by Sarai Walker
Missy’s mother didn’t follow current events, but news of the killings had trickled down to the tabloids she browsed at the drugstore during her breaks from work. In the note, Missy wrote that she wanted her mother to come to terms with the news and then, once she was ready, send the note to the editor of the Los Angeles Times so it would be published.
Mrs. Tompkins didn’t know where her daughter was, but she knew she would never see her again. She decided to burn the note, had started to burn it—the corner was jagged and singed—but then she pulled the sheet of paper back from the flame. She read Missy’s words again and decided they didn’t belong to her. She didn’t understand what Missy meant, exactly, but her daughter had been in the war and people would respect what she had to say. Mrs. Tompkins sent the note to the newspaper, where soon after it was printed on the front page.
“Jennifer asked me to help her and I don’t regret what I did,” Missy had written. “This is a different war, not an official one, but who decides which wars are legitimate?”
• • •
The Jennifer Effect
Jennifer was already a national obsession, but after the publication of Missy Tompkins’s note, she became a national frenzy.
MISSING AIRMAN SAYS “THIS IS WAR”
Federal law enforcement swooped down on Mrs. Tompkins’s Reno apartment complex. She was questioned about her daughter for days with barely any food or sleep. Along with Missy’s brother, she appeared in a nationally televised press conference with FBI agents, military officials, and members of Congress, urging Missy to turn herself in.
Immediately after the press conference, Cheryl Crane-Murphy turned to her guest, a retired military general, and asked him if he wondered why Missy Tompkins had written a note and wanted it published. “Why broadcast her guilt? Excuse my language here, general, but that note is really just a big eff you to the military, isn’t it?”
The general, tightly gripping the armrests of his chair as if to restrain himself from lunging at the camera, responded without answering the question. “We do not train American women for combat so they can come home and use those skills on us.”
“Might Jennifer also be in the military?” Cheryl Crane-Murphy asked. Missy’s reference to “Jennifer” in her note bolstered the idea that there was a real person named Jennifer who was commanding others.
The general became so enraged at the thought that he turned to the camera and said: “We don’t know who you are, Jennifer, but we’re going to find you and kick your ass.”
Every aspect of Missy Tompkins’s life was examined, from her childhood in Reno to her enrollment in the Air Force Academy to her years of military service as a fighter pilot. It didn’t take long for investigators to discover that Missy Tompkins had spent her high school years in Southern California, where she lived with her father, and that during this time she had a classmate named Soledad Ayala.
“The plot thickens,” said Cheryl Crane-Murphy. “Leeta Albridge is connected to Soledad Ayala, the mother of tragic Luz, and now Missy Tompkins is connected to Soledad too.”
Soledad was supposedly in Mexico City visiting her sick aunt, but the police discovered that she didn’t have a sick aunt. They were searching for Soledad so they could question her about the events unfolding in the United States, but she seemed to have disappeared.
The FBI director appeared on television for what the media dubbed his daily “Jennifer” briefing. “We have issued an arrest warrant for air force captain Tompkins and a material witness warrant for army specialist Ayala,” he said. “We are actively seeking the identity of the person known as Jennifer—if such a person exists. If so, she is working as part of a large criminal network, one that appears to involve at least one female member of the U.S. Armed Forces, but possibly more.”
On The Nola and Nedra Show, Nola Larson King said: “Clearly we have some kinda lady terrorist group here with someone named Jennifer as their leader.”
“I’m not comfortable referring to members of our armed forces as terrorists,” said Nedra Feldstein-Delaney.
“Then what would you call them?” countered Nola Larson King.
Three days later, the editors at the Los Angeles Times received something new: a letter containing a “Penis Blacklist,” signed by Jennifer. There was a postmark from Phoenix and nothing more.
The Penis Blacklist comprised the names of one hundred men, whose penises, the letter said, “must not be given shelter inside any woman.” The editors didn’t know if it was legitimate or a hoax, but they published the list of names anyway. Anything Jennifer related was big news.
One of the names on the list was Senator Craig Bellamy (R-Miss.), an antiabortion advocate who was under investigation for reports that he forced his secret girlfriend to have an abortion and then blackmailed her to cover it up. Upon being told by a reporter that her husband’s name was on the Penis Blacklist, Mrs. Bellamy panicked and agreed to appear on Good Morning America. “Craig and I don’t have sex,” she said, looking directly into the camera. “The last time was when I conceived our son, Craig Junior. He’s thirty now.”
Another name on the list was Todd Wright, the producer of a series of popular videos in which girls on spring break were urged to bare their breasts and take off their underpants and make out with other girls when they were drunk. When confronted by a camera crew for CNN, Todd Wright’s girlfriend said, “I’m not going to stop having sex with Todd just because some [bleeping] bitch named Jennifer says so. [Bleep] her.” The next morning she started her car and it blew up.
In response, Todd Wright, who did not seem devastated, said, “Jennifer can suck my dick.” His strangled body was found three days later under the Santa Monica Pier, his severed dick shoved in his mouth.
After the murders of Todd Wright and his girlfriend, the FBI director appeared on television again. He went through a PowerPoint presentation with ninety-nine slides, one for each of the living men on the Penis Blacklist. Each slide featured the man’s photo, his occupation, and where he lived. Among the names: professional athletes, CEOs, world leaders, Stanley Austen, and members of the U.S. Congress who’d voted against women’s reproductive rights.
“We take this threat very seriously,” the FBI director said. “While we do not condone giving in to terrorist threats, I strongly urge women not to have sex with any of the men on this list. Do not date them, do not even be seen with them, for your own protection.”
Senator Bellamy’s daughter chose to have her mother walk her down the aisle at her wedding, just to be safe.
As the search for Jennifer intensified, many women named Jennifer complained that they were under attack. The owner of Jennifer’s Bridal Boutique in Idaho Falls appeared on Cheryl Crane-Murphy’s show, saying: “Somebody threw a rock through my window yesterday with a note that said ‘You’re a man-hating lez.’” Likewise, a police officer named Jennifer Leoni from tiny Caldwell, Delaware, said someone had spray-painted LESBO on her garage door.
“I’m noticing a trend with the lesbian insults,” said Cheryl Crane-Murphy, shaking her head. “If I were a young thug, I would have gone with terrorist, but perhaps lesbian is more abhorrent.”
The FBI director appeared on television yet again. “It’s unlikely that there is a terrorist mastermind named Jennifer. I urge people to remain calm and rational and not let women named Jennifer fall under suspicion. Between 1970 and 1984, Jennifer was the single most popular name for baby girls in this country. There are well over a million women named Jennifer in the United States. It’s as close to a generic woman’s name as you can get. Jennifers are our daughters, sisters, wives, and mothers. Jennifers are everywhere among us.”
“If there are Jennifers everywhere among us,” asked Cheryl Crane-Murphy, “then how are we supposed to remain calm?”
Soon, what the news media described as the “Jennifer effect” began to spread.
At a prestigious Connecticut university, fraternity pledges marched outside the women’s dormitories chant
ing, “No means yes, yes means anal!” In previous years, this type of misbehavior would have been handled by a tweedy disciplinary committee in a conference room with tea and coffee, but this time the female students took matters into their own hands. They left their dorms en masse and destroyed the fraternity house, breaking all the windows and setting it on fire. By morning there was nothing left but charred remains.
On Cheryl Crane-Murphy’s show, one of the women involved in the attack said: “When I heard the frat guys chanting, I thought, What would Jennifer do? That’s when I grabbed my lacrosse stick and just went for it.” Cheryl explained that the female students added the names of the fraternity members to their own Penis Blacklist, a practice that was quickly adopted by women’s groups at other campuses.
The Jennifer effect showed no sign of slowing down. Women engaged in violence and civil disobedience. Men took precautionary measures. The bad- boy lead singer of America’s most popular rock band famously sported a topless mermaid tattoo on his bicep, her cartoonish breasts like round cupcakes with bright red cherries on top. Before his cover shoot with Rolling Stone, the makeup artist painted over the breasts, dressing the mermaid in a demure long-sleeved top that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a J. Crew catalog. The rock star didn’t protest or throw a tantrum. He had no interest in being dropped out of a plane.
On The Nola and Nedra Show, Nola Larson King said: “I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier, Nedra, and I agree with you. I don’t think this is terrorism or lady terrorism. Do you know what I think it is?”
“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.”
“Not at all. I’m here to help,” she said, expertly deflecting all sarcasm.
I was left alone to roam the store, the walls lined with life-size posters of the Swedes and Brazilians who modeled the lingerie. As I pretended to browse, I discreetly slipped things into my satchel, using my bulky body as a shield. That part was unexpectedly easy. The difficult part was removing the security tags. I needed to be in the dressing room to do that, but I had no reason to go in there. Even the robes weren’t likely to fit me, the unfuckable female.
Though I’d said I was shopping for someone else, I spotted a display of scarves, necklaces, and other size-free items in the middle of the store that I could pretend were for me. I selected a few accessories that would go with my dress and asked the salesgirl if I could try them on in the dressing room, to see how they looked. She wasn’t suspicious of me; people rarely were.
In the dressing room, I used the scissors I’d bought at the drugstore to cut the saucer-shaped security tags off the underwear. The scissors weren’t quite sharp enough and I gnawed at the fabric and ruined the items, which wasn’t something the average thief would have done, but then I had no intention of wearing the underwear. I didn’t know what I was going to do with it, but stealing it felt good.
I was prepared for the alarm to sound as I walked out the door or for the bored security guard to tackle me, but nothing happened. This was one of the most reckless things I’d ever done, and though I wasn’t likely to see my face printed on T-shirts anytime soon, it gave me a thrill.
At home, I dumped the lilac negligee and the rest of the contraband in my closet. calliope was born in this room / january 1973.
“What are you going to
do with all that underwear?” Sana asked when she came upstairs to visit me in my room, looking at the tangled, frayed, colorful heap on the closet floor. I confessed to her that I’d stolen it. She clearly disapproved, but didn’t berate me.
“I’m saving it for a special occasion,” I said.
“Waiting for Mr. Right?”
“I already met Mr. Right, didn’t I tell you? I encountered him in the subway station. He punched me in the face.”
For the rest of the week, I settled into a routine. In the morning I was up at the sound of the music and made breakfast for everyone. After the women cleared out of the kitchen, I’d spend a few hours baking, still in my nightgown, listening to the radio for any news of Leeta. While I stuffed myself with cupcakes and popovers and whatever else I’d made, I’d call my mother. She wanted to talk about Verena’s book and was full of questions about my new life and where I was living, relieved that I was away from Brooklyn and surrounded by new friends. When I finished baking and eating, I’d put the rest of the baked goods onto platters and trays for the other women and then I’d shower, dress in my new clothes (which were becoming snug), and visit a branch of V— S—.
On the fourth day, when I went down the stairs, ready to go out, I paused in the red-walled entryway to make sure I had put my scissors in my satchel. Then there was the shattering of glass followed by screeching tires. I feared that a bomb was finally blowing up the Bessie Cantor Foundation next door and I was experiencing the blast in slow motion. I stood frozen in place until I felt certain that a fireball wasn’t about to rip through the walls.
I walked into the living room and bent over to pick up what turned out to be a brick with a piece of paper rubber-banded around it. One side of the paper, in block lettering, read: DIE BITCH. On the other side: EULAYLA 4-EVER.