Her aunt Darlene told a different story. Deb had earned pocket money by babysitting for a family in town. At the end of the night, the man of the house—who may or may not have worked for the electric company—would drive her home.
Don’t you want to find him? Claudia had been asked this more than once—usually on a second or third date, by men who were themselves fathers. The question said more about the person asking than it did about her.
She was conceived in May of 1971, when her mother was a junior in high school. The age of consent in Maine was sixteen. As far as the state was concerned, there was nothing wrong with a grown man impregnating a teenager, a girl who still collected stuffed animals and dotted her Is with tiny hearts: .
（No, Claudia told her date. I don’t want to find him.）
In the spring of 1971, abortion was still illegal in Maine. If Claudia had been conceived a year later, would she even be here? She had never asked her mother that question. The answer was none of her business, and anyway, she didn’t want to know.
The man, whoever he was, eventually moved away, with his wife and other children, to North or South Carolina. Probably he did it to get away from Deb, who didn’t take betrayal lightly and, Claudia strongly suspected, had made a nuisance of herself.
（Why would I want to find him?）
The annual package from Sears. Claudia has tried to work out exactly how it happened. Did her mother call the man on the phone? Did she say, “This is what Claudia wants for Christmas”？ Did her father even know her name?
There was no point in asking. On this subject and others, Deb was a vault. Claudia consulted various sources, reliable and unreliable, and made reasonable assumptions. She pieced together a story that seems plausible and may in fact be true.
CLAYBURN, MAINE, WAS A TOWN OF FOUR THOUSAND. THERE was a Congregational church, a gas station, a Dairy Queen, and a Hannaford supermarket. The nearest town of any note was Farmington, which had a U of M campus and was the birthplace of the guy who’d invented earmuffs. Growing up there, Claudia and her friend Justine Webster affected a snotty disdain for the place, as though they were just passing through on their way to somewhere more exciting. Claudia believed this about both of them, but especially about Justine. Never mind that Websters and Birches had served life sentences in that poor woodchuck county for many generations, the girls’ forebears so lazy or unimaginative that not one, ever, had found his way out.
How exactly you’d do that wasn’t clear. Forty percent of Claudia’s high school class went on to further education, a deliberately vague category that included shady for-profit colleges and low-end trade schools that advertised on matchbooks. Girls went to the Downeast Academy of Cosmetology or got mall jobs or got pregnant. Boys drove trucks or joined the army or worked on road crews or went to jail. Between the two of them, Justine and her husband had done most of those things, shuffling through the same sad options like a losing hand of cards.
Her best friend, her entire childhood. When they were eight and ten, Claudia saw Justine twirling a baton in her backyard, and from that moment she had to have one. That’s how it always was between them, Justine out front and Claudia two steps behind, doing as Justine did and wanting what she had. There should be a special word for it, the adoring love of a little girl for a slightly older one. Claudia has never loved anyone else in precisely this way.
Justine could toss a baton high above her head, whirl around twice, and catch it. She could spin it around her wrist in a way that defied gravity, a trick Claudia practiced for many, many hours and never managed to perfect.
Hundreds and hundreds of hours.
At college she’d meet people who knew how to do things she couldn’t imagine doing. Their childhoods had been curated by concerned adults: piano lessons, ballet class. In summer they were sent to camps, where paid instructors taught them to play tennis and ride and sail and row. And if how you spend your time is what you eventually become, baton twirling was a significant feature of her childhood, and Justine’s: the uncountable hours spent honing an entirely useless skill.