Choices - Chapter 15

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Don returns from his hunting trip and Miri confesses shopping for Jack. After they have words they make a startling discovery.

I never knew what to expect from my sweet, wonderful and loving husband but when he dragged himself through the door Friday night at 10 pm, after a hunting trip turned blizzard, sporting odors I wish to banish from my memory (but cannot), a six day growth of facial hair (which, unlike some other women, never elicited any primordial sexual reaction in me), dirty stained and torn clothes and that silly ridiculous orange hat he wore when hunting (and unfortunately sometimes when he wasn’t), I was shocked. Had I expected what I saw, and smelled, I might have taken the children and moved in with my parents before he got home.

It was so cold that December night as he stood there with the door open looking like something from hell. I am certain he expected me to run to him, fling myself into his grimy arms and plant a sloppy kiss on his hairy self. There was no temptation to do that on my part.

“For God’s sake, close the door.” I said coldly turning back toward the kitchen. I fully intended to make it as cold inside for him emotionally, as it was outside, meteorologically. He deserved it; leaving me for five days with the kids out of school and showing up unannounced looking the way he did. The only silver lining was that he had to leave the Cessna in a hangar surrounded by two feet of snow somewhere in northwestern Pennsylvania. One could only hope for a mysterious hangar fire.

“Aren’t you glad to see me?” He chided with a raspy voice following me into the kitchen without taking off his coat, or that tattered orange hat with the floppy ear coverings in the down position making him look more goofy than usual. I strategically resisted responding.

“Can a guy get something to eat?” He pleaded. I almost expected him to add ‘woman’ at the end of that question.

“I’ll heat up some of the chili I made Wednesday for you.” Not so subtly reminding him he was two days late.

“Oh, thanks. Look Miri, I’m sorry about being gone all week.” He offered rather weakly. I turned away from the stove and stared at him waiting for his pathetic apology to continue but knew there would be excuses. “The snow caught everyone by surprise.” I turned back to stirring the chili continuing to be my chilly self, saying nothing.

“Come on, Miri, so I was gone a couple extra days.” He said dismissively. That was the last straw but it gave me what I wanted; the opportunity to set him straight. I turned off the stove, put some ice in a glass, poured the glass half full of scotch and sat down at the table across from him.

“You want some chili. Fix your own.” I told him looking into his sad eyes as he started to squirm. He glanced at the stove but showed no inclination to feed himself.

“You’re angry with the whole hunting trip, aren’t you?” He speculated correctly.

“You’re damn right, I am.” I shot back taking a gulp of the scotch. “Look Don, I don’t begrudge you your testosterone binges with the boys, I’m glad you have that, but you took off and left me with this crises we’re dealing with.” He tried to look sorry. I certainly wasn’t done. “And you come in here looking like you’ve been with Attila the Hun, hungry, expecting to be fed and forgiven, failing to even ask how the children are or if something happened.”

“How are the children; did something happen?” Asking two questions as one retroactively. I smiled at him. How can men be so dense?

“Of course something happened. Something always happens and they happen with me and never with you because you are doing everything you can to avoid this, uh, this.” I was stuck. Suddenly I really didn’t have words for what we were dealing with, at least not words I wanted to use anymore. I had him on the defensive and wanted to keep him there. I wanted to put the father of my children in a position where he had no choice but to be involved. I took a breath and calmed my voice. “The children are fine. Tim and Jack are at the farm until Sunday, dad picked them up late this afternoon. Brenda has a sleepover with Janie, and you’re not sleeping in my bed.”

“Miri!” He protested sounding as if I had unfairly deprived him of a basic manly entitlement.

“Not until you’ve showered and shaved.” I got up and turned the burner back on under the chili and got out a bowl. He looked relieved but I wasn’t done with him.

“I thought you were going to talk with Jack.” I prodded not looking at him.

“I’m going to. I had to think. I talked to John some. God Miri, this isn’t easy for me.” In a fraction a second I considered whether to attack or sympathize. I decided to take a middle approach handing him a hot bowl of chili as a peace offering.

“Don, it’s not easy for me either but I will allow that maybe it is harder for you, what with all that guy macho crap.” I paused to see if he was listening while he inhaled the chili. “That doesn’t mean this is a picnic for me. I don’t mind taking an active role here, I am the mother, but damn it Don, you just have to get involved.”

He looked hurt as he stopped slurping chili and just looked at me. He started to defend himself.

“Wait, don’t say anything. You promised we would sit down with Jack and deal with what he’s been doing. Remember? We were going to do that together. You wanted that opportunity because you’re so sure you can you can make him understand. But no. You decide to go kill something.” I rapidly fired directly at my target.

“Miri, I didn’t even fire a shot.” As if that mitigated being gone for five days and avoiding the subject. I went for the kill.

“That’s not the point. The point is that I’ve had to deal with this by myself. And things do happen, Don. I’m the one who discovered it and then had to hear our son, your son, tell me he thinks he’s a girl or something. Do you think that was easy? I’m the one who found him all perfectly dressed up like a ten year old girl up there.” I pointed toward the ceiling. “I had to decide on the spot what to do.” I purposely let a tear form. “And I chose to try to understand, to listen. I chose not to push him away. I hugged him like that and we cried together.”

I let the tear run down my cheek and continued. “Believe me Don, I wanted to rip that dress off of him and before you second guess me and say I should have, would you really have done that if the roles were reversed.” I challenged.

He looked at me passively without any expression almost like a doe about to be executed. It was typical of him and actually a quality about him I rather liked. Donald Roberts was a good, smart and extremely handsome man, an only child who was still so often childish himself. He was a good provider, an engaged father who loved his children. When things got rough Don Roberts tended to hide; passive hardly ever aggressive. He loved me and could be very sweet and affectionate. He never once threatened me or the children; he didn’t have a mean fiber in his body. He definitely wasn’t reactionary; more of a wait and see type of guy. Had he not been a man he would have been almost perfect. I needed to tell him what I thought, give some positive feedback.

“Don Roberts, I don’t believe for a moment that you would have handled that any different than I did. I know you Don. You may be oblivious at times and you do avoid, but you care and you’re not mean.” I was trying to appeal to his basic humanitarian soul. I took another sip while he processed what I was saying. His silence meant I should continue.

“I’m the one who confessed what Jack was doing to John Benson which led to Dr. Ellis. Remember, I’m the one who went to Wheeling and spent two hours with a psychiatrist hearing all about Freud and Carl Rogers and how Jack just might always have some inclination toward this cross-dressing thing.”

“Your right, Miri.” He finally allowed rather passively. “But I wouldn’t…” I interrupted him before he said something I didn’t want to hear.

“I’m not finished. I’m the one who’s been there for Jack, who bought him panties, who told him I would always love him.”

“Wait Miri, what? What did you say?”

“About what?”

“You said you bought panties. For Jack? When?” I didn’t have to say anything. He could read my guilt.

“Jesus H Christ, Miri. You bought panties, for Jack?”

“Just one pair, Don, and I didn’t give him the matching bra.” I quipped trying to deflect his disbelief and impending anger. “If you would have been here you could have helped; deal with the crises, not buy the panties.”

I smiled. He didn’t.

“What on earth were you thinking? Don’t you see how wrong that is?” He charged now not being passive. “God Miri, your one of those mothers who helps her son become a queer, aren’t you?” He added rather viciously.

I was somewhat surprised that he used that word but strangely it didn’t bother me. Obviously he subscribed to a Freudian view of behavior sprinkled with oedipal complexities. But I wasn’t going to react to his blaming me. Jack was different and while applying the noun queer to Jack was both unfair, and premature, I had promised myself to accept Jack no matter what he was or became. I did need to correct my ignorant husband however.

“That’s not fair, Don, nor correct.” I told him calmly. “First, we don’t know that is what he will be. He’s just too young to even guess. And second, I would rather you not use that word.” I looked at him as sternly as I could. “Third, maybe I have influenced him, I don’t know. I don’t think I did but it really doesn’t matter now. Would we love him any less if he grows up and isn’t that involved with girls?” I postulated trying to soften the thought of him being homosexual.

I thought for a moment that this conversation was going to change my marriage and my life. What he said next just about confirmed it.

“You’re in denial, Miri. Influenced? You think that just maybe you influenced him?” Now he was calm, and so assured of himself.

“Let’s go over this. First, when you discovered this little, uh, anomaly in our son, you do nothing except send him a clear message that it’s ok to do what he’s doing. Remember that, Miri? You talk to him and he gets to continue going up there and putting on dresses.” I almost felt he was angry but he was so calm laying out my indictment.

“Then you go up there with him and reinforce his behavior by being with him like that, hugging, crying and what? Singing, that’s what.” He continued so self-assured. I was crying before he even said the word.

“What message did you send to him there? Miri you’re just too emotional about this, too emotional to do what needs to be done.” He clearly felt that as a woman and a mother I was totally unqualified to deal with what Jack was doing. I resisted my strong inclination to remind him of his complete absence from the issue, figuratively and literally.

“Then you throw yourself at me begging me not to put a lock on the door. I caved there but I thought you were going to go to that doctor and get this under control. I trusted you.” I was no longer crying. I stood up and poured more scotch on top of the ice in my glass. If he wanted to blame me I wasn’t going to take it sitting down, or without fortification. I decided to let him finish, to let him take his best shot.

“Next you let Jack be The Angel in the church thing, wearing that prissy gown with the lace sleeves in front of God and everyone.” He added to the charges. I wanted to tell him that what Jack does on the third floor was also in front of God but decided it wouldn’t advance the dialogue.

“How do you think it made me feel when Fred Grizwald asked me why I let my son be The Angel?” Now I was giving him the blank look, not answering his selfish question.

Then it almost scared me what my husband did next. He stood up and came over to where I was standing and stared at my expressionless face with the dried tear. Who was this smelly hairy hulk hovering over me with an almost wild but clearly menacing look? I had never felt intimidated by the man who shared my bed for so many years but I could not be sure what he was going to do. He took the glass from my hand, drained the scotch in one gulp and continued staring at me just a few inches from my face. I prepared myself for the worst and almost flinched without any move on his part.

“Now you’ve gone just too far. You’ve lost it Miri. You bought an eleven year old boy, our son, a pair of panties. Let me be clear. Miri, that’s just wrong. That’s my son and I gave you unlimited latitude to find a solution. But you didn’t do that. You decided, for whatever reason, to just give in and let him become some, uh, I hate to say it Miri, some perverted sissy.” He turned away showing more emotion than I had ever seen in him.

I really can’t say I fully considered those words in that instant but I knew there was something fundamental about the difference between men and women in what he said. To me he seemed not so much angry but scared, for himself as much as for Jack. Perhaps it was what Jack was doing represented the ultimate weakness for a man. What he didn’t seem to understand was that being female-like, or prissy as he said, was hardly a weakness. I felt sorry for him, sorry that he could not see, or feel, what I did. In just such a short time Jack had given me an understanding about gender that transcended the thick wall between the sexes. But I knew that I couldn’t explain it to Don; I knew that task fell to our child who was to me now neither son nor daughter.

“Are you finished?” I asked to his back. He didn’t answer but started to walk out of the kitchen. I couldn’t resist having the last word.

“This isn’t going to work, Don. You and I at odds like this.” I told him. He paused but did not turn. At least he was listening.

“It wasn’t exactly like that.” I said defending myself but quickly added. “I admit I went too far, Don. You weren’t here.” He turned and faced me in the doorway.

“You have to believe me. I don’t want this any more than you do.” He tried to hide his skepticism. “I need you, Don. I need you to be involved with this, with Jack.” I wanted to go to him, wanted him to hold me but resisted. “You’re right, I’m weak about this. I need your strength.”

He nodded in agreement of course.

“Please Don.” I begged. “We have to do this together.”

“Trust me, Miri. I’m going to be involved.” He promised as he turned and headed upstairs and a shower, having the last word.

* * *

Don did shower but was just too tired to shave. I let him sleep in my bed but there was no intercourse, verbal or otherwise. There wasn’t even contact. When I awoke there was a fresh cup of coffee on my nightstand and Don was in the bathroom shaving. It was almost noon on New Year’s Eve.

I lit my first Chesterfield and propped myself up happy that the savage who I last saw, and had words with, late the night before had transformed himself into something almost human. He came out of the bathroom and sat down on the bed next to me. He was right; I was weak, especially with him sitting there bare chested, clean shaven and still so muscular.

He apologized for being so hostile but told me that because I was a woman, and the mother, I was just not able to see the situation clearly. I was irrevocably biased, he said, implying that my sex was a handicap. I wanted to ask about his “handicap” but didn’t want to challenge him at a time he was getting involved. He said he didn’t blame me and noted he didn’t think I could help the way I was. ‘And perhaps Jack could not help the way he was’ I silently whispered.

He let me explain about letting Jack be The Angel, and listened with some compassion as I told him about Jack wearing Brenda’s panties to Wheeling when I took the kids shopping and how he revealed it to me.

He claimed he understood that I was on the spot when I was faced unexpectedly with our eleven year old boy in his sister’s panties but gently, with a modest amount of condescension, used both anecdotes to bolster his claim that I was unqualified to deal with Jack’s proclivities. I reached out and took his hand and then stroked the hair on his chest. We seemed to be on the same page.

I thanked him for his understanding and proposed that he lead the way, as appropriate for the man of the family. I promised to be good and to consult him should I ever become so weak again. I suggested we have that discussion with Jack and that I would take a back seat; that I would observe and only speak to clarify facts. He readily agreed; he would explain reality to Jack and I would support him. I whispered in his ear that his plan was fine with me.

I made him promise not to discuss sex and not to be demanding or dictating. He needed to work with Jack, listen, try to understand. He could encourage, point out the advantages of being the superior gender as well as the disadvantages of being ‘different’ (as in sissy) in a hostile world as long as he listened to Jack and considered his feelings.

We had a deal and I rewarded him appropriately, deftly using my “handicap”.

* * *

After sex we got dressed, had bacon and eggs and talked about our next move. I forgave him for abandoning me and he forgave me for being weak and buying panties for his son. It was amazing how a good night’s sleep, not to mention a rather vigorous physical encounter, which I needed as much as Don, erased almost all of the discord of the night before.

We decided we would set aside a time and place where we could talk to Jack without interruption and without drawing the attention of our other curious children. Brenda, who fortunately came bounding through our bedroom door just back from her sleepover as I lit a post coital cigarette and not earlier, would be returning to boarding school on Monday. Tim, who was in ninth grade, did not get home from school for more than an hour after Jack did. Tuesday when Jack got home from school would be perfect for the three us to talk together. I made Don swear like the Boy Scout he wasn’t that he would not back out this time.

“I want to see it.” Don said out of the blue.

“What? The dress I’m wearing tonight?” We had been talking post breakfast about going to the annual New Year’s Eve gala at the McClure Hotel in Wheeling and I presumed he meant he wanted to see what I was going to wear. I liked that about Don. He always took an interest in how I looked and what I wore, and sometimes what I didn’t. This time he wasn’t smiling, or flirting.

“No Miri. I want to see the third floor.” He told me resolutely as if it was something he really didn’t want to face but just had too.

My first thought was that the father should not go up there, that it would be better if he did not have any direct association with the behavior that troubled him so much. Of course, I had been up there both with and without Jack as recently as Thanksgiving and there really wasn’t too much to see really. Then in a flash I thought it would be more than appropriate for the man who was so sure of himself while at the same time so afraid of what Jack was doing, or actually who Jack might be, to have some direct association with it, just like I had to.

“Oh.” I answered sounding surprised. “Sure. Why not? Don’t think there is much to see but let’s do it.”

Brenda was in her room getting ready for the party she begged us to let her go to. By getting ready I knew she was sleeping. I was somewhat apprehensive as I followed Don up the steep, narrow and winding staircase to the third floor. Naturally situated at the top of our large Victorian home, the third floor was a smaller space than the lower floors and partitioned into two large rooms. One served as a spare bedroom for company; it was where Caroline stayed at Thanksgiving, and was directly above the master bedroom. The other room was rather small but had a bank of built in cedar storage drawers, an area for hanging clothes and a door that led to a balcony that looked toward the Ohio River. Like our bedroom and the living room below the large room on the third floor had the central feature of the house, a turret about eight feet in diameter with curved glass windows. Within the circular turret part of the room sat the big mahogany bed. The massive matching dresser sat on the opposite side of the room.

Don opened the door to the large room, took one step in and stopped. He was blocking my view.

“God Miri, you didn’t tell me this.” I pushed my way past him and looked at what I can only describe as a girl’s room. What I saw was nothing like what it was just six weeks before when I made the bed and cleaned after Caroline spent two nights with us in that room. Both Don and I stood there with our mouths open for the longest time.

First the full length mirror that sat adjacent to the bed had a pink ribbon neatly attached to each spindle with a bow and two trailing pieces of ribbon. Two dresses hung neatly on the hall tree standing near the bed, neither was the sun dress Jack wore when I first saw him in November, six weeks prior. Both were winter dresses with high necks and long sleeves; one was very dressy with a full skirt in a soft poke-a-dot. Both had been Brenda’s when she was ten or eleven. On the opposite hook of the hall tree neatly hung a skirt, pleated in navy, and a white blouse both of which Brenda wore often to school when she was in the sixth grade. Behind the skirt and blouse was a girl’s slip, white with a full skirt and lacy straps and trim. It was exactly what a girl Jack’s age would wear with the skirt and blouse and was definitely for a pre-teen girl who had not started to develop (there were no darts in the breast area).

On the bed was Jack’s bear, the one he had had since he was about three. I thought it was packed away somewhere and was surprised to see that the ragged old bear was still part of my child's life. Also on the bed was a throw pillow that Lottie had made for Brenda many years before. It was so soft and lined on one side with in a pink silk material and on the other a pattern of flowers.

There was a table with a lamp and a chair Jack had brought in from the other room that he obviously used to do his homework. It was neat with pencils and paper organized on top. Then there was the dressing table. I did not remember that when we moved we had some of the old furniture from my childhood taken to the third floor. One piece was a rather battered and plain dressing table that had to have been made in the last century. It had a matching wobbly bench seat but no mirror. Jack had placed the dressing table against the wall across from the full length mirror. He must have polished it because it looked great. On the table there was a brush, comb and hand mirror matching set. Brenda had received two such sets for Christmas when she turned twelve and I had just put one in a drawer in the other room. On one side of the dressing table were three hair ribbons, two were with clips just like most girls often wore in their hair. The other was a longer ribbon that would be used when a girl pulled her hair back and tied the ribbon up from the back. One of my old nearly empty tubes of lipstick conspicuously near the ribbons.

I tried to find words but just turned and threw my arms around my husband.

“Don, it wasn’t like this. Just a few weeks ago it wasn’t like this.” I repeated. “He’s uh he’s..”

“He’s not my son.” Don said almost matter-of-factly as he broke away and walked over to the bed looking around.

“Oh Don, don’t say that.” I implored to his back. “It’s my fault, Don. I gave him too much leeway. He must have thought I was condoning whatever.” I added hoping to take some of what I was sure would soon be rage from Don.

“I guess.” Don said taking one of the dresses from the hall tree and looking at it. “This was Brenda’s.” He guessed.

“Uh huh.” He hung the dress back up. He went over to the dresser and started to open, then close drawers. He stopped with the fourth drawer and motioned for me to come look. There in the drawer were the panties I had bought him neatly folded with an old training bra of Brenda’s, three pair of girl’s socks and two pair of cotton panties. I have no idea how, or when, or even where he acquired the bra, socks or other panties. Don gently closed the drawer. There was no rage, or overt anger. Don just looked drained without expression or color in his face.

Don walked past me and out of the room. I called to him before he reached the stairs.

“Where are you going, Don? What are we going to do?”

All Don said as I heard him going down the stairs was “I don’t know.”

I didn’t know what we were going to do either. I was so afraid that I would not be able to maintain my marriage, and at the same time keep my promise to Jack, the precious child who thought he should have been born a girl, and who was starting to convince me he was right.

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Comments

Why the delay

God knows this chapter is long overdue but it certainly wasn’t His fault. Unfortunately the author came down with a severe case Writers Obsessive Syndrome or WOS (not to be confused with WUS, a totally different disorder). WOS is marked by a compulsive need to edit and rewrite, over and over, 24/7. There is no cure and traditional therapy has proven ineffective. Only the heavy burden of knowing someone somewhere might need to know what happens to the main character of this tale forced a (most likely) temporary respite from the suffering. Feel for the poor author.

I certainly didn't expect this....

Ragtime Rachel's picture

I must say, your stories are anything but predictable. Just when I think I have these characters figured out, a revelation comes out that destroys my preconceptions. I expected Don to be hostile (and he was, at first) but I did not expect his stunned silence on encountering the girlish bedroom on the third floor. A prime indication that Jack's need to be a girl went beyond what either of them dreamed.

I'm going to be paying very close attention to succeeding chapters, as I'm quite curious as to how this will unfold. I just can't shake the feeling that this isn't going to end well, regardless of whether they talk to the psychiatrist or not.

One minor note on word usage: would Miri have used a word like "macho" in 1955? The earliest known English use apparently dates back to 1959--before that it was primarily used in the Latino community, and not really widely used until the seventies. I'm wondering if a term like "he-man" would have been more appropriate to the period.

Livin' A Ragtime Life,
aufder.jpg

Rachel

Macho indecision

Thank you for following the story. I hope not to disappoint and to be more punctual. I considered whether to use "Macho" or not and actually checked. I felt it might be pushing it a little but came down on the side of it better connecting to the reader. I think you are right though.

Thanks again.

Sherry Ann

I suppose you could probably hand-wave it...

Ragtime Rachel's picture

...by saying that these are Miri's written reminiscences from a vantage point of decades later, and she naturally would let a few modernisms creep in without meaning to.

Livin' A Ragtime Life,
aufder.jpg

Rachel

Your writing is skillful.

My experience with all this nearly cost me my life, and when I finally did get the right of it, there was still more to pay. The family have been awful, and certain others have been worse than that. How is it you thought you could bring a story like this here and not hurt many of those here?

Shit, I was just taken into custody a couple weeks ago for sitting on the bridge, thinking about jumping, and now I see this?

As I said, your writing is skillful, but how you thought that a T person would enjoy this, I can not imagine.

A

Pain

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for sharing your very real and genuine feelings. I think I understand your sentiments and I take them more seriously than you can imagine. I too have felt the sting of rejection, who among us hasn’t, and have been the brunt of unmitigated hatred and rage. Finding peace, and acceptance has been elusive but for the most part successful.

Those who write often cannot imagine what, if any, deep positive or negative emotions will be triggered, nor can the writer make any attempt to tailor a storyline one way or the other thinking it may cause pain. I never imagined the story of Miriam, Don and little Jack would make anyone hurt so much. I wish it did not and that you could find some redeeming value in what these parents were presented with and how they reacted. If not perhaps you should avoid this story.

From my own personal experience I would venture that the story is not the problem. For a period of my life I let others, (family, coworkers, friends and strangers, etc.) dictate my pain and suffering. Just this summer I received a hateful letter from my sister demanding an apology for ruining the wedding of her daughter 15 years ago because I came to the wedding as who I am rather than pretending to be someone I am not. In future chapters of this story, and the others I am writing, you will see different reactions, biases, emotions and yes, even some redemption. My prayer is that you allow yourself to read on, feel the pain and share in the joy, laugh and cry. That is why I write.

Sherry Ann