

  “Should we invite the whole neighborhood?” I say.

  “What’s going on?” Tim asks.

  “We were just leaving, Mrs. Green. Good day, Superman,” Simon says as he passes by Tim. Tim looks startled, almost as if his secret identity has been discovered.

  I hear the stairs creak as Simon and Mary leave, the front door slamming shut.

  My mom glares at me. “I know you’re going through a tough time, but it’s no excuse to be mean to Simon. And in front of his girlfriend?”

  Tim gently touches her arm, whispers something in her ear. “I’m not yelling at him,” she says. “I . . .” She glances at Tim, then back to me. “I’m just worried about you.”

  “We’re worried about you,” Tim says. I was beginning to lose faith in my skills as a historian. I’d judged Beddington wrong. Tim. Not even my dad and I could agree on an accurate version of events. It seemed to me that everything in life was built on all of these faulty perceptions. Remove a piece and the entire structure crumbles. Everything I thought I knew about history, about Burgerville, about Jane, was wrong.

  “Take a deep breath,” Tim says. “Cool off. We’re downstairs if you need anything.”

  The door closes. I think about calling Simon, but I don’t even know what I’d say.

  I collapse onto my bed and spot the framed photo Tim gave me for Christmas on my dresser, practically hidden behind my spelling bee trophy. My mom must have taken it out of the trash and had it fixed. I want to scream. Memories and pictures and history are all that I have now, and that just isn’t enough.

  36 DAYS BEFORE

  JANE’S HISTORY

  With the end of the school year less than a couple of months away, Jane seemed almost excited about the prospect of summer.

  “No more lectures relating biology to comic books,” Jane said, daydreaming about summer vacation.

  “No more meatloaf from the cafeteria,” Simon said.

  “Summer’s looking better and better,” I said.

  “No, I meant that as a bad thing. I look forward to that meatloaf. I even had my mom try to re-create the recipe, but it just wasn’t the same.”

  We were waiting outside school for first period to start. Different cliques congregated, the same way they do in movies about high school, all of the clichés present, all of them sadly true: stoners kicking a hacky sack, football players flirting with the cheerleaders—Tommy Beddington at the helm, still veiled in secrecy—the Ivy Leaguers, whose very existence hinged on their academic credentials, cramming for tests, and of course, Simon, Jane and me, a category all our own.

  Beddington, standing in the center of the football players, waved to us. We waved back. I thought about that night at his house when I’d become a one-man demolition crew. How getting to Jane seemed to be the most important thing in the world. Ever.

  “Are you guys still undefeated in badminton?” Simon asked.

  Jane was leaning against the wall, using her backpack as a cushion. “Yup. I guess it’s the only game Mr. Whitley knows the rules to.” She looked around the courtyard. “Does it seem like people are staring at us?”

  “I always feel like that,” Simon said.

  “No, seriously.”

  I scanned the courtyard, watching everyone in their own self-absorbed little bubble, the same as always. “I think you’re being paranoid,” I said.

  The bell rang and we ran off to our classes. Six hours until freedom.

  That day, everything seemed fine. Math was the usual hour-long nap, with Mrs. Klein’s soothing voice lulling me to sleep with talk of quadratic equations. During second period, Jane and I traded notes in biology as Mr. Parker attempted to teach the differences between reptiles and amphibians through characters in the Marvel Universe. The hallways contained the same slow-moving crowds, kids marching from class to class with gigantic backpacks. In American history, Jennifer Robinson continued to mix up important historical figures, asking the thought-provoking question “Did Lee Harvey Oswald really assassinate Richard Nixon?”

  I guess it was wishful thinking, a case of seeing what I wanted to see, because later that day, during lunch, Tommy Beddington took a seat across from Simon and me with a grave look on his face. Jane had a different lunch that day because of her English class, and Mary was working overtime to prepare for her first role actually playing a sentient being (a horse).

  To be honest, when he first sat down, I kind of felt honored, proud in a way. Simon and I had changed so much since Jane entered the picture that Tommy Beddington could sit with us and no one would even bat an eye.

  “Have you guys seen Jane?” he asked. He was staring down at his phone, his thumbs moving furiously across the screen.

  Simon was still practicing the silent treatment, his own version of revenge for the years of torture and neglect. “Why?” I asked.

  “It’s just that . . .” He stopped typing and looked at me.

  “What?”

  “What’d you do to her, Beddington?” Simon said, practically foaming at the mouth.

  “I didn’t do anything.” Tommy looked around the cafeteria, sizing up the Burgerville student body. “They know about Ellie.”

  “Know what?” I said. “What are you talking about?”

  Tommy looked at me, squinting. “I thought she told you,” he said.

  “Ray, what’s going on?” Simon said.

  “I don’t know, Simon,” I said, my voice slightly raised as I angrily glared at Tommy.

  He once again glanced down at his phone. After typing in a few words, he slid the phone across the table. The screen was frozen on a picture of Ellie, one half of the same photo Jane had shown me all those months ago in the McCallen Mansion.

  I scrolled d
own and quickly scanned the article, each word like a punch in the gut, a reminder that Jane didn’t trust me with her history. Simon leaned over me, his hand on my shoulder, tightening his grip as we read. The article didn’t specifically name Jane, but it talked about a friend with a house on a lake in Pennsylvania. A friend who took Ellie to a steep cliff on the edge of the water. And later, a friend who had to run to get help when Ellie slipped off and hit her head on a rock. Phrases like “head trauma,” “accident,” and “tragedy” were sprinkled throughout the article.

  “How’d you find this?” I asked, my anger dissipating into a fog of confusion.

  “Laura’s cousin went to school with Jane in Brooklyn. And you know how Laura is.”

  “Doesn’t she have anything better to do?” I said.

  Laura Russell, Burgerville’s social media maven, lived to spread news about people, a sort of cruel personal historian.

  As the lunch room filled up, the hum of conversation felt almost suffocating. “There’s something else,” Tommy said, practically whispering. “They also know about . . .” He glanced from side to side, his gold chain dangling in front of his chest.

  His voice became quieter. “Laura’s also been telling everyone about . . .”

  He didn’t have to finish the sentence.

  “What?” Simon said, looking back and forth from Tommy to me. “I feel like I’m having dinner with my parents when they talk about the economy.”

  I didn’t have the heart to say it. It just didn’t feel right to talk about Jane’s wrist in the middle of the cafeteria. I heard a low murmur of whispers. “It’s none of anyone’s business,” I said, suddenly furious at the entire lunch room, the kids craning their necks to hear the latest news.

  I stood up. I could feel everybody’s eyes on me. “Don’t you have anything better to do?” I screamed.

  “Take it easy, man,” Tommy said.

  “You’re scaring the lunch ladies,” Simon said.

  Most people had stopped their conversations and were staring right at us.