Until I Find You

his testimony. He thought he was sweating. But the trickle down one leg was blood, or water with red food coloring—not sweat. Given Jack’s near-death ejaculation, he first feared that his penis was bleeding. When he realized that the bag of colored water was leaking, he wondered if there would be sufficient blood left in the bag for the all-important bursting scene.

After the performance, Mr. Ramsey would praise what he called Jack’s “preparation” for the standing, screaming, bleeding extravaganza—the way the boy squirmed in the witness chair as if, unbeknownst to him, his first period was already starting. But it was!

Jenny faltered in her testimony, a hesitation Mr. Ramsey later termed “brilliant”—but one that caused the faithful prompter, Bonnie Hamilton, to look up from her lap and regard Jack-as-Jenny with the utmost concern. (Jack could read his as-yet-unspoken lines on her lips.) He could see that the audience was growing anxious; he hoped that no one in the audience could see the trickle of blood. But Peewee saw it. The poor man was not a regular theatergoer; he’d come out of fondness for Jack. Peewee knew nothing of props—the gun had taken him totally by surprise. And now he saw that Jack was bleeding—the strain of the moment, or something hemorrhoidal, or a stab wound inflicted by one of the older girls backstage? Jack was only a couple of lines away from his big moment when Peewee rose from his seat and pointed at the boy. “Jack, you are bleeding, mon!” he cried.

It was everything The Wurtz feared—it was improv. Jack spontaneously decided to edit his remaining testimony, which made Bonnie Hamilton gasp. But he was already bleeding. Wasn’t the blood, and his reaction to it, his best witness? Jack jumped to his feet and struck the leaking bag of colored water with both fists. The bag had lost more blood than he’d realized; it was not full enough to burst easily. Darlin’ Jenny struck herself in the lower abdomen again and again. The last time, she hit herself a little too hard; Jack-as-Jenny doubled over at the force of the blow. The bag burst with the sound of a tendon snapping, the blood exploding under the potato-colored dress.

“Jack, you are making it worse, mon!” Peewee cried.

But Jack was at that moment in his performance when his audience of one took over completely. He screamed and screamed. He raised his bound wrists above his head, his hands dripping blood; the blood dripped on his face. What was meant to represent a first and long-withheld period suddenly looked like a terminal hemorrhage. Someone on the jury (one of the two women) was supposed to say that this clearly had to be Jenny’s first experience with menstruation, but Jack-as-Jenny didn’t hear the line. The audience couldn’t have heard it, either. Even Bonnie, the prompter, had stopped prompting. Jack was wailing like a banshee.

He was being sent away, to Maine! He had managed to ejaculate not only because he was drawn to Bonnie Hamilton’s pain, but also because of his enduring infatuation with Emma Oastler’s mustache—and holding his breath while kissing Emma had almost killed him! Mrs. Wicksteed lay dying. Lottie was taking the boat back to Prince Edward Island. Jack’s world was changing, once again. He couldn’t stop screaming. Jack-as-Jenny bled enough for a young woman having her first five periods!

Miss Wurtz had on her enraptured face an expression of stunned enlightenment; in her literary snobbery, she’d underestimated both Jack’s improvisational powers and the theatrical potential of A Mail-Order Bride in the Northwest Territories. The entire cast was frozen. Backstage, Sandra Stewart vomited again. (Ginny Jarvis, now the murdered Mr. Halliday, said this was all Jack’s doing.)

Emma had stopped chewing her gum with her mouth open. Even Mrs. Oastler seemed impressed by all the blood and screaming. Mrs. Peewee was clutching her hat as if she were strangling the parrot. Jack barely noticed that Peewee had rushed onstage to attend to him. He just went on screaming and bleeding. Jack was only distracted from his audience of one when he looked at his mother.

It had not been an easy time for Alice lately. She had recently caught Jack under the covers trying to sneak a look at the scar from her C-section. In the semidarkness of her bedroom, Jack couldn’t see it. He explained that he was curious as to whether she had a bikini cut, like Leslie Oastler, or if her incision had been the vertical kind.

“It’s private, Jack—it’s not your business!” his mom cried. But why had she been so upset about it?

In the front row at the St. Hilda’s theater, maybe Alice was remembering that awkward moment—or the passing of Mrs. Wicksteed, or losing Lottie. (Or the future—moving in with Mrs. Oastler, among other things.)

Even as he went on screaming and bleeding onstage, Jack realized that his mom, like Peewee, was not much of a theatergoer. She may have thought she’d seen him “act” before, but this was nothing she’d been prepared for. Her mouth was as open as Emma’s, her hands were fists pressed against her temples, her knees were clamped as tightly together as if she were the one who was hemorrhaging. And because Jack was screaming, he couldn’t hear her crying. He saw the tears flow down her cheeks. She cried and cried, without restraint; she was hysterical. Jack saw Leslie Oastler trying to comfort her. Emma had stopped looking at Jack and was staring at Alice instead.

“I’m all right,” Jack said to Peewee, who had picked him up and was shouting for a doctor. “It’s a play, Peewee!”

“Mon, you have bled enough for both of us!” Peewee said; but Jack was transfixed by his mother.

“Oh, Jackie, Jackie!” she was crying. “I’m sorry, Jack—I’m so sorry!”

“I’m okay, Mom,” he tried to tell her, but she didn’t hear him. There was now the applause to contend with —it had swelled to a standing ovation. (Even The Wurtz was applauding.) The entire cast was onstage with Peewee and Jack. It was time for their bows, but Peewee wouldn’t put Jack down.

“It’s just water with red food coloring, Peewee,” Jack whispered in the big man’s ear. “It was a prop. I’m not bleeding.”

“Shit, mon,” Peewee said, “what am I supposed to do with you then?”

“Try bowing,” the boy told him. Still holding Jack-as-Jenny in his arms, Peewee bowed.

On Monday, Mr. Ramsey would inquire if he could ask Peewee to be there for the remaining performances, but it was not an experience Peewee wanted to repeat. (Years later, Peewee told Jack that he never got over it.)

Jack saw that The Gray Ghost had magically materialized at his mother’s side. Faithful combat nurse that she was, Mrs. McQuat was doing her best to calm Alice down, but not even The Gray Ghost was effective. Alice’s sobs were lost in the uproar, but Jack could still see her stricken face. He could read her lips—his name, over and over again, and she kept repeating that she was sorry.

Jack had meant to ask her if they were to become Mrs. Oastler’s rent-free boarders—and, on the subject of “free,” had his mom given Emma’s mom a free tattoo? But seeing his mom so dissolved by his performance as Darlin’ Jenny, Jack knew better than to ask. Without fully understanding his mother’s relationship with Leslie Oastler, he guessed that nothing in this world (nothing that mattered) was ever free.

Despite the applause, Jack would have begun to scream again—had not the curtain come down and he found himself backstage, still in Peewee’s arms. Peewee had only momentarily viewed the falling curtain as another unscripted calamity. Once the sea of girls had surrounded them, Peewee calmed himself and congratulated Jack on his performance. He finally put the boy down.

“Jack Burns!” Mr. Ramsey was calling. “Every mail-order bride in the world is in your debt!” Jack saw that Mr. Ramsey had a camera; he was taking a picture of Jack-as-Jenny.

“You can shoot me anytime, Jack,” Ginny Jarvis said too loudly in his ear.

Penny Hamilton, who overheard her—and whose unfortunate forehead had been in the way of his near-death ejaculation—said: “Yeah, Jack, the odds are that you’re not shooting blanks.”

“What?”

“Leave him alone,” Emma Oastler said. She’d managed to make her way backstage and had thrown a protective arm around him.

Also backstage was the haunted face that would stalk Jack’s future. Bonnie Hamilton was looking at him from a distance, as if her heart couldn’t bear coming any closer. She had stopped prompting, but he could still read her trembling lips.

“You see?” Jack whispered in Emma’s ear. “You see how Bonnie’s looking at me—that’s what I mean.”

But in the clamor of the moment, Emma didn’t hear him—or else she was too preoccupied, fending off the