(Miriam finds strength and discovers a path that might help her son, but some of what she is told scares her.)

Choices

Chapter 10

The tears were running down my face before I finished rolling out the fourth pie crust the same day I talked to John Benson, our doctor friend. I hated the emotional rollercoaster I was on. I thought I was just being hormonal (I was on the edge of that dreaded menopausal thing) but I knew it was more than that. In that moment I hated being a woman, hated being a mother, hated that I had a son who told me he wanted to be a girl. I wanted to run, wanted to be somewhere else and wanted to be someone else. For a brief moment I understood Jack. He didn’t want to be who he was and neither did I. I was a powerless, emotional married woman. The difference was that I knew I couldn’t escape my life, my identity, my gender, and Jack thought he could.

I covered the crusts, two for apple and two for pumpkin, took off my apron and headed for the third floor. Jack would be home in a few minutes and I wanted to meet him on his turf before he dove into whatever fantasy he had in his immature head. I needed to talk with him without the dress.

I sat on the unmade bed of the large front room just above my own bedroom and just looked around. This was Jack’s world. His books were arranged neatly on the curved shelf bordering the windows of the castle like turret at the center of the house. The full length mirror was conveniently arranged across from the bed so that I was seeing my own reflection as I sat there. I imagined Jack, in whatever girl thing he chose to wear, sitting where I did then looking at his reflection, seeing what?

My eyes were drawn to the magnificent antique mahogany bureau that sat adjacent to the bed. Within its many drawers I kept out of season clothes, mostly for the children, as well as keepsakes, christening gowns, baby blankets and other items with which I could not part. I wondered what else might be in those drawers and was tempted to search, and yes, I thought momentarily, destroy. But after my bonding with Jack wearing a sundress recently in that same room, I just couldn’t reverse course. I felt I was on a path, a narrow one, that I knew couldn’t possibly end well. I just didn’t see any other choice.

I found myself crying again, alone and crying, which was a complete different feeling than a few days before when I was alone and drinking. Then a hymn came to me. It was one my mother often sang in the mornings so I guess it was just natural that it would come to me. More than that was its meaning and significance to what I was facing. The words and melody just took over and I started singing, singing and crying:

Jesus, keep me near the cross,
There a precious fountain—
Free to all, a healing stream—
Flows from Calv’ry’s mountain.

In the cross, in the cross,
Be my glory ever;
Till my raptured soul shall find
Rest beyond the river.

I had barely started the last stanza when I saw Jack come quietly into the room. I had not heard him coming up the stairs over my halting voice. Crying significantly interferes with singing. He stopped and we looked at each other as I continued:

Near the cross I’ll watch and wait
Hoping, trusting ever,
Till I reach the golden strand,
Just beyond the river.

He looked so somber as he watched me sing, and cry, but what he did next was a moment that I shall cherish forever. Jack came over to where I was sitting and took my hand and sang the last refrain with me. I felt a joy deep within me and my crying stopped. I saw our reflections in the mirror, a mother and child singing together with broad smiles on their faces. I heard our voices blend together, an adult woman singing alto and an eleven year old singing in an almost perfect choir boy soprano.

In the cross, in the cross,
Be my glory ever;
Till my raptured soul shall find
Rest beyond the river.

When we finished he sat down next to me and hugged me.

I wasn’t then, or now, a religious zealot prone to break out in scripture or song, nor was I thinking about church, or God, when the hymn popped into my head. I was raised in a rather strict Methodist home. My mother, the SM was certainly strict, so I really shouldn’t have been struggling with my faith. But I was. It was that God the Controller thing, the one that, had I been thinking about it, would make me ask why he would give this burden to me, or, especially, to my innocent son. When I heard my son’s voice, however, I saw in the hymn, the so relevant words coupled with the powerful melody, coming to me just before Jack arrived, a sign. It couldn’t have been more real for me, as a sign from God, the benevolent helpful one, than had it been neon and blinking.

“Mommy, I love you.” He softly said after we finished the final refrain. He didn’t ask me why I had been crying, or why I was singing. I suppose he knew in some way that I needed some help with what we were facing. I knew that I received that help from the hymn; the words (Help me walk from day to day, with its shadows o’er me.) perhaps the most inspiring. I suddenly felt that regardless of what had been laid before me, I would not be walking that path alone.

“I love you too, Jack.” I responded automatically. “Jack, we need to talk. I need you to listen.”

“Yes mommy.” He was almost cute being so serious.

“I will never abandon you so I need you not to abandon me. Do you understand?” I told him gathering my strength

“I think so.”

“First, for the next few days you have to stay away from here.” A look of disappointment came over his face. “Wait! Hear me out. Aunt Ceil and her friend Caroline are coming for Thanksgiving and Caroline is staying with us for a couple of nights. She’ll have to sleep up here.”

“Oh.” He said. “Why doesn’t she stay on the farm with Aunt Ceil?” He asked. That was complicated. I actually said that to Jack. “It’s complicated.” I didn’t want to explain too much to Jack but I did: “Your grandmother worries about how it would look, two women travelling together, and staying in her house together. We have an extra bedroom. On the farm Aunt Ceil and Caroline would have to share a bedroom.”

In those days I didn’t feel that I could easily explain Ceil and Caroline to Jack. I couldn’t explain it to myself and well, to be honest, it was something I didn’t think about. I knew they were more than roommates. Back then I doubt I even knew the term lesbian and I never heard anyone gossip about women being lovers or sexual with each other. Homosexual men were the threat. They were deviant, dangerous, and sinful. Whatever went on between my cousin Ceil and Caroline was just not the same as what Elaine Rogers son was doing. Boys and especially men didn’t have physical relationships, not good ones. Two women living together was accepted as all right; they were just two women living together as a convenience until they found the right man.

“Oh.” He said again as if it made sense. “Caroline is just staying two nights.” He asked.

“Yes, but listen. She’s going on to visit her family in Iowa for a week and Ceil in going back to Baltimore.” I explained. “Jack, I’m think you shouldn’t come up here as much until after Christmas.” He didn’t say anything and just looked at me. “I’m going to have to talk to your dad about this Jack.”

“No. Don’t.” He pleaded.

“Jack, I can’t avoid it. We have to have faith that he will understand. Jack, he loves you and he needs to know what you are going through.” I reassured him.

“But he will be mad.”

“If he gets mad it will be at me. I know your dad pretty well and I know he will still love you. He will want to help you.” Jack didn’t look convinced but gave my hand a squeeze.

“You won’t let him put a lock on the door will you.” Jack had a good insight into his father. That is exactly how he would probably approach this. He wouldn’t get angry, wouldn’t lash out and would definitely avoid talking about it, especially to Jack. He would just take prudent measures to control or eliminate what Jack was doing. So I told Jack the only thing I could.

“No, I won’t let him do that. You see, Jack, that’s just the thing. You and I can’t just go on like this and if I don’t talk to your dad, or a doctor, then, well, …” I didn’t know what to say and fumbled for the right words for the longest time, holding his hand. “If we don’t face this, well, bad things are going to happen. I don’t know what they are exactly but together we need to find out before it’s too late. And the only way to find out is for me to talk to your dad and check out what a doctor has to say.”

I could tell he was skeptical. I didn’t tell him I had already talked to our doctor, John Benson, the father of his friend Joanie. He started to say something but I wouldn’t let him.

“Remember you have to trust me.” I took a breath. “Once a week. You can come up here once a week until after Christmas. That will give me some time, Jack. That’s fair isn’t it? Can you do that?”

Of course he didn’t say anything right away but I gave him a kiss on the cheek and a hug. Then I heard him say he would try.

* * *

Thanksgiving was uneventful, almost. I had lots of help with the food, especially from Caroline. She made a carrot ring that was better than anything I could ever do. Jack helped in the kitchen more than his sister did. Brenda was busy planning a hefty social agenda for the weekend. Tim, Don and my father spent the morning trying to get a better signal for the TV so they could watch football between the Packers and the Lions, as ridiculous as that sounded to me at the time. Ceil was right there with them.

Jack was enamored with Caroline. She was stunning in many ways and I was a little jealous. She was my age but had the figure of a twenty year old, not having children obviously helped, and she dressed like the women you saw in Ladies Home Journal. When I asked, she told me she only shops at the exclusive stores in Washington. Her nails were beautiful, long with perfect polish and her makeup and hair exquisite. I hoped that Jack was smitten with this almost perfect female because he was a boy soon to be a man, but feared he saw her as a role model.

After all the food was on the table, the twelve of us stood at our places, held hands and said the Lord’s Prayer followed from a too long message of thanks from my mother, the SM. When we were seated and the food began circling around, each of us took turns verbalizing what they were most thankful for. It was a tradition. I was afraid of what Jack might say but he was rather boring, thank God, mentioning his family, especially his mom and dad.

Brenda went on and on about being thankful about things at school, teachers, especially her piano teacher, but, trying to be cute, I’m sure, mentioned a certain boy she was a little sweet on. My father, the one and only Al Hartman, saw that as an opportunity.

“He just seems a little prissy to me.” Dad threw out menacingly gesturing with the carving knife and trying to get a rise from his granddaughter, and probably me.

“Not all boys grew up on a farm.” I quickly noted trying to deflect and protect my daughter.

“No, but the slicked back hair and blue shirt with the ruffled collar aren’t real manly.” He continued.

“Dad!” I warned and then said something I so regretted. “At least the shirt isn’t pink.” I don’t know what made me continue a conversation with my father, in front of my children as well as Ceil and Caroline of all people, about clothes and references to sissy and unmanly boys, especially knowing my son seemed rather drawn to ‘unmanly’ things. My response seemed automatic and I said it before I thought it through. But it gave my father what he wanted; an opportunity to create the very atmosphere I knew would probably plague me in the future.

“No.” He said with a broad smile and the attention of everyone at the table. “But I bet his silk panties are.” He laughed; loud and proud was he. But he was the only one who actually laughed. Tim chuckled and Don smiled. Ceil frowned and Caroline, well, to her credit, just stared at him, coldly. Brenda, beet red, got up and stormed off and a few moments later we all heard the familiar slamming of the door. This time I felt she was justified.

I tried not to look at Jack but my heart broke for him. I couldn’t imagine what he was feeling or how painful it probably was for him to have to endure such pervasive attitudes. Then I heard his voice, Jack’s voice, faintly.

“So.” He said looking down to the far end of the table at his grandfather who was now busily carving more turkey and did not hear him. Jack was sitting next to me. I put my hand on his arm. He looked at me and I shook my head from side to side. He gave me a small grin and that potential disaster was avoided.

* * *

The days after Thanksgiving remain a mystery to me and my journals are of no help. I know I was more than busy. Caroline left for Iowa Friday morning and I remember spending most of Saturday on the farm with Ceil. Jack came with me and we all helped my father with chores, farm chores. Ceil was back in her element in the barn among the cows and chickens. Jack pitched in and helped like he always did.

Sunday we all went to church, except for Ceil who never did anything in public in Moundsville when she visited even though she grew up there. She left to go back to Baltimore after we got home from church.

Monday was back to normal. Brenda was back at boarding school in Wheeling and Tim and Jack went back to school. I waited to hear something from John Benson but each day wore on with no word. I told myself to be patient. By Friday my anxiety was through the roof. Finally, late in the afternoon, the phone rang and I raced to pick up the receiver.

“Miri, Dr. Benson. I have that prescription ready for you. You can pick it up at the office anytime.” He said rather cryptically. I didn’t understand at first, but quickly recovered.

“Sure. Do I need to see you?” No call was private back then.

“Yes, I want to go over it with you so just tell the receptionist when you get here.”

“I’m on my way.” It was his way to get me to his office without raising suspicion.

I quickly changed my dress and put on some lipstick and walked the three blocks to Dr. Benson’s office. There was nobody in the waiting room and the receptionist waived me back to John’s office. I guessed he was through with patients for the day. The nurse had already gone. I heard the receptionist call to John that she would lock the door as she left. We were alone.

“Miri, I have some information. My friend in Wheeling, Dr. Ellis, a psychiatrist, had one young boy who verbalized he was a girl but there were many other issues with him including some development problems. As far as the medical literature is concerned most of it is termed as aberrant behavior and psychiatric intervention is recommended. I couldn’t find any studies or case histories. That doesn’t mean much though. Dr. Ellis felt maybe your situation was rare, especially from the standpoint that Jack comes from a pretty normal family and doesn’t have any other issues. He felt that there might be something else going on and speculated that Jack could be suppressing something that happened to him. He thought that if he would need to talk to Jack so he could rule out any psychological trauma as a cause of the behavior. If there was some root cause it would require treatment sessions.”

I listened. Mostly I liked what he told me. It made sense. He continued. “Dr. Ellis is concerned about letting it continue unchecked. He saw nothing good coming from that. Letting it go on without help only postpones the inevitable and will increase problems for Jack later. And he noted it won’t be long before Jack starts developing and he’s afraid that when those boy urges start and if he’s still dressing in girls things then, well,” He stopped before he finished the sentence.

“Well, what?” I no longer liked how this was going and I felt myself getting angry, not at John, but I didn’t like the probable outcome. I guess I was defensive. “What, a queer!” I knew it was wrong for me to lash out like that and it was a word I never used, at least not to refer to homosexual men. I wasn’t proud of myself. I think I had some illusion this would be easy.

“Miri, he didn’t say that.” He assured me.

“I’m sorry to be blunt but isn’t that what he meant?” I had read this much at our little inadequate library.

“Probably, sure or worse. But …” He started to explain but I didn’t let him. I just plowed ahead jumping to conclusions.

“So if I let him continue he’s going to be like Rueben Rogers. And if I try to stop it now, then what?”

“Miri, I think he was saying if Jack gets help now, professional help, there are things that will make it easier for him to accept the inevitable changes that are coming down the road; accept becoming a young man so he can have a normal life.”

I didn’t really expect this from John. I thought that he would know that either way Jack’s chance at a normal life was in jeopardy. I had hoped for some understanding and actual help but it sounded like the doctors would assume the worst. I took a deep breath and tried to control my anger. I had promised Jack I would protect him. I decided to give John the benefit of the doubt.

Then he dropped a bomb. “Have you heard of Christine Jorgensen?”

‘Christine who?’ I thought. Was she a doctor, a sociologist? Good, I thought; a woman doctor might understand.

“A doctor?” I asked naively.

“Christine Jorgensen is a guy who became a woman. There were lots of stories a couple years ago. Dr. Ellis gave me this.” He threw an old Pittsburgh Gazette on the table. The paper was a couple years old but there on the front page was a story about a young man (he had been in the army) who had surgery in Denmark and was now living as a woman. I read through the first few paragraphs.

“Stop it. This is crazy, John.” I shrieked. “We’re talking about my little boy, my baby and you throw out this weird stuff about some man who has god-only-knows what insane issues who had surgery. Surgery, mutilating surgery! No. You don’t think…. What do you think?”

“I think you are a good mother who loves her son.” He answered piously. “I think you are struggling with this. And I am with you.” He continued while I steamed. “I don’t know what I would do in your shoes. I’m not comparing Jack with this Christine person; just that I think we should be aware there are stories like that out there. I’m not sure I would put Jack with a psychiatrist either, yet.” He stopped talking waiting for me to say something.

“I’m glad to hear you say that. I don’t think Jack is ready for that yet. I have to ease him into that and well, with the holidays. I just need some time.”

Then John added. “Miri, I want you to see Dr. Ellis. I think he can help you.”

“Help me.” I said. “He can help me by telling me what I do about a son who wears dresses every chance he gets.”

“He’s not Freudian, Miri. He’s not exactly a behaviorist; doesn’t subscribe to the oedipal thing.” I took enough psychology in college (one course) to know about Freud and that mothers are the ruin of men; that was my take on what was being taught.

“What do you mean?” I asked my interest genuinely piqued.

“Dr. Ellis doesn’t treat behavior, doesn’t try to change his clients, that’s what he calls them, clients, not patients. I spent about three hours with him last evening and he explained it all. Except where there is a psychosis he tries to get his clients to understand how certain behavior could be dangerous and have negative consequences. He then works with them on modifying the behavior, controlling dangerous impulses to give the client a safer and happier life. Helps them to manage things and accept themselves.”

“Manage? Accept?” I couldn’t grasp what he was trying to get across to me. I was managing the situation, and accepting. I needed answers.

“Miri, I can’t convince you but please. Go see him. I trust him. You will too.”

John Benson was right. I needed someone that would help me manage what Jack was doing. I didn’t see how that would help Jack when he started growing hair on his chest and his voice dropped but after thinking about it, at least Dr. Ellis might not blame me. As far as answers, well, where else was I going to turn.

After I had calmed down some I told him. “I’ll think about it. John, I have to talk to Don. I’ve been avoiding that.”

“Have that difficult discussion with Don. He’s a reasonable man. Then, why don’t you make an appointment with Dr. Ellis, just you. Jack needs help but so do you. You won’t be able to protect Jack all by yourself. You will need lots of help. Promise me.”

“I will. Thank you for this John. I don’t know how to thank you.” I gave him a hug but then added. “John, I don’t want Jack to hear about this Christine person. That’s just too insane, too much for an eleven year old boy, too much for me.”

John burst that bubble. “Maybe he already has. You may not have focused on it but it was in the news and it was sensational.”

I left John’s office in a daze. As I walked back home Elaine Rogers drove by with her son Rueben in the passenger seat. He waved at me. I smiled and returned a half wave. Humming the melody from the hymn ‘Near the Cross’ I felt I now belonged to the group of residents of Moundsville who had a deep secret and a heavy burden, but was not alone.