A novel by Karen Lockhart
Copyright© 2017 Karen Lockhart
Pete paced back and forth, muttering to himself, occasionally taking a sip of whisky, twenty year old Scotch being too good to gulp. He finally calmed down, a good thing, because I don't think Wendy's eyes could get any wider.
Ellen decided to take the bull by the horns and asked Pete what went wrong.
“Some local cowboy used his siren, and tipped that SOB off. This guy has the instincts of a cat that's had his tail stepped on and the hearing of a bat; before my guys could get around the back, he was already gone. I swear he vaporized. Makes me believe in magic!”
“I'm calling the stakeout on the Andover house. Wake them the f*** up, and pay attention.”
When he dropped the F bomb, I saw Wendy perk up and start to say something about the Thailand clinic. Ellen beat me to it, shaking her head, and doing a 'zip your lip' motion.
Pete gave Ellen a quick kiss on the cheek and thanking me, flew out the door into his unmarked cruiser, and down the street he went.
“Wendy I stopped you because Pete doesn't know Ginny is anything other than she appears. The information we gave you should only be spoken of between us three, not Pete, not Kevin, not Steve, and especially, not Billy! Do you understand me honey?”
“I'm sorry, I'd rather die than give Ginny's secret away,” she said remorsefully.
“It's more than that, the bad guys are still trying to find the driver of that dump truck, and if they find her, it won't be nice!”
Wendy mulled that over for a while. Then she started laughing for some reason.
“What's so funny?” I asked.
“That means when the phony Boston cops were asking questions, and the one cop tried picking up Ginny, she was a guy with unshaven legs.”
For some reason, the furry legs were funnier than the sweaty truck driver in lipstick and heels.
The next day after the morning coffee break and a visit from the canteen truck, I packed up Wendy and headed for the Offices of the Registry of motor Vehicles in Bell Circle, Revere.
After finding a place to park, we headed down a flight of stairs and actually stood in a line going out the door. After five minutes, the thought came to me that we just wanted a hand-book, and learner's permit test form. I made my excuses as Wendy and I shouldered our way through the line. I swear we were cursed at in at least five different languages.
Once back at the office, Wendy started to pour over that booklet. I fired up the computer, and after booting up, I went to the RMV website. There it was, the rules and regulations of Chapter 90, and the other statutes that pertain to driving.
I was up to date on my work, so I dug in. Did you know bicycles were considered a vehicle, and therefore subject to the same laws as automobiles? This means obeying stop lights, stop signs, and speed limits.
I wonder if that guy in racing gear that flys by me every morning has ever read this, and if the police would ever give a speeding ticket to a fifty year old skinny guy in Spandex and funny looking shoes? (Apologies to our British road racing friends.) But when I'm doing 25 mph, and someone goes by in a blur, I get cranky; also, if I twitch and they bump against me, it's my fault! Is there a way of riding a vroom bike in a skirt and maintain your modesty? Probably not.
Things were really shaping up at the job-site. We now had a building that was ready for a roof. I thought a metal roof would go on it, not a 'standing seam' roof, but one that looked like slate. They are supposed to last 100 years, great when located on the water.
Then came Ellen with a handful of papers. I decided I'd better get to work! After lunch, I checked on Wendy. She was reading about being transgendered, and the surgeries that TG women get. I thought this is healthy for her, after all she could be facing these issues shortly.
I asked if she had some questions for me. She did, wanting to know the difference between what I had done and others, like the athlete that had everything except the GRS surgery.
I explained that it's the most personal decision you can make, because there is no going back. I personally felt that without corrective surgery, I was not a woman. However, other people, for reasons such as cost and being happy with being a woman and making love differently, chose not to do the surgery. But they still considered themselves a women as much as I did.
This was such a tough subject to talk about. I told her it takes two doctors, one of whom is a physiologist, to sign off on the GRS, and you must live as a woman full time for at least a year. You must also be on testosterone blockers and on a form of estrogen hormones. This is something not to be entered into on a whimsical idea.
When she asked me a question about driving, I was relieved. This was worse than THE conversation on the birds and the bees.
Wendy wanted to know when she could take the test for a learner's permit. Was I surprised she knew the book after just an hour? 'No,' I thought. 'She's smarter than everyone thinks. I've seen flashes of brilliance from that girl.'
“We have to look at the application form first, what does it say on-line?”
Wendy looked confused, then said, “You know I never looked Aunt Ginny.”
“Well, it really doesn't matter right now, but you must have to apply for a time to take the exam. I'll check when we get home.”
Wendy grumbled a bit, but it was a good-natured grumble.
I sat down with a stack of things to enter and then print. What a waste of paper. Why not just put the records on a thumb-drive that's updated every week? But then what do I know, I'm just a dumb secretary!
Ellen drove that day, so I had her stop at the grocery store for the makings of supper. Three pounds of lean hamburger beef, Ritz crackers, two bell peppers, a dozen eggs, an onion, garlic cloves, fresh asparagus and since we were low, a large bottle of ketchup. If you haven't guessed by now, I was planning to have meatloaf. I think this an American meal. I knew tomorrow's was, we would have American chop suey, elbows, hamburger, bell peppers, and a large can of Campbell's Tomato soup. Real easy to make with seconds galore.
Ellen and Wendy seemed to be having a serious conversation while I was in shopping, so I didn't tell them I bought a quart of Ben and Jerrie's Pistachio ice cream, a nice surprise to lighten things up after dinner.
After changing into something more comfortable, I always wear skirts in good weather, into the kitchen I went.
Ellen put on the television to watch those guys with a pawn shop in Las Vegas before the evening news came on. I don't know what Wendy did, she disappeared into my bedroom to have some quiet, I guess.
Soon, the odor of cooking filled the living room and kitchen, starting the stomach juices flowing. No need to call the others to the table. As usual, Wendy set the table and after asking, placed drinks in front of us.
Everyone must have been hungry, the loaf was going fast. I warned them to leave room for dessert. I had the option of a chocolate cake, ice cream, or both, with coffee or tea.
Thankfully there was no more talk of Bangkok, nor learners' permits, but the subject of Tina and Vinny Morales came up. The previous Saturday, Wendy met Tina and liked her a lot. She couldn't imagine her having a father that was a gangster.
I think the hit and run bothered her more. As a reminder, the poodle was curled up in Wendy's lap in the armchair. Speaking of the dog, I never saw her get walked that night.
“Wendy, have you walked the puppy yet?”
You'd think I stepped in something, With a curl of her nose, Wendy said “Ages ago, you were drinking wine and didn't notice.”
She told me!
To be continued.
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