by Tracy Walder
The men were squirming in their seats, uncomfortably jocular, the day we discussed the Lorena and John Wayne Bobbitt case. Lorena cut off her husband’s penis as he slept. She got in her car, drove away with the untethered phallus, and then Frisbee-tossed it out the window into a field. The police and FBI searched the field until they found the dismembered … um, member. It was later reattached, and even later than that enlarged, as John Wayne Bobbitt launched a career as a porn star. Though Kotter had never censored photos before (we’d seen raped and mutilated women, and children against whom crimes had been committed that are too gruesome for me to name), on the Bobbitt day, there was what would now be called a “trigger warning.”
“If you want to see the photo of John Wayne Bobbitt’s detached penis,” Kotter said, “stay after class, and I’ll show you.”
When class ended, it appeared that everyone was filing out.
“Really?” I said to the former professional football player. “You can handle everything else we’ve seen but not John Wayne Bobbitt’s penis?”
“Hell no!” He laughed and went out with the rest of them.
The photo was interesting in that the stump was jagged and ragged. It hadn’t been a clean cut; Lorena had to have sawed away at it for a while.
“How could he have slept through that?” I asked Kotter. It was just the two of us; everyone else was off to the lunchroom.
“Drugs. Alcohol.” His head was tilted as we looked down at the photo together. And then he looked up at me and said, “Doesn’t it bother you to look?”
“No,” I said. “It’s a body part of a particular person who suffered at the hands of another particular person: his wife. It’s not a threat to the nation. Nothing really to be horrified about.”
“You’ve got a strong gut, Schandler,” Kotter said, smiling. It was a rare and small compliment, but I was very happy to hear it.
The second time I was called in an office to be disciplined was even more baffling than the first. I knew it couldn’t be my suit, as I’d been wearing my baggy clown sack (I looked like David Byrne from the Talking Heads) ever since I’d made Bart uncomfortable. This time Ted called me in. I’d come to think of him as Junior Bart, as he seemed to mirror Bart in everything but the New York accent and the gold chain.
“Schandler, sit,” Ted ordered.
I sat and looked at him, waiting.
“Are you wondering why you’re here?”
“Of course.”
“Can you tell that the other members of your class have a problem with you?”
“Yes.” As far as I could see, the group was simply mirroring our three supervisors. Taken as a microcosm for world history, it seemed amazing to me that humanity has ever been able to rise above the lowest common denominator.
“Do you know what that problem is exactly?”
“Can’t say that I do.” Surely it would do no good to point out that I was singled out on the first day as a traitor to our country because I was in the CIA on September 11. Also, I often wondered if my security clearance, which was higher than that of everyone at Quantico, had anything to do with my instructors’ dislike for me.
“It’s your constant yakking about the CIA,” Ted said.
I never spoke of the CIA. There was nothing to say. Everything I did was undercover. Bart, though, brought it up often and worked it into each lesson. (“We don’t shoot from the hip, Schandler, not like you did in the CIA!”)
“Okay,” I said.
“The biggest problem is that no one believes you. They don’t understand why you’d make up this crazy story about being some overseas spy. Everyone thinks you’re full of it.”
Once again, I was speechless. Confused. The FBI had done background checks on me. They interviewed my supervisors at the CIA. They visited me in my office at Langley!
I said nothing.
“Could you just walk me through exactly what you did in the CIA?” Ted’s face was still. Sincere. I could only presume he was serious.
“Sir.” I paused. “Isn’t it all in my file?”
“I suppose so.” Ted nodded. “Let me look into it and see if I can get some clarity for the group.”
“Okay,” I said. “And maybe you should ask Bart—”
“Special Agent Smith.”
“So sorry,” I said. “Maybe you should ask Special Agent Smith to stop referring to my career in the CIA during lessons. I certainly have no interest in talking about it.”
“Schandler, how ’bout we start with making sure you really are who you say you are?” Ted nodded. “Let’s put your little make-believe identity to rest.”
“Okay.” I smiled. It was a painful smile, aching in the corners. “Thank you, sir.”
“We good? You going to keep quiet about this?” Ted stuck his hand out to shake mine.
“Quiet about this meeting?” Again I was confused.
“About your alleged spy career,” Ted said. His hand was still out, he was grinning. And then he winked. “What’s the truth now? You can tell me. Were you a secretary there or something?”
I reached out, shook Ted’s hand, and said, “Yeah, something like that, sir. I’m sure it’s in my file.”
“Good, good,” Ted said. “You’re excused now.”
I rushed out of there, slightly breathless from the exchange. It seemed so ludicrous, I couldn’t imagine even telling this story to someone. So I didn’t. I held it in my head and thought about it over and over and over again, imagining what I would have said had I felt free enough to speak the truth. Also, I couldn’t stop thinking about what I could do in the future to help girls and women, people like me, to find the power to say what’s real and true, to speak up in the face of injustices.
About three days later, I was eating lunch alone when Ted approached my table. My stomach dropped. What was it now? Did I need to testify as to the natural color of my hair?
“Schandler,” Ted barked.
“Yes, sir?” I put down my fork and waited.
“We looked through your files, and then we sent an agent over to Langley to get to the bottom of this.”
“Yes, sir.” I was waiting.
“Amazingly, you really were a goddamned spy.” He nodded enthusiastically, as if I should have been thrilled to find out that I hadn’t been a secretary after all. In truth, I would have been proud to have been a secretary or administrative assistant at the CIA. They work just as hard as everyone else and deserve as much respect as the operatives and analysts. “I still won’t mention it,” I said.
“Good then.” Ted gave me a thumbs up. “We’re on the same page.”
Oh no we weren’t. And we never would be. In fact, we couldn’t have been farther apart, especially when my grandfather, Jack Davis, died while I was at Quantico.
A couple weeks earlier, Jay had lost a grandparent. He flew home to his family in Montana, returned five days later, and quickly crammed and caught up—as far as I knew—on his classes. So I wasn’t worried about being able to take time off after my mother called and told me that my grandfather had fallen in the tub and hit his head; he was in a coma and failing.
From the moment I heard about the accident, I didn’t put away my cell phone and even slept with it under my pillow. It was three in the morning when my mother next called to tell me my grandfather had passed away. I whispered into the phone; still Brandy woke up. I could sense her watching me even when I threw the covers over my head so I could speak with my mother privately. When we hung up, I stayed like that, under the covers, and cried as quietly as I could. There wasn’t a big moment in my life that my grandpa hadn’t witnessed in some form. The idea that he would no longer be around was so jarring that I almost couldn’t process it. We’d had an entirely uncomplicated relationship. There was none of the fear and anxiety that my parents could project, and none of the difficulties of friends and boyfriends. It was all love, laughter, and joy. No one had been more proud of my career in the CIA than my grandpa. (He had been thrilled when I had tol
d him about visiting his family’s neighborhood overseas on my first CIA trip.) Oddly, the only thing my grandfather had been less than enthusiastic about was the FBI. I’d been meaning to sit down with him and find out why it didn’t excite him the way the CIA had. Unfortunately, I never had the chance.
I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. Once the sun was up and breakfast had been served, I went to find Marge, Ted, or Bart. If I took a flight to Los Angeles that night, Thursday, I could make the Friday funeral. I’d only miss a single day of training as I’d be back on Sunday.
Bart was in his office, feet up on his desk, laughing on the phone. I waited in the doorway for a good five minutes. By the time Bart hung up, Marge and Ted had come down the hallway and entered Bart’s office, too. Together, they felt like a firing squad.
“What can I do you for, Schandler?” Bart asked.
I’d been crying all night and morning. But in the face of these three my emotions went cold, and I was as dry and firm as hard-packed dirt.
“My grandfather passed last night. The funeral is tomorrow. I’d like to take a late-night flight home tonight so I can go to the funeral. I’ll return Sunday and will only miss a day of training.”
“Can’t be done.” Bart looked from Marge to Ted.
“Go home Saturday,” Marge said.
“The funeral is tomorrow,” I said.
“I doubt the funeral is tomorrow, if he just died last night.” Ted cracked his knuckles; it reminded me of the ba-ba-bum drum taps after a talk-show host tells a joke.
“We’re Jewish.”
“Well, I’m Catholic,” Ted said, “and I’ve never seen anyone buried less than five days after they pass.”
“Jewish law says you have to bury your dead right away,” I said.
“Does it now?” Bart dramatically nodded his head toward me. “And you’re up on Jewish law?”
“No, not at all,” I admitted. “I just know that people get buried right away.”
“You can go Saturday,” Bart said.
“Jay was gone five days for his grandfather.” I had to point it out.
“You’re not Jay,” Marge said. “Are you?”
“No, ma’am.” I held her gaze for a second. “But can you explain why Jay could leave for a funeral and I can’t?”
“You’re different,” Bart said. “’Nuf said.”
I looked at each of their faces. No one was going to crack open their heart, even slightly, and give me a break here. Without saying another word, I turned and left the room.
I missed the funeral, but I did get two days with my family to mourn one of the most important people in my life.
* * *
No one gets out of Quantico without having suffered in multiple ways. The final pain to be endured was being pepper sprayed directly in the eyes during the last week of academy training. Brandy, my chattering roommate, actively fretted over the coming pepper spray drill. Her husband had said it was the greatest pain he’d ever endured, and he—according to Brandy—was a guy who wouldn’t even flinch if he were knifed in the eye.
“Bet you didn’t get pepper sprayed as a CIA secretary!” Brandy laughed. I stayed silent. We were each in our beds, the lights were out.
A few seconds passed, and then Brandy said, “And no mascara tomorrow! Even if it’s waterproof it can’t hold up to the continuous tearing. And you’ll be rubbing your eyes, too! You don’t want to rub mascara flakes into your eyes and scratch your cornea. That hurts. Not as much as pepper spray, however. Remember: you will cry. I promise you. Not just tears, I mean cry. Like, wa-wa-wa-wa. That kind of cry.”
“Do you think Betsy’s blue eye shadow will hold up?” I was kidding. Who cared if Betsy’s eye shadow held up?
Brandy gasped. “Oh no! Maybe she shouldn’t wear the eye shadow tomorrow. And she definitely can’t wear mascara. She’s going to scratch her cornea! I’m going to tell her!”
Brandy got out of bed and then stuck her tiny feet into her giant fuzzy slippers that made a swooshy sound when she walked. Brandy skated out the door and down the hall to Betsy’s room to warn her about mascara and eye shadow. Fortunately, she was gone long enough for the sudden quiet to lull me into a perfectly peaceful sleep.
The next morning we lined up on the blacktop. Bart held an orange punching bag, Ted and Marge held containers of pepper spray. The drill was this: Ted and Marge would spray you directly in the eyes. Once hit, you’d go to the punching bag and battle it as best you could. After 30 seconds or so, the person behind you in line would try to remove your orange dummy gun from the holster, and you would fight him or her. If you lost that fight, you had to do the whole drill all over again. If you won, you were excused to the showers, where you shed and bagged all your clothes to be washed immediately. In the shower, you’d rinse your face, eyes open, in cold water as long as you could stand it. The showers were closed to all other classes as the pepper spray was so potent that just brushing against the clothing of someone who’d been hit could cause distress.
A guy named Gus went first. He was a blue-eyed, stocky guy who walked with widely bowed legs, like he was wearing a diaper. Gus hit on me the first night of the academy, uttering some line about training pals with benefits. I turned him down immediately, as did most of the other women in our group. Brandy seemed impressed by Gus, however, and frequently spoke about him and his feats of strength. I didn’t want to know how deep their friendship went; the idea of the two of them together seemed like a movie so awful I wouldn’t even watch it while I was folding laundry. Still, I felt bad when Gus bent over his knees, spitting and blubbering in pain. We all cheered him on as he blindly fisted his way to the punching bag and then flailed his arms like a crying madman as the former football player, laughing, tried to disarm him.
One by one it was the same story. Blinding pain. Endless snot, tears, and spitting, as I presume the pepper spray went in people’s mouths, or maybe it went down their sinuses and was coming out everywhere. One guy collapsed to his knees and started dry heaving. The crowd backed away in a big circle. Nothing came out, and he blustered his way to the bag, fighting and crying. I didn’t care what any of these people had said or done to me. This looked agonizing, and I was going to support them through it.
And then it was my turn.
I stood and faced the nozzles, my eyes wide open. Ted sprayed from where he already stood; Marge took a couple steps forward so she could get a straight shot into my eyes. I felt it cold and wet on my face and in my eyes.
But nothing hurt. The group was weakly clapping. Yes, they cheered for me.
Still, there was no pain. I glanced at Marge and then turned and ran to the punching bag. Bart, who was holding the bag, screamed something about everyone in the CIA being “pussies” and this was the test of a real American hero. I barely listened; my brain was spinning as I tried to figure out why I felt nothing. Tasted nothing. I wasn’t even sniffing or spitting.
A guy named Tony came up behind me and tried to take my gun. I turned, looked him in the eye, and whacked his hands away multiple times, then I kicked at him as well. When it was over, I glanced at Marge and Ted, who had their heads tilted together. They were talking while their hard, beady eyes stayed trained on me. Before they could say anything, I ran, as if I were being chased, to the locker room.
When I got there, Betsy, without eye shadow, was on her knees, blindly feeling around. I bent down and picked her up.
“Oh my god, oh my god,” she was crying, actually crying. “How could they do this to us?! I’ve never been in so much pain in my life and I CAN’T SEE! What if it doesn’t go away? What if I’m blind?!”
I could see fine. I helped Betsy off with her clothes, walked her to the shower, and turned on the cold water.
As each of the other women came in, I helped them undress and get to the shower. They were in so much pain, they didn’t seem able to take in that I felt nothing. Not the slightest sting.
I took off my clothes anyway. After a leisurely showe
r, I dressed in the uniform I’d placed in the locker room before the exercise.
Four of the five other women were talking continuously about the hysterical pain, their tears, and the amount of snot that had come out of their noses.
Josie sat with them on the locker-room bench, nodding, agreeing, and repeatedly blowing her nose. She wouldn’t have been able to insert a word if she’d wanted to.
Brandy looked up at me. “Tracy, seriously, wasn’t that the most agonizing thing you’ve ever experienced? I mean, that was worse than a knife in your eye, right?”
“Absolutely,” I said, and left before there were further questions.
Late that night I Googled: immune to pepper spray. It’s rare, but it exists. Some people just don’t feel it. But there was no way I was going to let anyone in the FBI in on my tiny little secret superpower.
* * *
Sometime in the middle of training, we were handed slips of paper that listed the FBI offices in the nation with openings. Sitting in a classroom, we ranked our choices one through ten to indicate where we’d like to be placed. If you put Los Angeles, San Francisco, or New York, you were pretty much guaranteed to get it as those offices always needed more people. Also, most agents didn’t want to go to those three cities because of the high cost of living. I put Los Angeles as my first choice; I wanted to be near my family.
A couple of months after we’d ranked our choices, everyone was assembled alphabetically in that same classroom and then called up to the podium, one by one, to be handed an envelope with the information about the office and squad to which we were each assigned. The envelope was opened right then, on the stage, and the results read aloud to the group. People who got their first choice usually hooted, or cheered, or pumped a fist in the air. It was a highly charged, highly emotional gathering that was, for most people, happy.
I was one of the last ones to come up and receive my envelope. I took it from Bart and opened it. It said Los Angeles Field Office, Santa Ana Resident Agency.