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On my sister's twelfth birthday we went to Chicago by way of two state prisons. As a lawyer my father was often assigned appellate cases and he liked to combine his mandatory prison visits with family vacations. We were going to see my mom at Northwestern University. She and my father had been having marital problems so when she decided to get her masters degree they tried a trial separation.
I suppose the separation came at a formative time in my life, but I preferred my father's company. That summer I was busy with books, vacation, and the strong conviction that I was very mature for eight.
July 14th and I sat in the back of my dad's car sweating over a limp and chewed copy of Harriet the Spy.
"Air conditioning," I grumbled. Dad would turn it up and then lower it again ever so slowly in tiny clever increments, assuming I wouldn't notice.
"Air conditioning."
My sister was a good-looking twelve. Dark hair and a tan against tight white jeans cuffed just above the knee. At Muskegon Correctional Facility she was getting mad. It was ten o'clock on the morning commemorating her birth and she was parked in a prison lot waiting for Dad and the next stop. I didn't mind so much - minimum security, beautiful landscaping, car protected by the shade - it was like camp. Robin groused about the heat and her stomachache.
"What d'ya think it's like in there?"
"Huh?"
"I mean, what's minimum security like?" I looked up at her and through the windshield. "I dunno. There aren't any fences. I guess they're just kinda bad people. White collar stuff. Fashion violators."
Robin picked at her elbow, scraping the little bumps and freeing the tiny trapped white hairs. I was sprawled in the back, my sneakered feet out the opposite window, bare toes poking through the fabric.
"Here comes Dad."
He walked toward us with his briefcase in hand and his suit jacket draped across his arm. I slid aside as he hung the coat on the peg above my head.
"Anything exciting happen?" I leaned my chin on the station wagon's bench seat.
"No, nothing exciting," he said.
"What did this guy do?"
I ducked my head as he grabbed the back of his seat and craned his neck around, steering out of the parking space.
"Kids, why don't we keep the windows open for a while? Carrie, put your seatbelt on."
In the rearview mirror he appeared to have two mustaches: one in the usual place and one riding high above his eyebrows. His mouth opened at the bridge of his nose. I buckled my belt.
"You kids weren't too hot out here?" he asked.
"We were under a tree, it wasn't too bad."
"It's very humid," answered Robin, staring out the window.
"So come on Dad, what did this guy do?"
"None of it's very interesting, baby."
"I mean, like, what do you have to do to go to Ionia," I said the name with a slow awe in my voice, "the place for the ... criminally insane."
Robin snorted.
"No, sweetie, Riverside is the prison for the criminally insane. It's in Ionia, but Ionia Prison is just for regular bad people."
"But they're maximum security."
My father was amused. "No, they're both what they call close custody prisons."
I thought hard, concerned by my erroneous assumptions. "Well, but Jackson must be."
He looked at me in the rearview mirror, the mustache on his forehead wrinkling with exasperation. "Carrie, the only maximum security prisons in Michigan are Huron Valley and Marquette. I think. Don't quote me."
I sat back in my seat, thoroughly horrified by my shoddy factual store.
"Well, so, what kind of people do you see?" Robin sighed and put on her Walkman. I ignored her snub. "Huh, Dad?
"Carrie, you can't really want to know this."
I lunged forward, alarming him a bit, "I do!"
"Well, in these medium-security places I see some of the lesser serious crimes: unarmed robbery, criminal sexual conduct - when it's not particularly aggravated - maybe even somebody passing bad checks. Or some of the more serious things. Well, for instance, an old con who has gotten used to the idea of a life term - resigned to it. When a guy gets that way they move him to medium security, because if they leave him in that hole for too long, and it occurs to him that he's going to be in there for the rest of his life, he'll go insane. So they move him before that happens. If they can."
I was delighted by this explanation - old cons, criminal sexual conduct - they were such important-sounding terms. And the way my dad just rattled them off. I was impressed.
"Can you guys shut up?" My father returned Robin's annoyed look, but she just turned up her music.
The Dunes is a medium-security prison, but I thought it looked maximum. Its walls were tall, gray, and distant. We parked by a big field. The fence surrounding it was remarkable: incredibly high to my small stature, curving in on itself like a row of barbed-wire claws. Big, topless men circled the track, some running singly, others walking, talking in pairs, seemingly every one a perfect physical specimen.
"They don't have anything else to do."
"What, walk around all day?" Robin asked, turning from the window.
"No. Lift weights," I answered.
"Oh." Two convicts - one black, one white - both hot and shiny, hung on the fence about fifteen feet from the car. Robin looked away at first, but situated the mirror so she could check them out. A guard made us jump as his big sweaty head leaned in the car window.
"Was wonderin' if one of you ladies could move this car a little farther away from that fence. You're agitating the men."
Back over our shoulders more prisoners had lined up along the fence, multi-colored hands hanging limply in the chain link. He assumed Robin could drive. She looked old enough.
"Sure."
"Thank you, ladies."
She slid over to the steering wheel and grabbed the keys off the dash where Dad had left them along with some other stuff he hadn't wanted to bother with inside.
"You can't." I leaned forward on my knees and poked my head into the front seat.
"It's not like it's a stick shift or anything. I only have to move over there." Robin nodded toward a spot not far from our location. She bit her lower lip as she backed out and inched into the next lane. Since Mom had left she'd been practicing with the car, unbeknownst to Dad. She parked. The men still hung idly on the fence, but we were pretty well hidden.
"Something's wrong." Robin had been quiet after stopping. She was sitting behind the wheel and staring between her legs.
I didn't look up. "Just put it in park and turn it off."
"No," she took the keys out and let them flop on the seat. "No, I'm bleeding."
I rocked forward again. "What d'ya mean?"
Between her legs a dark stain - bright red at the edges - seeped noticeably larger, eating into her thighs.
"Oh my God, I'm bleeding!"
She lifted her butt off the seat, pulling the tight pants away from her skin. Scared, disgusted fingers tugging gingerly at her inner thighs.
"Robin, it's your period."
"No, it can't be! I don't get my period," she shrieked.
"I mean, you're getting it now," I said, as if she were an idiot.
"No, I can't be!"
"Well Jesus, Robin, look, you're bleeding."
"What if I'm hemorrhaging or dying or something?"
"I have a tampon." I dug in my backpack.
"What?!"
"A tampon," I said, my face busily buried in the bag.
"You're eight!"
I looked at her wondering how that could possibly matter. "Derek and I like to watch them get fat in the swimming pool. Here." Holding it carefully between thumb and forefinger, I passed it to Robin. She stared at the little white bullet.
"How the hell am I going to get that in me?" she whined, incredulous.
"Well, hasn't mom showed you or anything?"
"No," her voice was getting panicky.
"You mean she never showed you?" I couldn't believe it.
"No!" Now she was angry. She looked at our surroundings. So did I.
"And where am I going to do it anyway?"
"I can cover you with my bag."
She started to sniffle helplessly. "The only ones I've ever seen are those long ones with the cardboard, like they show in those movies in fifth grade. This one doesn't have that. How can I get it in me?"
What movies? Her crying frustrated me. "Just cram it in with your finger."
"Oh God!" She put her arm over her face and wept dramatically, her head halfway out the window.
"Dad's coming."
"What?" She wiped her face quickly and absently with the back of her hands.
"He's looking for the car."
He spotted us and came over. Robin moved back to the passenger's seat.
Dad sighed and sank into the car, tossing his jacket over the back of the seat. "Guard make you move?" He looked over at Robin. "Did you move this all by yourself ... What's wrong?"
"I ... "
He looked over at me and I didn't know what to say, "She ... "
"What's wrong? Did something happen?" He was slow and hot, but still alarmed.
"I ... "
"Robin, answer me!" he said, his confusion turning to impatient anger.
"I got my period!"
Dad looked at me as if I could explain.
"She got her period."
"Well, honey." Now that he knew no one was seriously wounded, his composure quickly returned. "I'll just take you inside to the bathroom ... "
"NO!" she sobbed into her elbow.
His head swiveled.
"She won't go in that bathroom, I don't think," I answered for her.
"We can go to the gas station, sweetie."
More chest heaving and tears.
"She doesn't have anything. This is the first time."
"Oh my God." Dad picked the keys off the slightly bloody seat and started the car. He drove quickly out of the lot, past the boredly dispersing men, and drove down the long empty road to the nearest convenience store. He didn't say a word. He was inside for a long time while Robin continued trying to pull the wet denim away from the wounded area.
Dad had a big bag in his hand when he came out. He opened the passenger door and squatted down. One by one he took things out of the bag and placed them in Robin's lap: maxipads, minipads, panty liners; tampons with applicators, tampons without; two different kinds of vaginal deodorant powder; a baking soda and water douche; and a seven-day cure for yeast infections. He looked up at her expectantly. She burst into tears.
Dad pulled her toward him and held her around the shoulders as the feminine hygiene products spilled out around his feet.
"I'm sorry baby. I'm sorry it's me. I'm so sorry baby. Sorry Mom's not here for you. Sorry it's me." I watched his closed eyes tighten as he hugged my sister - saw him rub her back and rock her gently. But Robin wouldn't let him be Mom. It was her birthday, it was too hot, and there was blood on her new white jeans in a party store parking lot.
I stared at Dad's balding head, at his big hands trying to soothe her. All I saw were his hands.
--Joanna Rubiner